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Heartprints

Scoobs

Mary Mooney

Wednesday, August 20, 2014 • 2:20am

 

Great dog.  He wasn’t quite the nightmare of John Grogan’s “Marley”, but sometimes he came close.  When we knew Scoobs was coming to stay, we’d run through the house like he was a realtor and we had a great buyer on the way.  Every pill bottle, piece of bread, crumb cake or morsel of anything had to be put in a cabinet or hung from the ceiling.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

 

Today I am grateful for Scoobs, a big yellow, mix of something-and-something plus Golden Retriever whom we spent a considerable amount of time dog-sitting. 

 

 

 

Great dog.  He wasn’t quite the nightmare of John Grogan’s “Marley”, but sometimes he came close.  When we knew Scoobs was coming to stay, we’d run through the house like he was a realtor and we had a great buyer on the way.  Every pill bottle, piece of bread, crumb cake or morsel of anything had to be put in a cabinet or hung from the ceiling.

 

 

 

One year he stayed with us during our annual Christmas party.  A friend had bought a delicious whiskey cake that I was giving away in slices at the door, saving a large chunk for us to eat later, when we could sit and enjoy it with a cup of tea.  The last guest left, we turned from the door and I said, “Now I’m going to put on the kettle and we’re going to sit with that cake.”  Tea brewing, my husband asked, “Where is it?”  He had put it in foil on the counter.  We searched everywhere.  Gone.  No cake.  No foil.  Not a crumb.  All that was left was a big yellow dog with the look of a drunken Irishman, who pooped foil for two days. 

 

 

 

Our last dog, Frieda and he got along great.  She was a bit of a priss, but Scoobs nudged his way into her heart until she’d actually play tuggies with him.  She always had a long-suffering look on her face when she did, but she played.  When they were exhausted, they’d lay butt-to-butt on the couch, like an old married couple, while John and I sat on the floor.

 

 

 

Scoobs was their first born dog who came into the family long before the rabbits and chickens and bees.  It was a happy day when he acquired a girl, then years later a boy to play with.  He loved to go on week-long camping treks in the woods and guard his people as they slept.  He could steal food you didn’t know you had, then digest. . .and pass everything from dish towels to Christmas wrap; Play Dough, to Tupperware, in colorful, textured, pop-art poops that could have graced the Guggenheim. 

 

 

 

His girl spent his last day with him in the back yard, his head on her lap while she read book after book, and he, listless and sleepy,  soaked in her sweet scent for one more day.  She picked flowers and scattered them over him to help him feel better.  “You’re a good boy,” she said, over and over.  “That’s a good, good boy.”  And Scoobs was.  Even when he was bad. 

 

One year he stayed with us during our annual Christmas party.  A friend had bought a delicious whiskey cake that I was giving away in slices at the door, saving a large chunk for us to eat later, when we could sit and enjoy it with a cup of tea.  The last guest left, we turned from the door and I said, “Now I’m going to put on the kettle and we’re going to sit with that cake.”  Tea brewing, my husband asked, “Where is it?”  He had put it in foil on the counter.  We searched everywhere.  Gone.  No cake.  No foil.  Not a crumb.  All that was left was a big yellow dog with the look of a drunken Irishman, who pooped foil for two days. 

Our last dog, Frieda and he got along great.  She was a bit of a priss, but Scoobs nudged his way into her heart until she’d actually play tuggies with him.  She always had a long-suffering look on her face when she did, but she played.  When they were exhausted, they’d lay butt-to-butt on the couch, like an old married couple, while John and I sat on the floor.

Scoobs was their first born dog who came into the family long before the rabbits and chickens and bees.  It was a happy day when he acquired a girl, then years later a boy to play with.  He loved to go on week-long camping treks in the woods and guard his people as they slept.  He could steal food you didn’t know you had, then digest. . .and pass everything from dish towels to Christmas wrap; Play Dough, to Tupperware, in colorful, textured, pop-art poops that could have graced the Guggenheim. 

His girl spent his last day with him in the back yard, his head on her lap while she read book after book, and he, listless and sleepy,  soaked in her sweet scent for one more day.  She picked flowers and scattered them over him to help him feel better.  “You’re a good boy,” she said, over and over.  “That’s a good, good boy.”  And Scoobs was.  Even when he was bad. 
 

Each and every day I find something to be grateful for. My gratitude's are heartfelt, personal, moving and often humorous. Facebook followers have encouraged me to branch out. I hope you will relate.

The opinions expressed herein are the writer's alone, and do not reflect the opinions of TheAlternativePress.com or anyone who works for TheAlternativePress.com. TheAlternativePress.com is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the writer.

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