Monthly Archives: August 2010

Loss and Tumbleweeds

 

Matilda sheds. And not just a little bit. Her wiry fur is all over the place! In the car. On the sofa. In the bathroom. On my bed. In my bed. On my clothes (and I like to wear black). In my hair! It’s really quite irritating, especially for a person who named shedding as the number one reason never to get a dog.

Everyday she has to mark the couch and my bed with her scent by rolling around on it like she’s lost her mind. She lays on her side and scootches around in a circle, then flips on her other side and scootches around in the opposite direction. Then she stands on all fours, does the shimmy-shake, and then lays down. It’s as if some crazy doggie spirit has possessed her because this craziness is not a part of her normal Tildy charm. It’s absolute insanity for about 30 seconds. Everyday. Twice a day.

Between her fur and my hair that falls out whenever a comb or hairdryer gets anywhere close to my head, there are always fur/hair balls all over the house. They’re like little tumbleweeds. Somehow, as much as I hate having fur all over the place, I’ve grown accoustomed to it, because she’s my girl. And I love her so much.

 

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Paparazzi, no pictures, please.

Matilda and I take almost the same path on our walks everyday. The park that we go to is right next door to the local hospital. During our early morning walks, we get passed by hospital personnel on their way to work.

Same people. Every day. For almost three years.

There have been a few that have stopped to talk to us. There was one nurse that rolled down her window in the rain to tell me how much she enjoys seeing Matilda every morning. Another met us in the parking lot to tell me how much Matilda reminded her of her late dog and that she looks forward to seeing Matilda because it brings back such great memories.

The woman that drives the bus that comes through the area has stopped to tease Matilda on a few mornings. (Matilda likes to bark and run after buses and large, loud trucks.) The only conversation directed at me was “What’s the dog’s name?”. After that, whenever she stops, it’s all about Matilda. “Whatchu gonna do now, Matilda? You’ve caught the bus. Whatchu gonna do now? Hahaha. See you later, Matilda! Bye!”

All of the hospital folks that pass us in the morning wave at Matilda, and THEN look to me and wave. Some folks that we’ve never even met have learned her name through the grapevine and will roll down their windows to speak to my dog. Matilda has become somewhat of a neighborhood celebrity.

No one knows my name. I’m just the lady that walks Matilda twice a day.