Dog Days Are Over

Please don’t let the title of this post alarm you. Charlie and Maggie aren’t going anywhere.

But in writing about them, my options for a title were either this or the oh-so predictable tune from Baha Men, and I’m just not feeling that today.

Real quick while we’re on the topic: I don’t agree with dog days being called dog days.

By definition, dog days are “the hottest days of the year, often marked by inactivity or sluggishness.

Whoever coined this term has never owned a dog.

Yeah, okay, so a dog’s life is very lounge-centric, but that’s always when YOU’RE NOT HOME.

As soon as you walk in the door, they have a fresh pair of Energizer AA batteries locked and loaded, fueling a reaction that makes you wonder if they gave up all hope of you ever coming back.

They’re licking your hands, your ankles, your jeans – literally ANYTHING within tongue’s reach – as though they haven’t licked you for months.

They’re half-jumping/half-backing up as you carefully step your way farther into the house, because we all know dogs must be eye-level in order to properly celebrate your return.

They’re forgetting to breathe normally while also barking their praises so it comes out as a weird smoker’s laugh. You know… if dogs could smoke.

And laugh.

And before you know it they’re running laps around the living room because god forbid they do that for the hours you were gone, rather than sprawl themselves across the couch, rising only for the occasional drink of water (which one of them never does because she knows she’d have to go to the bathroom but nobody is there to let her out and I will fight anyone who thinks dogs aren’t smart).

Therefore “dog days” is a dumb term.

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Maggie (front) is the OG. Drew adopted her from the Nebraska Humane Society almost three years ago and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t take us a while to adjust.

Here’s the thing about adopting a dog: You immediately become their whole world.

Yeah, you feed them and bathe them and give them a place to sleep, but you’re also the only person/people they see every day (with the exception of trips around the block or a drive to the dog park).

You’re it. Period.

So when you’re home, they couldn’t be happier. Their world is complete. Everything they need is right there, under one roof. Sure, they’re extra excited at dinner time, but their joy lies in spending time with you.

Nobody reciprocates that better than Drew. He’s always been putty in Maggie’s paws, and was a total softie with Charlie within weeks of his adoption – which turns me into a total softie for all three of them.

But before you get too lovey-dovey, please know they definitely have their moments.

We’ve had Charlie for a little over six months now, and Maggie is still working through a few jealous tendencies.

Should Charlie ever get too cuddly, she’ll nuzzle her way between him and the nearest human, just to make sure all petting is properly distributed.

The same goes for our chaotic Welcome Home ritual. If he’s front and center, giving you the kisses, best believe she’ll do a weird groan and mouth at his face to get him out of the way. It’s as attractive as it sounds.

And even if she’s literally in your lap, disabling either arm from doing anything but cradle her, she’ll make sure he doesn’t get too close, even if only for a sniff. Girl’s side-eye would make Medusa shudder.

But that all accounts for maybe 3% of their relationship. The other 97% is all sunshine and rainbows and frolicking in the backyard, which you would think might wear off at least a smidgen of energy but never seems to make a dent.

Speaking of the backyard, that’s where Charlie really shines.

His refined palette craves two delicacies that are always readily available within the confines of our fence: poop and wood.

I wish I was kidding.

There’s really no way to expand on the former snack, so we’ll just focus on the wood right now.

So far, we’ve caught him eating mulch, the deck and our homemade TV stand.

And every time we do, he knows he’s in trouble. The ears flatten, the tail works its way between his back legs, and he slowly slinks forward, praying he’ll get nothing but a soft pat on the head.

Which is usually exactly what happens.

I TOLD YOU WE’RE SOFTIES.

So if you ever wonder why I’m not feeling a night out or even dinner downtown, it’s because I’d rather be home with these two hooligans.

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Can you blame me?

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Title Credit: Florence + The Machine

3 Comments

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  1. I totally thought they died or something from the first line! Lol

    Liked by 1 person

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