Our dog, Seven, turns five today. (That’s a funny sentence, isn’t it?) He’s been with us for the past four years, and adopting him is one of the best decisions we’ve ever made. He adores V, and takes turns sleeping with whichever one of us is having a worse day. He doesn’t bark much, warms to new people fairly quickly, and loves to have his back rubbed just above his hips.

He does not care for cats, though, which we discovered through visiting his Aunt Jess’s house. And some other dogs irritate him, too. And because of an accident just before we adopted him, he’s blind in his right eye. Plus I think he’s got some mild anxiety going on, but I fully admit I may be projecting that. At any rate, he belongs with us, and he and I have a good routine worked out for when I take him out to the backyard. He runs out, does his business, and if the dog next door is out he barks at her maniacally for about 30 seconds. Then he comes back to the gate and we go back in.

But today? Today was different. Today he took off as soon as we got to the backyard, and insistently barked at a patch of garden….erm, weeds. He barked for several minutes, and wouldn’t come when I called him, so I cautiously went to see what got his proverbial panties in a knot. I did this cautiously because I am not a fan of varmints in my backyard. As soon I turned the corner, the giant grey cat who lives in my neighbor’s garage took off like a shot across the yard, hopped the fence, and gave me a dirty look when she turned back to us on the other side as she trotted away.

I was mostly relieved that it was not a skunk or one of those pesky opossums.  (Opossum gets “a,” right? Because the “O” is silent? I still pronounce the “o,” though, when I read the word….crap. Revising). But Seven was beside himself. Just absolutely mad with some primal need to find that cat and let it know he was the boss. So for the next 25 minutes, he wove in and out of the bushes in the far back yard, up and down the side fences, barking periodically and peeing on every inch of the circumference, looking wildly for the demon cat he knew, KNEW, had not gotten far. He was a dog with a mission, and he would not be dissuaded by my silly logic.

This is what happens when you have a one-eyed sight hound. It’s kinda sad, a little irritating, but if this is as bad as it gets? I’ll take it.

Happy birthday, sweet boy. And safe travels, grey kitty. Seven means well, I swear.


About Jennifer

Writer teacher mama sister friend sewist poet trying to stay warm in Minnesota's northwest.
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