It's all in the bed

When they opened the box and pulled out my bed, I knew I'd landed in the right house.

It was difficult at first, being pulled away from my siblings, from all the other dogs of my birth home. It was difficult riding in a car for hundreds of miles and then landing not here, not at my new home, but at a different home where, thankfully there were other dogs to distract me and a large cat as well.

It was difficult getting back into the car and riding hundreds of miles more, the warm sun lulling me to sleep. But when we walked into my new home and opened the large box delivered that day on the front step, my heart leapt.

Actually, I leapt. The bed was soft, cushy, and best of all it moved, like a boat on a river. It rocked from side to side every time I moved. It was difficult to get my bearings. I was born in the high desert and now I was thrust onto the ocean waves of my new bed.

Brave, confident and willing I persevered and steadied my newly found sea legs by humping the soft curve of the stern. And then I growled, for effect, and flopped in a panting heap into the bottom of the fuzzy fleeced boat.

It's all in the bed, I say, it's all in the bed.

Worries

Humans worry. Dogs do not. Yes, we talk. We vocalize. We sing all parts of the chorus depending on our mood. But we do not worry. We call out and wait a response. If none comes, we call out again using a different tone, a higher pitch, and in some instances, we throw back our heads and howl.

Just for emphasis.

Humans worry about pee and poop. About hours of sleep. About distance to the next potty stop. They worry about food and water, about the comfort of habitat. They worry about plastic toys and rubber ones. About chewing on rocks or sticks or even clumps of grass. They worry about stool -- its size and color, texture and shape. They worry about sit, come, wait, stay and lie down. They worry about the softness of the bed. They worry about being left alone, the volume of the radio, and the amount of water in the bowl. They worry about brushing and teething and carpets and slippers.

With all of this worrying it's a wonder they are able to build cities, plan vacations, or cure diseases.

They worry early in the morning when the sun is only a hint and they worry at lunchtime when the dry food has yet to soak up the warm water in which it soaks. They worry right before bedtime uncertain if there's been enough walks, been enough pee, been enough defecation. They worry 10 minutes into sleep. They worry the singing will not stop, that the whining means pain, that the howl means anger, that the whimper means the need to go outside again. They worry that rumbled groans mean worry. They are always wearing their worry like a heavy coat on their worried shoulders.

They ask you to wear it, too.

But what a life they would have if worry vanished, shed like a mop of golden fleece. What happiness they'd find in wagging tails and twinkling eyes. What joy they'd experience in singing the full scale, from octave to octave with a round belly, a warm bed, and their head thrown back to the blue, blue sky.