No, you can't play with that

In general, Ray is a good dog. But whenever Tucker comes over to play, Ray becomes like every other kid that wants to show his stuff to his friend.
"See this? This is my dad's shoe. Isn't it HUGE?
"See this? This is my mom's yarn. It's really fun to play with but I'm not supposed to."
"See this? This is a Chinese fan. Hey! This tastes good!"
"HEY LOOK, a ball of roving. I wonder if I can sneak this out of the room so that we can play with it?"
You gotta watch him like a hawk.

Wanna Walk?

I was sittin', talking to my dad on the phone. Ray was standing in front of me, whining.
I knew he wanted to take a walk, but it's been 90 degrees here and impossible to get him all the way around without a five or ten minute flop.
I ignored the blind hound and continued to talk to my dad.
"meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee," said Ray.
POKE. A big paw hit my arm.
I ignored the dog and continued to talk to my dad.
"meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee," said Ray again.
POKE POKE. The big paw missed me and hit the arm of the chair.
I ignored it.
'MEEEEEEEEEEE," Ray got louder.
POKE POKE POKE.
I ignored it all.
Ray walked away and picked up a sandal that I had casually dropped under the coffee table. He flapped it up and down a few times, then dropped it and 'looked' in my direction.
I laughed. My dog still knows how to push my buttons. He just doesn't carry through anymore.
What a good dog.

Fashion Police?

"You look like Indian Corn," said Gregg.
"What?" he exclaimed chagrined as I started laughing. "I mean that only in the best possible way."

I guess maybe I'll have to rethink these shorts. That's the second questionable 'compliment' I've received on this particular choice of summerwear.

Nobody's looking, are they?

Thanks, Ray

[Note: Click on any of the links in blue to view the person or thing I'm talking about. You may have to scroll through the blog post to get to the photos but they will be there somewhere. The photos I've included here have never appeared in the blog before]

Yesterday I went to lunch with my BFF, Joanne. We were discussing Artomatic which had appeared in an article in the Washington Post.


"Do you realize," said Joanne, "that you would not be on the cutting edge of knowing about this if you didn't have Ray?"

Joanne was talking about the fact that I had told her about Artomatic a couple of weeks previously, even before it had opened. I had gone with Ray's girlfriend Halle's grandma, Deborah, to help her hang her artwork to display at Artomatic (if you click on the link, her paintings appear in the photos after those of the mosaic skull and the pink bottles - you'll know them when you see them). And it got me to thinking. How many people have I met, that I NEVER would have met, without Ray.

The first person would have to be Ray's foster mother, Amber, in South Carolina. Although I didn't physically meet her first, I think I talked to her first. We became friends over the phone when I adopted  Ray, brought him home, and was so totally in over my head. We have since met when I went to SC to visit my folks.

Sam, Halle's mom, with Ray and Halle

Then there was Todd, Sasha's dad; Deborah, Halle's grandma (and Sam, Halle's mom); Brenda, Roxie's mom; Rachel, Josh (who appears briefly in the linked video), and Marva - Murphy's parents and grandma (I've also met Rachel's sister, brother-in-law, step-father, father, and father's girlfriend); Ken, Miko's dad; and Darlene, Tucker's mom. And these are just the people that live (or lived) around my block. (I can't count Sandra and Maddie because I already knew them). There's also Ray's favorite baby that lives at the end of the street. I know his whole family now. I know practically every kid all the way around the block. I don't know any of their names but they all know Ray's.

Tucker

Once I start thinking outside of the block (as it were), there are all those nice young people at the doggy daycare; and the owner of the daycare and her husband who just happen to live in my neighborhood and with whom we have shared dinner a couple of times.

And what about all those women and men at the dogpark? Legions. One of them an artist who painted Ray's portrait (and is also going to be displaying at Artomatic).

And how 'bout the people that I've met walking around the lake? I've probably walked 50 miles with one  woman and I don't even know her first name. Her dog's name is Rex.

I've corresponded with Tina, mother to blind Liam and a passel of other dogs, who is going to retire and raise Alpacas. She sent me an email because she knows that I knit and that Ray is a yarn hound. I've never met her but I think I'd like to someday.

Ditto for Alice, who blogs about Tonka, a blind Great Pyrenees. Wouldn't know her to pass her on the street, but I know she's a good person that takes such great care of her dog that I feel like a total slouch letting my blind dog walk off a cliff.

And, of course there's Niki and Jez from over the pond, parents of blind Conor the Greyhound. I now have friends in England, for God's sake. All because of Ray.

So, Ray, thanks for making my life SO much more interesting and fun. And for getting me lots and lots of exercise. And for helping me make new friends every day.

Tucker Comes Over

We were expecting another day of rain. But it was early and sunny so Ray and I leashed up and hit the pavement for a quick two-miler.
As soon as we got back, Tucker's mom (Darlene) called.
"Do you want to get the dogs together today? Tucker has been driving me crazy." she said.
"Sure," I replied, "Let's do it now before it starts to rain again."
"I'll be right there," she said.
The phone clicked off. I turned to my blind dog and told him that Tucker was coming over to play. As he does when he is listening intently, Ray cocked his head to the side and deployed his ears in Dumbo mode.
He walked to front door and stood 'staring' out the glass. I watched him for a minute then went about my business. Ten minutes later he was still there, lying on the floor Sphinx-like, waiting.
"It'll probably take them a little while to get here Ray, but your friend is coming." I told him.
Ray didn't move.
A few minutes later, Tucker was coming up the walk. There was a frantic greeting between the dogs, then both headed to the back door. Ray shot out the dog door. Tucker, who hasn't quite got the hang of it yet, scratched at the back door. We let him out and watched as he cannonballed into Ray over and over again. Ray was scampering a bit, but the ground was wet and muddy (my poor, struggling grass) and he was having problems gaining purchase. Lower-to-the-ground Tucker wasn't having any such problems.
After 10 minutes, Ray was done. He went back into the house through the dog door. Darlene and I were chatting on the back patio when we realized that Ray wasn't coming back out. We peered in the glass and saw the hound standing, 'looking' our way, waiting for his friend to come inside to play.
I opened the back door. "Come on out, Ray. Come on out to play." I cajoled.
Ray didn't move. I closed the door and waited. The flap of the dog door opened an inch. Tucker ran up and tried to convince the nose that was sticking through the flap to come back out and play. The nose retracted.
I sighed. "I don't think he likes the mud," I said to Darlene. "Let me go get some towels and we'll clean Tucker off and let them play inside."
I went and got said towels. Although Tucker was a bit muddy, he was a breeze to clean compared to Pigpen Murphy.
We turned the dogs lose in the house where they resumed their horseplay (dogplay?). But Ray, after his brisk walk in the morning, was tiring quickly. The Cannonball, however, was not. He nipped Ray's ankles and elbows, grabbed his face, ran under and around him,  all the while doing the body slam. Ray took it all like a man.
By the end of the hour, poor Ray was too tired to stand. He was stretched out on the carpet in the front hall, his mouth open to grab the little dog if Tucker should happen by. Tucker was obligingly throwing himself on Ray's head and into his open maw. It didn't seem like it would be that much fun, but Tucker was having a ball. Ray was a good sport and humored the little guy. (The term 'little' is purely subjective here. Tucker is little compared to Ray. The Cattle Dog may be small but is pure muscle and more closely resembles the Cannonball nickname given above.)
After watching this for awhile, Darlene took pity on the exhausted hound and took her ball of energy home.

What the....?

I was in the garage cleaning the cat boxes (again). Usually, when I do this, I leave the dog gate open so that Ray can follow me into the garage and do some supervised poking around. Most of the time he doesn't make it past the cat-carrier that we use to transport Moonie and Hugo to the vet. (Some mighty interesting smells must emanate from that crate.) Today, however, although the dog gate was open and Ray had followed me through it into the laundry room, he did not follow me into the garage.
I heard rummaging coming from behind me but didn't pay too much attention. Ray is always rummaging through something, but he's gotten to be such a good dog that I don't worry about it so much anymore. I finished up what I was doing and went back into the laundry room. No Ray.
I looked out past the dog gate into the dining room. There was a white thing on the carpet. I looked farther. Another white thing. Through the dining room, into the hall; every couple of feet another white thing.
Puzzled, I exited the laundry room, closed the dog gate behind me and went to investigate.
The white thing was a fabric softener dryer sheet. The next white thing was another one. And then another one.
I followed the trail of dryer sheets through the house. Ray had taken a stack of them (not the whole box) and carried them to where he could comfortably roll in them. But even though he had dropped a bunch as he walked, the taste of a whole stack must have been too much. He had left the rest of them, still neatly stacked, in the front hall.

The After-Murphy Blues

It was a rainy Monday morning. The morose, blind dog was curled up in a chair whining gently to himself.
I knew they were coming - the after-Murphy blues - but I was hoping that Ray would be so tired that I wouldn't have to deal with the sad-dog syndrome.
But there he was; sitting, whining gently, remembering the good times. And the worst part was, it wasn't even a sunny day so that we could go for a nice long walk or invite Tucker over to play to make Ray forget for a minute.
I decided that, like in the movie "About a Boy," (good movie - I give it a thumbs-up), I would try to break Ray's day into little chunks of time where something good would happen.
Morning - For breakfast (which he was initially too sad to eat), he got a squirt of whipped cream on his dog food (whipped cream makes everything better) - 5 minutes.
Mid morning - We squeezed in a walk between the heavy rains - 20 minutes
Later morning - I gave him a fabric softener dryer sheet (while I was doing laundry) so that he could make himself smell fresh (after Murphy left, he smelled like dog-spit) - 5 minutes
Afternoon - I bought him some new toys (while I was running errands) to replace the defaced, destuffed, decapitated ones that he and Murphy tore through. Then we played with them - 30 minutes or so (and off and on again throughout the day)
Mid afternoon - We squeezed in another walk between raindrops - 20 minutes.
Late afternoon - I let him pick a rawhide flip out of the bag of flips. I didn't even object when he chose two at once. Then we played keepaway around the coffee table - 15 minutes (and off and on again for the rest of the afternoon).
Later afternoon - Dinner - 5 minutes.
That brought us right up to bedtime, which on a gloomy, rainy day is about 5:00.
It's 5:30. He's sleeping. We made it through the after-Murphy blues.

Exhaustion

Total exhaustion.
Five minutes after Murphy left, Ray was asleep on his futon.
Earlier in the day, he looked like this.
A good time was had by all.

A Busy Morning

It was 7:30. Ray had woken me at 5:30 to go out to pee and Murphy had woken me at 6:30 by barking at something. The dogs had already been out twice since then, but Ray had started yelling both times so I was forced to bring them back into the house. They'd been scratching at the door ever since trying to get me to change my mind.
The toybasket was sadly depleted. I was wracking my brains trying to think of something to entertain them until 9:00 when I could let them back outside. A lightbulb went off over my head. Gregg had been wrapping presents and there were a couple of cardboard tubes from the inside of the wrapping paper lying around somewhere. The cardboard box had been such a big hit the previous morning, I figured these would be even better.
The concept was good. The reality lasted less than five minutes. At 7:35, after shredding the two tubes, the dogs were looking for something else to do.

A Close Call

The day started out good. Ray and Murphy started playing as soon as I rolled out of bed at 6:30 a.m. They shredded a cardboard box, and wrestled, and ran, and wrestled some more. It is such a good time watching them play. There is never a growl or an angry word between them.

Y'know, we need to make sure we recycle this. 

I love a little fiber in the morning, don't you? 

So about 9 a.m. we headed out for a hike. We went to the one that parallels the Bull Run, except this time we decided to hike the trail by going in the opposite direction. One would think this wouldn't be a problem but everything sure looks different going in the opposite direction. We didn't get lost but we almost lost our dog. 

I had Ray on the retractable leash. The river was to our right. At a couple of points, there is a steep drop-off, of about eight or ten feet, down to the river. We were walking merrily along, when all of a sudden, Ray disappeared. One minute he was there, the next he wasn't. I ran to the place where he'd been. Ray was hanging on to the edge of the path by his front paws, his back paws were against the side of the embankment. 

"Jump, Ray," I said urgently. 

Ray tried to jump up but the ground beneath his back feet was loose and gave way. He was still hanging on with his front paws. I stepped to the side of the little cliff and bent over to grab him. The ground beneath my left foot collapsed. I fell to my knees and grabbed Ray under one of his armpits, still holding the leash in my other hand. Gregg came from the other side and grabbed Ray's other armpit. We hauled him back up to the path. 

"That was scary," he said. 

"Yeah," I agreed.

Let me know if there are any dangerous parts, ok?

I don't see anything. I think you're ok

Alright then, I'm coming.

I can't believe you almost lost my friend.

I'm kinda tired, I think I'll take a little naaa  zzzzzzzzzzz

Three Days, Two Nights

That's how long we get to keep Murphy while Josh and Rachel (or, as we call them, Jachel) are out of town.

How many of these things do you think we can rip through?

I had the foresight to put all of Ray's bones out of reach, so the dogs are having a marvelous time. It's been almost non-stop play since 10:30 this morning when Murphy arrived. The water bowl has already been drunk dry once. The death toll (of toys) so far is two. It is now 4:30 and Ray is asleep in Gregg's chair. Murphy is passed out on the floor.

I think I won.

Has anyone seen my ear? And my body?

Where'd she go?

Dinner break.

4:30

They're both a little older now, I wonder if they're going to get a second wind.

A couple of Random Ray Photos

Ray and Chin Rest

Outraged Chin Rest and Ray

Attacked by a Wild Dog (Tucker)

Tracking a Fly

WATCH OUT

Sometimes, when Ray and I walk around the lake, we see things we can't really explain.
Like the sign says, there were tiny, little frogs crossing. They were the size of a fingernail on a pinky finger, (I tried to take a video with my phone but the frogs were the same color as the path) and there were masses of them. They were crossing for days. There was really no way to avoid stepping on a few.

So the question remains: why did the frogs cross the path? Of course the obvious answer is "to get to the other side" but I think it could be "to get away from the snake."

The Hunt

I was cleaning the catboxes in the garage when Moonie creakily made her way by and out the cat door. She looks frailer by the day and I was glad to see her going outside to get some fresh air and sunshine. She hadn't been out more than a minute when Hugo exploded through the cat door from the outside. He was all puffy as he hurried past me into the house. (We have two cat doors; one cut into the actual garage door that goes to the outside, and one cut into the door that goes from the garage into the house). Almost as soon as he was inside a cat fight erupted outside.

Knowing it was Moonie out there, I jumped from cat-box cleaning position and hit the button to open the garage door. As the garage-door opener slowly slid the door out of the way, I ran under it and outside. I looked for cats but didn't see any. A cat scream came from the front porch. I raced to the porch, clapping my hands and yelling. The black cat that had  come into our house so many weeks ago and casually marked his territory now had Moonie backed against a wall. She was boxed in by the rungs of a ladder that I had left stashed on its side a few days previously.

I ran at the cat, yelling. He trotted away a few steps, then sauntered to my car,  ducked underneath, and plopped over on his side as if he hadn't a care in the world. Infuriated that he had attacked my Moonie, I grabbed a hose and turned it on. The minute he heard the water, the cat casually walked out from under the far side of the car and strolled up the street. (He's really got some cajones, this cat.)

I turned off the water and picked up Moonie, who was still cowering in the ladder, to make sure she was alright. Ray was standing at the front door on full alert, his tail curled over his back, his ears deployed in full Dumbo mode, and every fiber of his body tense. I took Moonie to the garage and turned her loose to go back inside, then went to get Ray. He was pacing back and forth, his nose in the air, and the hair on his back up.

I clipped on his leash and said, "Let's go chase a cat, Ray."

Ray was ready. He bolted out the door and dragged me up the street, his nose to the ground.  He followed the scent to the house beyond our neighbor's and took me to the front door, (Ray's girlfriend, Cindy lives there), then sniffed along the sidewalk and shrubs around the front, then back down the driveway, then back to the front.

Bill, Cindy's husband, came out.
"What's up?" he asked.
"A black cat attacked Moonie," I said, "I don't want it to come back, so I'm letting Ray chase it away. It's not one of yours (Bill feeds a couple of feral cats that are black). It's that un-neutered male that's been hanging around." (I have a deal with my neighbor down the street, if she traps it, I will take it to the vet and get it vaccinated and neutered.)

Just then Ray found the cat. It was lounging on it's side watching the show from under Bill's car. Ray's head was under the car, his butt was up in the air; he went into full voice - the one that liquifies your insides. The cat evaporated. Ray had tracked and 'treed' his first animal.

Bill went back into the house. I let Ray yell a minute then pulled him away. His job done, Ray came happily, a little prance in his step.

Later that night, I was telling Gregg about Ray's amazing tracking skills. The dog was curled up on his favorite pillow on his favorite couch, sleeping. When I said "the cat," Ray's head popped up off the pillow and he became instantly alert.
Uh oh.
"Uh," said Gregg, "Maybe that wasn't the best thing to do."
"Don't you think he'll be able to tell his cats from the other cat?" I asked, not expecting an answer and not knowing the answer myself.
"I guess we'll find out," replied my husband.
Realizing there was no more fun to be had that night, Ray's head sank to the pillow and he went back to sleep.

A Bark on the Wild Side

We have a new fox in the neighborhood. And he's a talker. 
I think fox barks are creepy; more like a bark overlaid by a scream. A single, sharp, disturbing noise that raises the hair on the back of one's neck before the realization dawns that it's just a fox. If you've never heard a fox scream, watch PBS. On every show ever filmed in England, at some point, you will hear a fox screaming in the background.
Our new fox runs through the neighborhood screaming his head off. I used to get out of bed and watch one stroll down the sidewalk taking detours into front yards to investigate. He'd scream after every 50 feet traversed. I haven't seen the new one, just heard him. His scream is particularly piercing and high-pitched. And non-stop. He must have amazing lungs.
The problem is, Ray hears it too and it sets off his fox-alarm. Last night the fox-alarm went off half a dozen times, and just like those stupid car-alarms, it's kind of hard to turn off once it gets going. Since Ray sleeps on the futon right outside our bedroom, it has a tendency to impair sleep. At the best of times, his tones are not dulcet; in the middle of the night, they are downright (choose one of the following) blatant, blustering, boisterous, booming, cacophonous, clamorous, clamorous, crashing, deafening, deep, ear-piercing, ear-splitting, emphatic, forte, full, full-mouthed, fulminating, heavy, high-sounding, intense, loud-voiced, lusty, obstreperous, pealing, piercing, powerful, rambunctious, raucous, resonant, resounding, ringing, roaring, rowdy, sonorous, stentorian, strident, strong, thundering, tumultuous, turbulent, turned up, uproarious, vehement, vociferous, loud enough to wake the dead (Roget's Thesaurus).
Last night (or, more accurately, early this morning), after being woken up for the sixth time, Ray took matters into his own paws. Grumbling, growling, harrumphing, and yelling, (and bonking into walls and stair railings) he cussed out that fox for disturbing his sleep and headed downstairs to his couch. 
The rest of the night was relatively uneventful - just one more quick warning from the fox-alarm - and all was quiet. 
This morning, I find myself wondering how long it will be before that fox gets hit by a car.
It's a lovely day. 
I think I'll take a drive. 

VIDEO ALERT: Ray the Blind Dog in Sleeping Dogs

For all of you who work hard everyday, a video ode (a videode) to laziness. Ray's latest, set to the tune 'Lazybones' by Leon Redbone.

Happiness is...

... a warm pavement where, until recently, there had been a BIG pile of catnip drying in the sun.












...getting a belly-rub while sitting next to your favorite dog.

Where there's a will...

Ray and I had just returned from our walk. As is our custom when Sandra is out of town, we had taken Maddie with us and headed across the street to return her home and chat with Dick, Sandra's husband.
As we stood in the kitchen, Ray let out a yell. Barking was coming from "the promised land" which is catty corner to Dick's backyard. Ray ran to the sliding glass door and demanded to be let out (not unusual for the blind dog, we usually let him out back to explore while we're chatting).
We all headed outside. Ray immediately hurried to the fence at the side of the yard. The promised land had a new foster-dog, a Dachshund, which had been returned to the rescue after FOUR years.
Ray was yelling and jumping at the wooden side-fence; the Dachshund was replying with a string of profanity and"yo mamas." Ray picked his way along the side-fence to the fence at back, which is chain-link. More yelling from Ray and profanities from the Dachshund. I walked over to the wooden side-fence and stuck my head over the top rail. Ray's head was jammed between the last fencepost of the wooden fence and the first fencepost of the chain-link. His disembodied dog head was still yelling. I laughed and returned to the deck to watch the show.
Holly, foster-mom, waved a goodbye and herded her herd back inside the house. Ray, distraught that his friends were gone, picked his way back along the side-fence looking for a way through. He then made a u-turn, went back to the gap in the fences, and squeeeeezed his body through to the yard next door.
Dick and I looked at each other flabbergasted.
I raced off the deck and to the side-fence. I thought briefly of hurtling myself over the top then did the rational thing and exited the yard using the gate and entered the yard next door using a similar gate. A little girl was standing at the sliding glass door looking curiously at the big dog in her yard sniffing his way along a pile of wood stacked along the fence. I gave her a wave, snagged Ray, clipped him to his leash, and led him out.
Dick was standing in his diveway as we came out of the neighbor's yard.
"I guess I'll have to block-off that hole with something," he said, laughing. "Y'know, Maddie has never found that way out." (Maddie is seven years old and a third of Ray's size).
My blind hound never ceases to amaze me.

I feel fainnnnnnnnnt

Today we hit a new low. Gregg had to fetch the car so that he could come get Ray (and me).
Granted, it's a pretty warm day. And granted, I know that Ray doesn't do heat well. But, really, it's not THAT hot and it wasn't THAT long a walk.
We got about two and a half miles out when Ray started flopping in the shady spots. We were walking a loop so we only had about one more mile to go. Every time he flopped Gregg and I managed to get him going again after a few minutes but only for a few more minutes. So when Ray flopped in the middle of the street we were crossing, I knew we were in trouble. We managed to get him up and as far as the shady lawn on the other side of the street when Ray flopped for good. We stood around for a bit trying to talk him into going on, but Ray was comfortable (it did look really nice in the cool grass).
"Should I go get the car?" asked Greggie.
"I think that's probably a good idea," I replied, "Otherwise it's going to take us all day to get home."
Gregg jogged off.
I stood, waiting.
Ray remained, flopping.

The Man in Black

The young man was dressed in a black suit. As I invited him in, I held on to the collar of my dog and tried desperately to keep him away from the man's pristine clothing. It's shedding season and I could see the dog-hair ballooning off of Ray every time lunged for our visitor to try to get a lick in.
The longer one resides in the Greater Washington, DC area, the greater the chance that one will be visited at some point by a background investigator. This Man in Black was one such.
He was smiling and trying to dodge the dog as he flashed his credentials.
"I grew up with big dogs," he said, still trying to dodge Ray's frantic efforts to get petted.
"SIT. STAY." I was saying firmly while wrestling with Ray.
The man joined in, "Siiiiiiiiiiiiiit," he said gently, which made Ray even more determined to lick such a nice guy.
Even though I had known the investigator was coming, I was unprepared.
"Where do you want me?" asked the Man in Black.
I looked around at the mess that was my living room, walked over to Gregg's chair, twitched off the dog-hair-covered cover, balled it up, and tossed it onto the couch.
"Sit there," I said.
The man sat. I was still struggling with the dog. Ray knows a friend when he smells one and this was obviously his best friend in the whole world.
"SIT. STAY." I tried again. Ray sat, his whole body shaking with the struggle to stay for an entire five seconds.
"SIT. STAY." I said again. Ray sat then started to flop a bit. Good.
"FLOP." I said. Ray flopped then jumped up and lunged at the man's face, got in a quick lick, then sat again. I grabbed his collar and dragged him to the couch with me.
I sat, holding onto the dog.
The man asked me his questions then stood to leave.
"Let me get a dog hair roller," I said looking at the legs of his trousers and bottom of his coat which were lightly sprinkled with dog hair.
"Thanks," said the Man in Black looking a bit embarrassed, "I think I have one in my car, but I'm not sure."
"Well, I know I have one in mine," I said, "I'll follow you out."
He walked out the door. I turned to make sure the door was firmly shut before following him. Ray was scratching and whining, distressed that his friend was leaving so quickly.
I turned to follow the man to my car and noticed with horror that the back of his suit was completely covered with white hair. I didn't say a word. I retrieved the sticky roller from my glove compartment and handed it to him. He took a few swipes at the dog hair on his front and quickly removed them.
I stepped behind him and said oh so casually, "Oh, you have a few hairs back here too, let me get them for you."
He handed me the roller, thanked me, and stood in the driveway while I tried to remove as much of the dog hair as I could without giving away the magnitude of the problem by having to peel off another sticky thing.
He thanked me again, then the Man in Black and White left for his next interview.

Ray's Girl, Cindy

My dog has a girlfriend. A human one. I haven't mentioned her before even though Ray has loved her for quite some time, because I never realized the true depth of his emotions. She lives down the street from us and is somewhere around my age. She has a cheery chirp of a voice, though, which makes her seem about 30 years younger. She's not too tall, not too short, not too thin, and not too wide; and she has a nice pillowy bosom. To Ray, she is perfect.

Yesterday, she came over for some knitting advice, which she does on occasion. Ray met her at the door with all his usual enthusiasm. Cindy and I settled in on the couch. Ray stationed himself in front of her. I gave Cindy some instruction (I am not a good knitter, I just know how) and she sat knitting a few rows to get the hang of what she was doing. Her hands were up against her body because Ray's head was slightly in the way, overhanging her lap. When he realized he wasn't getting the attention he wanted, Ray stood, put his front paws on her knees, and loomed over her. Cindy kept knitting. Ray lifted one paw and put it on Cindy's right breast. Cindy kept knitting.

"Uh, Ray, what are you doing?" I asked my dog, trying not to sound mortified.

"Yes, Ray, that's my boob," said Cindy to my dog, removing his large paw from her person.

Undeterred, Ray climbed up on the couch between us, his head nearer to Cindy. Instead of curling into a tight little ball like he usually does. Ray lounged on his side, looking all sexy-dog. He casually reached out one paw and put in on Cindy's left breast.

"Uh..." I said.

"Yes, Ray, that's my other boob," said Cindy, removing his large paw from her person again.
Ray's paw dropped to Cindy's lap, and there it remained while Cindy knit away.