Meet Bert our rescue dog.
So we got this dog last March. His name is Bert. He came with it. Bert’s a 3 year old little short-haired white rescue dog. Claims he’s a Finnish Spitz which is probably about as accurate as claiming I’m a nephew of Napoleon. In both cases a resemblance howsoever barely. Let him have his airs. As a rescue dog, he’s entitled to his misguided sense of self. As long as he feels good about it.
Dog owners, I’ve discovered, can talk fairly incessantly about their dogs. And in the 8 months we’ve had Bert I’ve thought of a lot of things I can say about Bert and about having a dog-being in the household. So I’m creating a Bert folder and this installation is Bert 1. It’s not about Bert as much as it is about me, one of my favorite subjects.
I, of course, was counseled regarding introducing Bert into our household. I had to give serious consideration to this new under-18 dependent that didn’t merit a tax deduction. Sure, I agreed gamely, a house-broken, gentle dog with a ready smile as seen from the tail-end, would be welcome. Just one condition. My contribution to Bert’s well-being would consist of petting him. That’s it. I would pet him and say good dog.
Bert’s a great dog. It’s grand to see him happy. Who knows the sadness in him from leaving a household and owner(s) who taught him his domesticated manners. In our house he gets only kind words, 2 square a day and some awesome neighborhood sniffing around.
And I’ve stuck to my commitment. I’m not a jerk about it. I’ll give him the occasional walk and stand-in on occasion at feeding time. But, for the most part, I pet him. He seems happy with that. As am I.
