I’m not normally a flibbetyjibbet. I don’t dabble in matters of the heart. When it comes to bestowing my attention and affection, I commit and I stay committed. I’m a finisher. I see things through. That’s what I do.
But in recent weeks I’ve fallen prey to an unfamiliar urge, an inexplicable need. What started as a harmless flirtation, a way of killing time, in the dark hours when sleep wouldn’t come, has now become serious. So serious I told my husband about it this morning. Now I’m telling others.
Regular readers have caught glimpses of the half-grown hound that has been tearing up my mental backyard for months now. Big brute, dangerously attractive, difficult to bring to heel. A challenge I’ve been running with during the day, curling up with it at night. He’s a work in progress and I love him. A big, bad, beautiful beast, that’s not safe around kids.
But now a new dog has slunk in, under my guard. More of a pup really. Perfect for the small fry. Sad history. All eyes and ribs. But heaps of potential, you know? Could be really beautiful if someone gave him a chance.
He’s been nosing round me for a while, pressing his wet nose through the gaps in my defenses. Begging me to take him in, give him a home, breathe some life into him.
He won’t leave me alone. Won’t accept that I’m already committed.
I’ve started dreaming about the damn thing: can identify its fleas; already know where to scratch to get his back leg thrashing helplessly. Caught myself laughing at his antics this morning before my husband woke up. Blinked back tears when I saw where he hurts.
Couldn’t stand it any longer; decided to take a chance and let him in.
So I opened the gate, watched my big dangerous beast sniff its arse, then move aside to make room for one more.
I’ll be keeping the door closed on this one for a while. Can’t risk letting him out till I know that he’ll stay. But he’s already showing promise, curled up now on my computer. The new work-in-progress. One for the kids.