My dog brings me things. I’ve written before about this particular fetish Previously he was universal in his interests. Maps of Venice, swimming goggles, shoes, dishtowels, cd’s. Recently he has zeroed in on a particular kind of thing: boxes. That’s right. My dog brings me boxes. All sizes, from jewlry boxes to the giagantic box that the enternatiment centre came in. He really had to wrestle that sucker in to the living room, but he is undaunted by things such as space and time.
Last nights the boxes just kept coming. There was the box that had contained the new dishes my mom bought me for Christmas. That was followed by the box from my new sneakers. Then the box that had Red Sox Fan’s printer. Then there wer boxes that I couldn’t ienitfy and had no idea where he got them from. By the time he got worn out from his adventures, I was surrounded by boxes and he happily fells asleep on my foot. Not sure what he accomplished but he sure was pleased with himself.
I’m not sure what the dealio with the boxes is. It started around Christmas. I guess because there were so many boxes around the house and everyone was interested in the box. “Look at what I got G. It’s in this box.” We all crowd around the box. I better get wrapping these boxes. Look at all the boxes under the tree. And then there was the unwrapping of the boxes. Boxes get attention, ergo if the Big Arsed Dog has a box, he’ll get attention. And if this is the plan, it works. Because if you don’t get the box out of his mouth, he’ll begin to tear it to pieces. And that’s a pain my much smaller arse to clean up.
Or mayber Big Arsed Dog thinks he’s bringing me a present. “I don’t know what the big deal is about these rectangular cartons made out of cardboard. But she sure gets excited when she gets one.” And so he brings me one.
But what Arsed Dog doesn’t know if that he doesn’t need to bring me boxes. Because he’s more present than my little black heart can handle all by himself.