Some are partial to cigars after a good meal. But when my family congregates after dinner, I prefer to bring out my rawhide.
Of course, back in the day, before my family cracked down on my bone consumption, a bone would have been my postprandial treat of choice.
My grandpa's been visiting.
I took him out for a walk on the bluffs.
Later on, we sat together in companionable silence while he read his newspaper and I chewed on my bone.
I was in a funk for the past couple of days, due to a confluence of related factors.
First of all, there has been some very unkind criticism of my physique. Not unexpected, given a small but statistically significant recent increase in my weight -- but still hurtful. Some unfortunate photos did not help matters.
Does my family have nothing better to discuss than my size and what it portends for my long-term health? Apparently not. The house seems to be swarming with experts. Their consensus is that my tiny meals need to be cut back even further.
Then, the most unkind cut of all -- these so-called experts got nasty about my bone and the fattening nature of marrow. I was already feeling down about how the size of my bone had dwindled over the past couple of days to the point that it was really too little to gnaw on.
Last night they finally did the right thing: They gave me a new bone. I bonded with it for a couple of hours, and then I took it outside to bury it for the night.
I will say this: I slept much better knowing that I had a bone outside.
Yes, under the latest regime my meals are miniscule -- a few crumbs of rice and ground turkey -- but I can handle that as long as I have the bone. I appreciate my family members' trust in me, and I will not let them down by overdoing it with the bone. I will enjoy it judiciously, so that it lasts for at least two weeks, like the last one did. I will even try to act enthusiastic about the exercise program that they've been developing for me.
Because they do have a point about my weight gain. I'm still young, and this middle-aged spread is unacceptable, particularly since I'm already dealing with a serious health risk from my seizure disorder.
I have a lot to live for. I'm going to slim down, with my bone by my side.
Now that I've been focusing on my bone, I've been shedding my clinginess and neediness. I find that I've been becoming more of an archetypal masculine self-actualized dog. Sort of a Robert Bly dog, if you will. Soon I will be involved in drum circles, no doubt.
I received a new bone a few days ago, and since then I have been very activated with the task of hiding it. Thank goodness my squirrel work is on the wane, because this bone work is very demanding and occupies most of my waking hours.
Some of my hiding places are indoors, under couches or cushions or bedcovers. I rotate between them frequently, because you can never be too careful.
My favorite spots, though, are all outdoors, in the back yard or along the fence on the north side of the house. I carry my bone out nonchalantly, subtly slip off to bury it, and then return casually. I don't think anyone notices, although it's possible that my dirty nose gives me away.
Its not easy doing bone work, dealing with the lack of understanding and appreciation from my family. Each time I dig my bone up from my outdoor hiding places and bring it, covered with a nice patina of dirt, inside to enjoy on a sofa or a rug, some family member grabs and cleans it off before returning it to me. Which just emphasizes the importance of keeping it safely hidden.
