Redeeming myself

I confessed to a group at work that when faced with the choice of breed to get when Harleigh and I decided to add a pooch to the family, I was leaning toward a Golden Retriever. I'd grown up with Old English Sheepdogs, and felt inclined to mixing things up a bit. But Harleigh was adamant, and, after all, it was to be her dog (which we know, as moms, translates to "soon to become Mom's dog and responsibility").  And so an OES it was. I certainly don't regret it. He belongs with The Gahan Girls. But he is a lot of grooming upkeep, and while he doesn't shed much, the giant paws are always in need of cleaning off before he comes back in the house, a ritual that he doesn't much like but obediently offers up each front paw, and then to a sweet command of "turn" offers up his posterior so that I can wipe the back feet off.

Here is the face I see when he snuggles with me on the bed. His fuzzy white and grey head finds the pillow of my chest, and the big, black nose takes in my scent, that of mother and caregiver, walker and ball thrower, disciplinarian and giver of unconditional love.