I'm Looking After It, Button!

Ah, the tyranny of little quotidian obligations. Looking after the needs and wishes of our two little dependents. One of which reigns as the supreme last word in this house; the other a mere hanger-on. Both well loved, both informing us of our place in their world, and expecting us to fulfill our duties toward them. And we do our utmost not to disappoint. Their needs become our needs. The state of their well-being fringes upon ours and often enough surmounts ours.

Button, the older by twice the age, and female at that, is the doyenne of our little household ensemble, and her wish remains our command. Generally speaking, that is. We do attempt, on occasion, to protect her from some of her more wayward demands. But for the most part our lives run on a little treadmill of obligations toward our charges. To ensure that they are well fed, healthy, fit and reasonably content.

And then there are all those other niggling little daily routines which cannot, on pain of censure, be overlooked. When we retire at night, the last thing we do is fetch her prized ball, to place it front and centre so that when she awakes it will be the first thing she sees, to her great satisfaction. Having learned through experience that she will not herself place it handy to the morning light, but will experience great distress if it is not to be found.

For, the fact is, the older she becomes, the more forgetful. She simply cannot recall where she last left her well-loved ball, so we try to keep tabs on its whereabouts. On those occasions when we've been unsuccessful, the trauma our little black dog suffers is painful to behold, as she rushes about the house, sometimes successfully, occasionally not, to discover its whereabouts.

So that her need to have it tossed in just such a way, in just the right direction, as soon as we rise out of bed, so she can experience the pleasure of chasing, retrieving and offering it up for another run, can be accomplished, to start the day. Used to be, when she was much, much younger, that she would cherish her ball by chewing rather injudiciously on it, until the ball (always a pale green tennis variety) would begin to disintegrate.

As clever as she is, Button could never figure out why a half-ball wouldn't behave the same as an intact ball, and my husband would have to resort to dog psychology by pasting half of the outer shell of the poor old ball onto a replacement ball, until it had acquired just the right fragrance so she would accept it as her own. Those days are long past, and the current ball is an oldie; with her own advancing age, she has begun to treat her ball with the respect due it.

As for Riley, our pint-sized toy poodle, he never developed a ball neurosis. Ask him where his "toy" is, and he'll head straight for the toy box beside the fireplace and rummage about in there until he finds his plastic hamburger or hotdog, and bring it over to be tossed, retrieved and growled playfully over for another toss. For him it's a casual, not a life-long passionate affair of the heart.

Button believes in schedules. Despite that she may have just been out in the back to relieve herself she will insist, punctually at half-past four every day to be let out. This is putting me on notice that five o-clock is neigh and it's high time I began preparing their evening meal. Back in the house, she restively paces about, seeks out a chewy and carries it around, until such time as I rise from the sofa, put away the newspaper, and put together their dinner.

Post-dinner comes another routine, not to be deviated from, the preparation of their salad. This is of utmost gustatory seriousness, not to be taken lightly. Whereas both little tyrants muster sufficient patience to quietly await the presentation of their dinner, they both become extremely agitated if their vegetable salads don't follow instanter. Button will accompany the preparation of salad with impatient nudges at my ankles and imperious sounds.

When evening falls and it comes time to haul ourselves upstairs to bed, first taking them out to the backyard for last-chance evacuation, they're amenable enough. For this is yet another routine; one which requires an evening pre-slumber reward; a fresh chewy, which is offered in turn to each. Riley doesn't hesitate to grasp the offering, but Button will sniff and reject, sniff at a fresh offering, and sometimes reject that one too, ditto the third, finally deciding on the first.

She no longer deigns to sleep with us. She objects, as she always has, to the presence of Riley on our bed. Actually, within, since he struggles mightily to inveigle himself down deep under the duvet until he reaches the foot of the bed. Which is where Button was accustomed to sleeping, but over the covers - on the opposite side. His presence remains repugnant to her, despite their 7-year co-location. It's a boy-girl thing, we assume.

She sleeps now in the old double bed that was once ours, forsaken for the queen-size one we now opulently revel within. But in the wee hours of the morning, she will leave the back bedroom where the double bed now resides, to return to our bedroom, and to take up her place on the loveseat sitting directly across from the bed, beside the windows. From whence position she will jump down anytime between six and eight to let us know it's wakey-time.

Oops, forgot to mention her penchant for sharing. Sharing, that is, food destined for our meals. Any time I take a bread out of the oven, she's there, front and centre, eager to pass judgement on its edibility. Refused portions, she will be aggrieved and utter condemnation of our selfishness. Place a salad on the table for our dinner and she stands beside the table, insisting she be given her share, despite having consumed her own mere moments before.

She alone has us very well trained. Riley comes along for the free ride.