Nor does she like princesses. Finds Captain America alarming. Is disturbed by tiny Spidermans.
Chefs, nurses, steampunkers, post apocalypse victims, bees, cats, and ninjas – also Not OK.
Miss Tibbit alerted us to her concern for three continuous hours last evening. A tiny pixie quivered and shook in fear as she selected a tootsie roll from our bowl of treats. Miss Tibbit’s gaping, toothy maw was visible and audible in the large window behind me.
I get that it is a little weird for Miss Tibbit, having strangers tromp up onto her porch. Ringing doorbells. Yelling in high voices “Trick or Treat”. But I had to ask her, Miss Tibbit, where were you when someone stole our middle sized pumpkin yesterday afternoon? Why wasn’t an actual perp more disturbing than 30 inch high vampires?
Miss Tibbit had no answer for me. She sniffed my face while I asked and tried to look intelligent.
He’d ride shotgun but he is too small to see out the window. So he rides Console.
Riding Console in the trucks we’ve had over the years is easy. The space between the driver and passenger seats is huge. The console is a big padded platform that looks like it was designed to provide mattressy respite for beefy man arms. There’s enough space that a passenger beefy man arm would not accidently touch a driver beefy man arm already using the console. Hamish the Corgi fits on truck consoles with room to spare. His panoramic view of traffic, countryside, and snacks being eaten by the passenger is unparalleled from the console.
However.
When Hamish cruises the urban scene with me and the Mini Cooper S, he struggles to maintain the attitude of superior contentment. You can see that he is smiling, but maybe his back teeth are clenched. Smile and clench your teeth – then say “this is great”. That’s exactly how Hamish looks riding the Mini console.The Mini console is low and he mainly has a view of the giant Mini speedometer. The console is narrow. He wedges his barrel chest between the seats and perches one front paw on the console in front of him. The other he rests on a human or waves in the air to counter balance g-forces on spirited turns. The console is short. About two thirds of Hamish hangs off the back, dangling in space over the rear seat floor boards.
None of this deters Hamish. He will shove Sweet Miss Tibbit out of the way to ride console. He calls Console before we’ve even left the house. Before my shoes are on, or keys are in my hand. As I lift the dogs into the back of the Mini, Sweet Tibbit watches Hamish hustle his fuzzy person into the console position and sighs. She sits behind the passenger seat and leans against it to watch the world pass. Sometimes she peers over Hamish’s ears, asking what’s going on up there?
Nothing much Sweet Tibbit. Nothing much.
Miss Tibbit wants a turn on the Console. Never going to happen.
Hamish just told me he thinks it’s more than time for morning walkies. It was simply his opinion. I didn’t care. Then he expressed his opinion to Miss Tibbit and she got all excited about it. It is now her opinion, also. Evidently, we will be having walkies soon if I am to have any peace in my day of Big Thinking.
Hamish has an opinion a little too often in the course of a day.
He believes that Wiggins The Cat should not be wandering around the house at 5:30am. He tells the cat so. We all must listen as a captive, bed-ridden audience.
He strongly believes that nasty looking, ancient, fuzzy dog should not walk on our sidewalk or wee on our flower beds three times a day, every day. He cries his thoughts on the matter in full voice, telling the block, telling the scrappy dog. As far as I can tell, only Miss Tibbit cares.
Hamish defends his opinion.
Hamish is entrenched in the notion that toys are his, and he graciously allows Miss Tibbit time with them. He observes her using toys from his Chair, and when her play is too rough, too fun, too engaged, he sits up sharply and tells her so. She never, ever listens. He speaks louder. She selectively hears harder. His opinion on this matter is of no consequence to Miss Tibbit.
When distributing his opinions, Hamish adopts a particularly annoying body posture. His ears are pricked. His head is high. His back is long and stiff. His stubby tail stands out. His tiny T-rex front legs are planted firmly. His lip curls after he declaims as he prepares to press his position. It should be cute.
I am unutterably tired of Hamish’s opinions. But I still listen.
He is expressing one now, as Miss Tibbit approaches the top of the stairs without sanction. In Hamish’s opinion, it is not yet time to go downstairs. Now we all know.
I listen because I, like everyone else in the vicinity, have ears. I listen because Hamish is my companion, my dog-protector, and there may be a time when his opinion has value. Like, say, when the bear was coming to camp last summer. He didn’t care for that. Or when a skunk wandered toward Miss Tibbit in the backyard. He doesn’t like skunk stink. Even though his opinions are mostly the windy exhortations of a dog with too much to say, I listen. And if I am honest, he listens to all of mine.
wideeyedfunk 