Shredding of Tissues            

I can always tell when Spartacus is stressing out. He shreds tissues.

As far as obnoxious dog habits are concerned, I think we won big-time. There is no chewing. No swallowing of articles of clothing. No pooping in the house.

Just a raided bathroom garbage can, with evidence of the purloined contents strewn across their hearthside pillow/bed, with maybe a few extra shreds in a pile in front of the couch.

“Mommy. Where were you?” these strips of Kleenex communicate. “I was worried. I thought you’d never come home again,” they whine.

The difference between dogs and cats never ceases to amaze me.

It’s been written about ad nauseum, so I won’t go there tonight, other than to say I adore the palpable emotional connection I share with my two Boston Terriers.

I love my cats. I cannot imagine living without having at least one or two cats in my household. But dogs truly add a dimension to life that is precious and endearing. Not only do they seem to notice when you’re not around or when your routine changes, they also make their observation abundantly clear.

I wasn’t gone that long this evening, so I was surprised that my absence had engendered a couple piles of shredded anxiety.

Part of the problem is undoubtedly that Karl has been traveling. Another, though, could perhaps be a deeper issue.

I have to wonder if Spartacus can detect the decline in his mother, Sheila’s, health.

Karl and I certainly notice. And we’re worried.

She’s been with us for 15 years and has been the most surprising, delightful addition to our lives that we ever could have imagined. She sets the bar for all our pets – and it’s a darn high one, in spite of her slight stature. (She was the runt of the litter.)

I’m thinking I may need to write about her some more. Maybe tomorrow.

In the meantime, as I consider the prospect of losing her, I feel a need to shred some tissues.

(T-1023)