Everything they say about Labs is true.
I now call him Dogus, as does most of the family, and since he doesn’t respond to any name, nor to most commands, nor to squeaky toys, it’s purely for my own amusement.
In the last four weeks, he’s eaten my daughter’s birthday cake, an entire loaf of bread, two blueberry English muffins, a bag of potato chips, two donuts (and the box), and…
half of a raspberry danish.
“Use two hands,” I used to say. I don’t have to say it often anymore. She knows when to use two hands. For hugs, for spreading open to the world, for twirling, for riding her two-wheeler.
Two hands to paint bold masterpieces of my heart, and, in measured time, two hands to hold her work back so as to cast a critical eye. Two hands to add a dab, a spot, a splosh.
Two hands hold onto mine because she wants to dance and for her, dancing is largely variations on Ring Around the Rosie.
Jackie Pick 