Mama Always Comes Back

      We were talking about the words Revel understands, apart from Sit and Down and other cues that go along with hand signals.  He clearly knows "breaklast," which we purposely mis-pronounce in honor of a certain little girl who used to say she wanted her breaklast, and "lunch" and "mush."  He also knows "treat" and "vitamins" and "let's go see the chickens."  He should know "handsome" and "such a sweet boy" because he's heard those words more often than breaklast, lunch and mush.  And who knows what he has learned from the confused jumble of my clumsy body language.  Just sit back and wait for the mush.
     I make a point to say "Let's go for a walk," when I put their harnesses on and get the leashes, and I wish Revel could somehow tell me right then that he would prefer not to go for a walk.  He acts enthusiastic about it as far as the trash—he loves to go down to the trash—but when we turn the corner and he realizes that he's in for more than a trash run, he sometimes plants himself and refuses to go any farther.  Oh, Ivy and I are annoyed; we desperately need exercise to stave off the anxiety (Ivy), fat and grumpiness (me).  When Revel decides he's not moving, he is unmovable.  He is a seventy-pound Aussie statue.  Unless we turn back in the direction of home, in which case he picks up the pace.  Put him in the yard, start over on what is now a girls' walk.  He waits for us happily, unfettered by our feminine needs.

     Since I read that dogs think in "thought pictures" I sometimes try to communicate with mine in a visual flash, usually when I'm leaving them behind.  I picture my truck leaving the driveway, then returning a little bit later, just as I used to tell my children, "Mama always comes back."  I haven't been leaving them much lately, because the weather is cool enough for them to wait in the car for a bit if necessary.  But now I am faced with the horror, oh the agony, of actually getting on an airplane and leaving my home from this Friday to Monday.  Without my Aussies.  Should I try to tell them somehow?  Should I expand my thought picture to demonstrate that they will be here with my husband, getting lots of affection and contraband snacks and getting to jump up and nip and be bad bad bad?  That I will come back, just a lot later than I usually do?
     I know I should try to be calm and happy and not let my anxiety free-float around the house, because Ivy is anxious enough without my help.  I know it will be a good trip.  The boys and I are going to Mississippi to my parents' beautiful, comfortable house where I will not be in charge of the cooking or the cleaning.  Woo-hoo!  I hope I'll get some good pictures of Micajah, my parents' Westie.  And I hope Ivy and Revel will forgive me.