Strides have been made, on the surface it would appear otherwise, alas, success is not a science, but a feeling. Such as, the bathroom kennel is working superbly, and now when I leave hear nary a peep, nor a whine. On my return, a sleeply little happy one greets me, and that tis a success, she seems to have no anxiety at separation, solitude is not scary for her, and I was worried about that.
Pika Poo, I see you.
One hurtle, really for both her and I, is puppy Chi’s are not so particular about outside ventures in the cold days of winter. Yea, well, neither am I, truth be told.
Certainly one area that Irish and I differed. While she loved the cold, I felt it seep in and inhabit my bones, with a north wind whipping my face so bitter it makes my eyes water sort of bitter cold, I’ll say a big fat NO.
So, yesterday was mild, yesterday we went round the block, and she was having a blast, and so we went on, and I took her down to another fav spot I’d go with Irish, Thames Park.
In the past I’ve just taken her mostly on short ventures, alas nary a one single Pika poo. In the past she’s spent more time in the bag really then with her shivery paws on the sidewalk.
Oh, but yesterday, just before we got to the park, what did she do? A PIKA POO, right there, just before we entered the cobbled way down.
Oh, I coo’d and awed, and lots of Good Pika’s all round. Honestly, I would have danced a jig, right there on the street like a madwoman, but, one does not dance jigs on sidewalks. Ok, er, I don’t dance a jig on sidewalks. But if I were not a hard-core introvert? I woulda been jigging all round her in a circle. Felt like yelling WOOT WOOT! Pika had a POO.
So, down the hill we continued, revealing the river that runs through the heart of downtown, which comes in to full view through the leafless trees. The park was resplendent with a light dusting of snow, and I took her across the soccer field, with the ridge of Old South on our grassy horizon.
Bouncing and twirling in place, she vibrated with joy that made us smile, her and I.
Grief for the loss of Irish, you know, it touched me, as we crossed that field, this time of year. Irish and I captured things together there, I with my camera, her with her nose. And when I see those pictures I took of her, as I see her image in the Gallery brush by, as I walk past where she slept, as I go about my day. I miss her.
Do I think Pika misses Irish? I don’t know, probably not. For one, since they did have such a short time together, only maybe 3 weeks, and too short I think for her puppy brain to have formed a lasting memory bond.
Yet, still, I know for her that Irish remains, in fleecy tufts underneath the bed, the dressers, the hall seat, in places I can’t get to, are Pika pathways, all filled with those golden fluffs of my Irish lassie.
Pika’s experience is a more sensory one, and Irish’s gentle golden spirit I imagine touching her, guards her, stays with her in the long passages of time when I’m at work, just like before, but different. Captured instead in Irish’s old toy Stink, which has become her binky.
So that’s how I see it.
For Pika, Irish is everywhere, in everything, in the floors, the furniture, in the air, not gone at all.
The walk yesterday was due. A long walk, on a crisp day, was actually just the medicine for us both.
My theory is that perhaps restricting her outside experiences over the last bit has softened her dislike of the cold, and that I let her come with me on these mysterious ventures is for her doggy mind a reward, cause I tell ya, she was good as gold.
You know? She just put on her BIG DOG, and pranced her wee butt round the block, and down the main drag, even with all the people and noises and crashes and clangs, roar of engines, and a few guardly dog barkys at passing men.
Good girl, I said, that’s a VERY good girl.
It was all round, most definitely a success.