A dog, I am. Cash, as in Johnny. And cold Cash. And (the one I like best), 鈥淕rab the Cash and run!鈥� When Kathleen picks up my harness and leash and puts on her shoes I know what鈥檚 up. "Takin' a dash with Cash," she tells the Preacher.
But she doesn't run. She walks. Sometimes I dash back and forth on the leash until she says, 鈥淐ash, you鈥檙e gonna trip me. Heel already.鈥� When she talks that way, I try to behave with decency and decorum. I may be 91 in dog years, but she and the Preacher? They鈥檙e my pack leaders.
Nevertheless, I preempted her weekly writing gig today. She says she鈥檚 lost her sunny side; a temporary lapse. She spent too long staring at something terrible on the television yesterday. A pack of people, in some important place, acting like wild dogs. Now she can't concentrate.
This morning, before she left for work, she and the Preacher held hands and bowed their heads, like always. When they begin, "Good morning, Lord,鈥� I know they鈥檙e talking to someone I can鈥檛 see. Their own pack leader. I rushed over, squeezed into their circle. Sometimes they talk long, sometimes not so. I stay till their last word; always the same. "Amen." The whole circle thing makes me feel鈥ell, warm. Loved. At home.
鈥淚 can't write today,鈥� Kathleen said this evening. "My words are stuck in a dark hole.鈥� So I thought I鈥檇 help her this once.
First. I鈥檓 grateful for a good home. I鈥檓 free here. The backyard is fenced, and I must wear a leash when outside it, but I have all I need. Leashes and fences help good dogs stay good, Kathleen says. But sometimes, at the end of our walks, she lets me off leash a few houses from ours. 鈥淕o home, boy,鈥� she says.
Suddenly there鈥檚 no place I鈥檇 rather be than in our own backyard, and in the house where we all live. Me. The Preacher. Kathleen. And ungracious GraceCat, who swats me sometimes when I walk past. I could demolish that feline, but I ignore him.
When Kathleen commands, 鈥淕o home!鈥� home courses through my brain. Pumps up my muscles. Spurs my energy. I live for those moments. I'm free, but I zip like a comet, my tail streaming behind, flat out toward house number 726. A minute after I get there, Kathleen arrives, panting and clapping. 鈥淕OOD go home, boy! GOOD go home!鈥� (I just wish she鈥檇 get there faster. I get dizzy, turning in circles at the door.)
Second. I鈥檓 grateful for good pack leaders. Those angry, shouting humans on the television? They shoulda' gone home. I heard someone say, 鈥淕o home,鈥� but the tone said, 鈥淕ood boys!鈥� No wonder that pack ran wild.
I鈥檓 just a dog. I don't know much, but I do know some things. A good pack needs a good leader. Kathleen says there鈥檚 only one perfect one. And a good leader needs loyal followers. Together they make home a place you want to be.
