My own cute puppy…

Well, it was worth a try. Sometimes writing the words keeps him away and sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes hiding behind pancakes and quizzes, gardening, even poetry, can keep his bark at bay. But if he’s coming he’s coming; even though I never call him. I don’t know why he comes when he does. It’s almost as though he lets me think he’s gone just so he can come running out of the undergrowth when I least expect it. Of course I’m used to him turning up. I can see the warning signs. My mood changes, I get snappy, I tire; and I’m sure that knowing helps me to manage him.

But it doesn’t scare him off.

Sometimes he’s big, sometimes he’s small. But whatever his size he’s always black and he never greets me with a lick. This time he seems to be around medium size. He’ll stay as long as he wants, feeding and growing if I let him. I don’t want to let him, but there’s only so much self-management a body can do, the rest, the outside influences, are random chance and opportunist kickings. Water off a ducks back? If only that was how I worked. Maybe I can throw a stick and make him back off for a while. If I throw it hard enough who knows?

He’s outside the door now, barking to come in. I’m not going to open it.