I was originally going to write a thing about Easter and how I often forget it, maybe because I have a firm stance of “maybe” on the whole God thing, but probably because everything surrounding the holiday just makes no sense at all. I was going to go through and break down what doesn’t make sense since a lot of the Pagan traditions of it come from different Pagan faiths like Christmas. I would then break down how the fact that a giant bunny comes to your house to not give but hide a basket and a bunch of eggs is maybe creepier than Santa watching children in their sleep. I mean have you seen a mall Easter bunny? They are my nightmare.
Examples of my nightmare
I was going to do all that, but when I was writing it I realized that it was all kind of boring and done before. Not that I’m unwilling to tread familiar water to see if I can get more people to read this, I’m not, and I will probably do something next week about bad politics next week just to see what kind of people might want to read this and piss off select members of my family (Uncle James). Ultimately, I decided not to run the piece because I just didn’t like it and decided that I will just draft the work I have done and try again next year. Maybe I will be smarter by then, but I doubt it.
Instead today I am going to take my time to talk about the last week I have had and talk about the weird habits my dogs, and many other dogs I’m sure, exhibit (shamelessly gives this one a picture of dogs for clickbait). Because the past week my family went on vacation to Florida and I had opted out of going having spent four years in Florida for college and had generally gotten over the whole point of being there after seeing what it is actually like year-round. It’s basically what you’d expect, and I won’t get into it here because you probably already know what I have to say, and I am planning to write about that at a later date and would rather save my material. So, that left me alone with the three family dogs for any entire week, where I pretty much only held real conversations with other humans twice. That of course doesn’t count grocery store or restaurant clerks.
To be specific and for those who may not know these beasts that my family owns I will have to describe them in the best way I know possible, by giving you a picture up top and again here so you know what I’m talking about and don’t get confused. I could just describe them like I did the random people in the thing from last week in that job interview, but that was mostly because I felt rude just taking a random photo of strangers who I’m pretty sure didn’t like me, but I assume that of most people, more a personal fault than anything else.
Not pictured is the bag of treats I had to hold in my hand to take this picture.
In this photograph form left to right you have Finley, who is my sister Kaitlyn’s dog and normally resides in Milwaukee, but since she opted to go on the vacation with my parents and other sister Taylor, he got to enjoy the chance to leave Wisconsin. Which I imagine he must have been happy about because I am always overjoyed when I get to leave the state after having my fill of beer, cheese, and Midwestern racism and stereotypes. In the middle is Woodson, named after Charles Woodson, who is my brother Griffin’s dog (kind of) who normally lives in Illinois with us but will probably travel with Griffin when he moves to wherever he gets what is known as a big boy job, probably in Texas, and lives with him for the rest of his days. I will be sad when this happens because he is my favorite of the three. Don’t tell the other dogs because I don’t want to hurt their feelings, but I do feel quite comfortable expressing that here as dogs are often unable to read. Then there is Fozzy on the right, who is debatably the cutest, but also debatable the most annoying. I could tell you the breed of the other two dogs we rescued, being Finley who is part long-haired chihuahua and part something I’m told is hypoallergenic, and Woodson who is mostly black lab and something else (chou?) in the mix. Fozzy however is so mutted as far as dogs go that I can never remember what he is exactly. I think part golden retriever, part Shetland sheep dog, part everything else that just sits licking on the couch until he sees something out the front window and goes into a fit of barking. I tend to just describe him as Fozzy.
My past week has mostly consisted of me being woken up by the dogs at around 7:30, where I am being licked non-stop by Finley and Woodson, who may also just be worried because at some point in the night one of them closed the door I left wide-open for them to get into the room to cuddle with me and wake me up, and Fozzy (their leader) was trapped on the other side of the door. I bet Woodson closed the door because he has very little control of his body and his tail has been labeled as a weapon before. Not to mention that the sooner I would get out of bed, the sooner they would get their food and that is all that really matters to them. Well I guess they also got lonely after going six straight hours without attention.
I would then promptly go back to sleep on the couch because I do not like being up before nine if I don’t have to be and even then, that is a little early. I would then go about my day and they would go about theirs. The problem is that when you are home all day with three dogs, nothing is more important to them than a person sitting on the couch rubbing their belly. I believe this to be a universal truth of at least most dogs. Now people sit on the couch for a multitude of reasons, stop me if you already know this. But people, sorry let’s not discount dogs as people, humans will sit on the couch to read, play video games, write blogs nobody reads but they really want them to because there’s at least two half-funny jokes so far in this bit.
Anyways that would mean that we would have conflicting ideas of whether I would want to pet them, and they would always think it was time to pet them. And when I say “they” I mean all three at once because they don’t understand that I can only properly love one dog at a time. Now I am not complaining, I love the dogs, and it is nice to be around them because they love me unconditionally. I would like to believe it is just me and I am special, and I will not open this up for debate
The other problem is the dogs participate in cuddling in varying degrees of success. Finley is actually a really good cuddle when he wants to be, because he’s small enough to just sit on your lap and sometimes doesn’t care you pet him. Fozzy can be an okay cuddle, the only problem is that when you stop petting him he starts freaking out and does anything he can to get you to get back to the petting or he gets up and goes to anyone else sitting on the couch. Woodson, however, is not good at cuddling in the slightest. The first issue is that he is a lab who thinks he is still small enough to be on your lap, which he really isn’t, and the second being that he is never fully on the couch when he wants to cuddle. Instead he climbs up just enough to get his paws on your thighs, with his back feet placed firmly on the ground, while he licks your face until you push him down or make the mistake of scratching his ears. I always make that stupid mistake.
Now while dogs can be good for comfort and warmth at night (I used Woodson as a foot warmer a couple times this week) they are not the best conversationalists. I tried a couple days ago to have an enlightening conversation with Finley while we were watching Community (we were in season 6 so it wasn’t that important to watch). He looked at me in a way that made me what his thoughts were on the matter of religion. I looked deep in his eyes which seemed to understand talking about the difficulty I sometimes have in my life and how I can’t say for certain there isn’t a god, but no religion has ever expressed a being that makes sense as the creator of the universe to me. And while this has been a thing I think my mother feels she has failed me in as she is a woman of faith herself, we also never went to church when I was growing up. I mean if there is a God shouldn’t there be a way to prove or disprove it? Is there more than faith and texts that may have been written by people who talked to him from a mountain top or knew his son? Or is that all we need? Is there more to know about the life after this one? And Finley looked at me as if he knew what I was struggling with, then let out a small howl like he does and buried his head in my chest as if to tell me to shut up and it has been too long since I scratched his belly.
Garrett Eicher, missing people.