The bond with a true dog is as lasting as the ties of this earth will ever be. – Konrad Lorenz
Ragnar Brutha Gonzo turns four years old today. That’s twenty-eight in dog years. Practically a career.
All dog.
He will chase a cat, he will dig a hole in your yard. One hole, to get to the cool dirt, don’tcha know?
He looks relaxed here because he has been – for the last two weeks – NOT walking for an hour in the summertime in Florida. Bugger weighs thirty pounds, fourteen kilos or a couple of stone. Very square.
Speaking of life in the lightning capital of the world, Ragnar is not a fan of thunder and lightning.
Not necessarily in that order.
Ragnar is faster than Devon Allen. He is possibly able to disappear and then reappear – not even breathing hard – somewhere else. Surprisingly sudden. Quiet, too, when he wants to be.
He does, however, have a special bark, which, if looped, could ply the truth out of a Kevin McCarthy. Talking embassy-level sonic damage here.
We have instituted an afternoon nap into our fitness program. Both my parents are now deceased, little brother, too, so I can say this without fear of contradiction – I have a tendency to work too hard, to do too much.
Told myself, oh, you’re not getting old and decrepit, you are just overdoing it. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Working way beyond optimal. Sure. Hell, what else could it be? Nothing else makes sense.
So, anyway, the nap.
Ragnar thinks this is a great way to spend our time, almost as good as sitting in the recliner watching sports or insurrections.
But his behavior remains notorious.
He starts at the foot of the bed and then when I awake an hour later, he has snuggled hard up against me like an old lover.
But no. His long-haired, fluffy ass right smack up against my head, the cheek of my face, probably what woke me.
He has to go out.