Saturday

Perhaps Saturday is the day to write. A goal of once a week seems modest enough. And there ought to be plenty of material provided by Petunia as the week progresses. We'll see.

For now she sleeps. Sacked out on her side on the king-sized bed. With the occasional stretch, all four little legs are extended. She does this even in sleep, in between woofing doggie dreams. She looks like a little horse, sleeping on her side. Her preferred spot is up against a warm body, feet first. This has unpleasant results for the warm body. When she stretches, her paws, and claws, rake soft tissue. It has to be deliberate on her part, as she adjusts through the night to position herself for assaults. MJ is lucky. She has a body pillow that provides a border. She used to be the exclusive target of Petunia's stretching. But as the pregnancy has progressed, I have become the preferred scratching pad.

Petunia's routine of late is simple. She sleeps late (as late as 9am), eats breakfast, and then snoozes for a little while longer. I don't even need to take her outside for a pee first thing, which is quite a change. We'll go out later and spend some time walking the neighborhood and making our way to the dog run if the weather is fine. It is a radical change from when we first got her. I shudder to recall the almost hourly trips we made, taking her outside at 3am, 4am, 5am, and for weeks at a time. The poor baby had some kind of intestinal parasite that was doing a number on her digestive system, and requiring frequent bathroom breaks. Living in a fourth-floor walk-up was never so fun. The shady, more than slightly creepy/deranged people wandering the streets in those gloaming hours, at least one dressed in bathrobes and slippers, was an added bonus for our new hood. We had arrived.

But with Petunia, all was well. She adjusted, got healthy, and became the love of our lives.

She is now lying at the foot of the bed, looking out the bedroom as I walk by to refill my coffee. It's a little early for her still. Since we have an all day marathon of Lamaze to look forward to, I'll need to take her out soon for a long walk. She can easily handle 7 hours or more at a clip, but we're already talking about arriving late to class and leaving early so we can get home to her. Our devotion is not so normal. But we laugh that it will be a positive for our baby, Fletcher. We've spent the nervous, hovering energy of first-time parents on our dog. Now we're ready to be responsible, easy-going parents of a child who will possibly grow up with an inferiority complex given our devotion for the dog.

People repeatedly have told us that our attitudes will change once we have the kid. That Petunia will become a dog and, if not an afterthought, at least a much less prominent figure in the planning of our lives. We smile in response, and give vague assurances. Secretly, we worry. About the cost of therapy for a child who grows up second-fiddle to a dog.

Ah, now she is up. Snuffling and wiggling into the living room. Another day awaits.

The snores continue

Petunia is sacked out. She snores gently the couch, her front paws curled back under her forearms. The weather turned unexpectedly nice this afternoon, and we made it out into the neighborhood and the nearby park. There Petunia snuffled, shuffled, waddled pulled and otherwise tried to get her own way. And luxuriated in the attention from complete strangers. Her stump of a tail quivers, slowly, as kids and adults fawn over her, indicating her bliss. If she would only restrain herself from rearing up and knocking over little ones, as she is wont to do in her excitement, all would be well. But now she rests from her exertions, soon to start her dog dreams.

Saturday morning

It feels right to begin this exercise while Petunia, the not-so-eponymous but nonetheless leading lady of the blog, has wedged herself once again into the space between MJ and the couch cushions. Her preferred spot is to drape herself flat over MJ's upper torso while MJ naps, but once the morning coffee arrives, MJ props herself up and Petunia rolls over into the nook. Snores and sighs of contentment percolate up for the remainder of the morning.

I guess I should rewind a little...Petunia is an English bulldog. She turned 2 on June 10th, and weighs about 40 lbs, which is on the small side. MJ and I laughed over the expression 'mama threw a mini' when we first heard it, but apparently there are fans of the breed who insist there is a legitimate subcategory of bulldogs who qualify as "mini's." Personally, I don't know what is wrong with the word 'runt.'

Ah, blogging in real time, Petunia has just switched spots by staggering over to me, and then collapsing with a thud, her jowls resting against my side. What is not to love about this dog? My left arm rests delicately on her head as I type.

This is a blog dedicated to Petunia.