Puppy life

Watson, quiet

Little Watson today chased a leaf that scuttled around the driveway in the freezing wind, amusing himself, catlike; catching and letting go, to pounce when it moved again.  Later he barked at his reflection in the window, backing away, all the while.  He chased the cat, biting at its legs until Hobbes, who is twice as big and incredibly patient, turned around and gave Watty one of those feline predator looks that says hey, i eat things your size.  Game over.

Like most babies, Watson's either busy or asleep, chewing or pooping.  He tried to gnaw the button off my sweater as I held him to keep him from getting in the way while I negotiated a one-armed stack and tidy.  And here's what I said as I turned on him, catlike...HEY!  I said, this is my favorite sweater!  I've had it half my life! 

Hmmm.  Did I say that? Looking down I had to admit that what I was calling my favorite sweater could reasonably be mistaken for a giant chew toy.   It's drab with age, the elbows sag, the cuffs are stained and it's snagged here and there from when I wore it to trim the roses many houses, many lives ago.  A relic, long past going out in public, it was no accident I was wearing it to clean the garage.   I had to consider why it matters, in the first place.  I could get a new sweater that's comfy and warm, with the same useful pockets on either side, but the arms of this old one, I realize, have encircled almost every love I've had...parents and grand parents, my children and their families, friends, lovers and a long ago husband.  Watson joins the line of precious dogs, cats and a few particular chickens that have rested in its embrace.  This tired old piece of cloth, like me, reeks of memory.  That one of it's buttons now dangles, scarred by puppy teeth, is actually just fine because it will recall, for me, more than just a moment with this soft little pup.  It will remind me that love is sweet.  That life is brief.  That I have been well blessed.