The Porch Swing

Casey is not particularly recognizable as any one breed of dog.  Her shortness of stature could be the lineage of a Basset and her face to resemble that of a Labrador retriever.  She is a pedigree mutt with very high self-esteem.

Her home is spacious with a double garage, swimming pool and acres of colorful, well-appointed rooms for her to claim as her own.  The decorating is an ongoing love affair with the lady of the house and every room is a visual delight to all who are invited in.  Casey has the run of her home and there exists no “off limit” spaces inside or out.  Afghans, throw pillows and newly upholstered sofa cushions beckon her to join them for a snooze.

She comes and goes and is often found meandering down Country Club Road in the early, cooler mornings.  Often she spends her days visiting neighbors, chasing squirrels, bunnies and yes, armadillos! Her mistress leaves fresh water out for her and finds her in the shade of a favorite tree when they reunite at the end of a work day.

Her advanced years have earned her the right to discriminate.  She’s not a “touchy feely” mutt and our introduction was formal and distant.  She didn’t trust my well intentioned overtures and I was stumped as to how we would bond…and then her owner said “she loves cheese burgers”.

My first day with her was relatively uneventful except for her unwillingness to eat.  Her mound of kibble remained undisturbed through lunch and dinner.  “This will change tomorrow” I said, and the following morning, breakfast consisted of scrambled eggs and kibble. The aroma of melting butter piqued her attention.  “Great, she’s hungry”. I thought to myself and gave my well deserving back a pat of congratulations. I found a heavy custard bowl and scooped ½ cup of the brown bite size chunks and steaming eggs into it.  I mixed wet with dry and carried it onto the front porch.  Back inside to get her water dish, I invited her out with me. “Come on, Casey, GOOD GIRL, aren’t you hungry”? Balancing on one foot (the other holding open the storm door) and trying not to tip the water dish, she broached the threshold and found a sunny spot, curled up and ignored me.  Her breakfast cooled from hot to warm, not a good beginning.

While waiting for her to eat, I made myself comfortable on the porch swing. (I will argue the point that the seating accommodations resembled a glider, but the poignancy of this story is better suited to the reader’s vision of an old porch swing). I sat alone and waited.

Finding no competition from me, she dined until the bowl was sparkling clean. Normally, it would be proper to follow a good meal with an invigorating walk, but not today.  I invited her to sit with me on the swing; of course I needed to scoot down to make room.  She jumped up and moved as far away from me as the seating would allow.  No problem, we’ll just sit. And we did.

Her neighborhood was waking: joggers, bicyclists and other people with their animal companions in tow passed down the street, all going the same direction as if their path had been pre-determined. The quiet of our morning gave way to the shout of “fore” from the golf course just behind the homes across the street.

We sat. I patted her head. We had a lengthy conversation, mostly one sided, but that didn’t seem to matter.  The food bowl had attracted an ant or two and the slats of our swing had worn out their welcome by the time I needed to go.  I’d be back for lunch and dinner, bed check, too.

She was free to roam for a few hours and I knew that I would find her content, hidden from view, somewhere in the back yard.

We’ve been companions for 3 years now.  Many, many mornings have begun on the front porch swing.  An occasional lunchtime has been highlighted by a fresh hot burger, plain for me and extra cheese for her. I’ve talked and she’s listened and there we’ve sat, not a care in the world; her head in my lap and my hand keeping the occasional inquisitive insect from disturbing two old friends.