My Dog Can Tell Time

It's like 21 degrees here.
And my supposed bff told me that girls who live in the desert don't get to complain about the cold.
I think otherwise, but then again, I live in a town where not many houses have HEATERS.
I think that if I chose to live in a place where the average temperature is close to 90 degrees, that not only do I have a right to complain about the cold but that making those complaints is my god-given duty.

Damn, it's cold. My dog is a meticulous animal. She LOVES having a schedule and knowing what is coming next. Everyday, I get home from work and I say hello to her and then she has to "go to bed", in her crate, so that I can pick up her toys and sweep up the floor.
Then I let her out, change my clothes, and off we go to the dog park, where she plays for about an hour.
I don't own a watch but I do usually notice what time we get out of the Bitchin' Honda and what time we get back in it. I like her to play for enough time that she will be nice and calm but not long enough for her to turn into Raging Bitch. She's a small dog and when she gets over-tired, she gets really snappy toward me and toward the cats.

Since it was 30 degrees cooler than usual last night, I was absolutely planning to let her take few laps, sniff some ass, and get her back in the Bitchin' Honda before the sun went down or my nose froze and fell off, whichever came first.
There were only two or three other owners and no dogs that interested Rosie at all, once she'd diligently checked out all of the asses.
When there are no dogs that catch her attention, she plays fetch with me. Over and over and over and over, she drops a tennis ball at my feet and looks back and forth, from the ball to me, with a super-sized doggy smile until I throw the ball for her. She can play this for so long that I am teaching myself to throw with my left arm because, and this is no joke, I think I'm getting tennis-ball elbow in my right arm. Typing that make it hurt more, in fact, so call me if you have a good arm for throwing. I seriously think that months of repeated hour-long games of fetch have strained some ligaments in my right elbow.
About 15 minutes into the evening, I'm losing available sunny spots to stand in and I have those tears in my eyes, the ones that magically happen when a winter wind is cutting through your 12 layers and three pairs of socks. But Rosie is SO FREAKING HAPPY that I can't bear to take her joy away from her. Executive decision: Keep the dog happy because Karma will reward you with good behavior from her when a certain visitor next comes to town. Yes. Excellent. Use the Karma excuse to justify spoiling the snot out of the dog and catching some freezer-borne avian flu that attacks when your core body temperature drops below 70, like mine did last night. Quit thinking in overly-thought-out simile.
But I digress.

Throw the ball.
Watch her little terrier butt as she goes end-over-end to get the ball.
Yell, "Bring me the ball, Rosie!"
Pat her head upon return.
Say something that in my head, I totally believe she understands, like, "Great catch Tiger Eyes!", or "Way to hustle!
Bend over, get spit-covered ball, repeat.
Some throws, of course being a little off due to the Lefty Loser thing I'm trying.

Last night, she was so happy to be playing with me, despite being able to see her little doggy breath, that I just couldn't make her leave. Normally, when she's worn out, she does what I refer to as The Death Rattle. She juices up a rabid run that includes about four circles at her top speed, her little tiny legs churning like crazy and her focus so acute that none of the other dogs get in her way or try to keep up. My dog can RUN. And her favorite time to do it is right before she crashes for a nap. The Death Rattle is a sure sign that it's time to go home and feed her and watch Top Model.

There was no Death rattle last night, though. She dropped the tennis ball at my feet and I bent to pick it up but she looked across my shoulder. I turned to follow her line of vision and she took off.

She ran to the gate, looked back and me, and looked up at the handle.

And when we got in the car?
Exactly one hour had passed.

arizonasarah at 12:28 p.m.

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