Mollie is a rescue dog, a Golden Retriever with PTSD. If I close the bathroom door she parks her bum outside, whimpers loudly and head butts the door. When I asked her to cease and desist she looked injured, then advised, “I’m just doing my job Have you not heard of Dogs Without Borders?”
Mollie is shamelessly addicted to crotches, but to her credit, has no gender preference. If you find it offensive and shoo her away, she’ll jump up in apology and cover your face with slobbery kisses. I used to chastise her, but now I go with a choreographed response taught to me by my mother- First I raise my eyebrows, as if somewhat astonished and then furrow my brow as I turn down my mouth. These actions are followed by a barely perceptible but significant sniff, an exaggerated shoulder shrug with head turned to the side and a deliberate obfuscation like: “Who knew?...problem with boundaries... must take after me” Thank God only I know she drinks from the toilet.
She sleeps on the floor right beside my bed, with her front paws tucked into my preferably unwashed , tattered pink slippers; parfum de sweaty feet with strong notes of damp dog co-mingle to produce her signature scent. When it’s time to wake up she buries her nose into my arm pit.
She likes nothing more than to swim in the ocean, repeatedly retrieving, a bright orange kong. One very hot day I decided to go with her. As soon as I took my very first stroke, she set up a frenzy of barking, frantically paddling in tight circles around me. In the end, I gave up, grabbed on to her collar and allowed her to tow me to shore.
How perfect is that? My rescue dog acts out the inner reality of who rescued who.