Big Brother
Telemachus has been with my parents (a fifteen minute drive away) for the past week, a fact I was reminded of three minutes ago as I walked back into the house after lifting in the garage and was greeted not by the sound of his half-awake excited paws scratching against the floor but by silence.
I haven't written much about him this year; Lucy has, understandably, dwarfed him in terms of writing material (and now only recently also by height). There is a stereotype about pets fading into the background after the arrival of a child; I am sure this is true for some families, but not ours.
Telly has gotten really annoying this year. He barks even more incessantly, as anyone who's taken a call with me at home can confirm; his work-dog routine rivals my own, and regardless of the previous day or the weather he demands being fed at six in the morning and demands that we leave the office at five.
He also demands being in the same room (or at least eyesight) as his little sister at all times; he also is the first to notice in me a sigh slightly heavier than usual, and to prop his head in my lap and purr. He lets Lucy poke and prod and hug him; he lets her take his toys, play with his food. In fairness, he gets more than his fair share of hers in return. He is a constant source of joy and fascination for her; he is a constant source of warmth and comfort for me.
Dogs more than children are who we make them: we made Telly a creature who wants nothing more in life than to be surrounded by his herd, and to have them all in good enough spirits that they might slip him a piece of crust.
He gets back tomorrow morning: he will have, I'm sure, gained two pounds. I can't wait.