Originally Posted by Britster  It’s a golden summer morning in California, and the dogs are getting restless. I can hear the kids giggling in the yard, and a symphony of swallows outside the kitchen window. Like every other day for the past 15 years, I am making Daddy’s breakfast.
He watches as I knead the gloppy mixture with my hands: warm chopped beef from the farm down the road, a handful of fresh herbs from the garden, and some boiled green beans, sliced into thirds. It takes me a while, but it’s a ritual I try not to rush.Knead the beef, add the greens, sprinkle in the herbs—knead, knead, knead. Make it soft, make it easy for him to eat.
Daddy is an old, old man now. He can’t do stairs anymore, and he’ll pretty much only eat his food if I prepare it. When his breakfast is ready, I take it over to him on the floor where he’s been eyeing me. I do my “come and get it” dance, whisper the words only he and I know, and place the bowl in front of him. He raises his head slightly, sniffs the air, and thumps his tail a few times, but otherwise stays put. Clearly, he wants more dancing. But it only takes a few moves before he’s on his feet, slopping away.
I have never had a dog like Daddy. During our decade and a half on this earth together, I’ve been astounded by his intuition, consoled by his affection, and awed by his silent empathy. Somewhere along the way, he helped my sons learn to walk.
I know there’ll be a morning sometime soon when I run through all my familiar routines, except one.
But it won’t be today. For now, the sun is shining, the kids are laughing, the swallows are singing, and Daddy is watching over us all.
-Cesar Millan
(Just thought it was a really sweet article. Pits are peoples pets, too, just like our Yorkies. And I think we should respect that.) |