Said with love.

My new adoptee, Kody; my near five year old Cavalier King Charles Spaniel is truly one funny son of a bitch.

   To reiterate: After the very untimely death of my best friend, my oversized Yorkshire Terrier, Harry, living alone, I  knew I had to have another dog in my life and though grieving, in a very huge way – as any of you that have felt the loss of a beloved friend – I knew that I had to have another dog in my life as soon as possible and, for those of you that have not read my Authors Den submission of “Holey Underwear, Batman,”  as three generations of Cavalier King Charles Spaniels had been with me up to and during the time Harry adopted me, I checked with my local Cavalier home operated kennel to discover that she did not have any puppies for sale – besides,  good bred Cav puppies are selling for between $2,500.00 to $5,000.00, slightly... a very big  “slightly” more than I can afford – she did give me the name and phone number of the Southern California Cavalier rescue.

Long story short: On the weekend of November 22, my girlfriend, her dog and myself drove the 353 miles to meet my new best friend, Kody.

Since the “Holey Underwear” incident, Kody hasn’t, so far as I know, eaten anything he shouldn’t have. Although I am still doubtful that he actually did eat half a pair of my underpants. But if not...? Ain’t going to go through that again.

But Kody is really one funny kid.

Getting dressed yesterday, as Kody sat on the bed next to me as I pulled my pants, shoes and socks on, I playfully draped a sock over his snout.

Being an older guy, although, really, there are only two things that bother me about my age: one being that I am becoming just a bit – a “bit” – forgetful, and that I need a toilet about every half hour or so...

A little digression  here:

As a matter of fact, my girlfriend – can one call a 64 year old woman a “girl”? –  Anyway, my girlfriend and myself went Christmas shopping the other night and, after my second bathroom stop, she told me it was easier shopping with her ninety-two year old mother... Actually, although I didn’t tell her, the second time I think I just wanted someplace to sit down.

 And, yeah, there is one other “small thing” that bothers me about being seventy-four, but geriatric sex  is something that I won’t go into right here, right now.

Back to the story.

After searching for my lost sock, figuring it’ll show up, I took another pair of socks from the drawer and put them and my shoes on.

Another slight digression:

Living by myself, I have “my” chair and, as Harry before him, Kody has “his” chair which, on the other side of the coffee table, is an exact duplicate of “my” recliner, but Kody now wants “my” recliner and when I go to shoo him off, looking at me with those big, mournful eyes, the son of a bitch soulfully moans at me.

But soulful moan or no soulful moan, I suppose, even a dog has to know his limitations! Yes?

Same thing with “my” pillow.

 He has a super-duper queen sized bed with the best mattress in the house in my bedroom, which I also use as my office.

I, by the way, sleep on a rather broken down double bed giving Kody the super-duper queen, with the best mattress in the house, but now Kody insists on sleeping, not only, mind you, on my bed, but on my pillow, and when I go to lift him off...Yep! And though I tell him, “But it’s my pillow,” looking at me with those big, mournful eyes, the son of a bitch soulfully moans at me.

            Back to “The Missing Sock Caper”:

            While I was searching for my errant sock, Kody, apparently tiring of watching me futz around, left the room.

             A few minutes later, now fully dressed, I entered our living room and there, looking directly at me, sitting on my recliner was Kody and I swear he was smiling because, “Son of a bitch!” if he didn’t still have my sock draped over his snout.

           How lucky am I, I ask, to have a dog with a sense of humor?