Ever since Echo came to stay, things have been topsy-turvy around here.
Now don’t get me wrong, Echo’s not living with us. I do not now own three dogs. This place isn’t big enough.
No, Echo’s my son’s dog and he just came to stay for a long weekend.
If you ask me, Echo looks more like a fox than anything else, and though Echo is his name, a more fitting name would be Speedy, Flash or Bolt, as in bolt of lightening. For that fleet-of-foot dog is so fast he never stays in the same spot for more than a nano second. One moment he can be in the kitchen begging for a snack, and an instant later he’s at the opposite end of the house, standing by the front door, with a hankering to go outside like you wouldn’t believe.
How does he get about so quickly? Who knows? All I know is Echo is jittery and jumpy and there are no words to describe the boundless energy in that canine calamity.
“Cook, Perhaps he has ADD,” suggests Henry, my Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, who turns a whopping 11 years old in May.
For those who are new to this blog, I have long been called Cook by Henry, who regularly likes to remind us how he–and he alone in this household–descends from royalty.
But maybe Henry’s right. It has occurred to me more than once that Echo might have some sort of Attention Deficit Disorder. That could explain his hyperactivity which is in constant overdrive.
Whatever he has, it couldn’t come at a more inconvenient time. After all, Oliver, my five-year-old Maltipoo, just had surgery and is a tad under the weather.
“Fourteen stitches,” groans Oliver in a voice that conveys all the agony of a dog on his last legs, which, incidentally, is not the case.
Although the vet did say that after getting 14 stitches on his hind leg, Oliver needs lots of rest and quiet solitude.
That’s not going to happen. With Echo barking at the slightest perceived threat from the outdoors, our home is anything but peaceful and rest is impossible to come by.
Oliver should take limited, short walks, the vet had added.
Short? Were it that simple. Echo is an outdoor enthusiast and for him, it’s full speed ahead. Henry does his best to keep up and trots along, but Oliver can barely walk and it’s all he can do to keep up. Let’s just say that for Oliver to go on a walk, I have to carry him most of the way. Either that, or leave him on the side of the road in one exhausted heap.
Oliver must also wear a cone head, the kind that keeps him from gnawing at his stitches, something he absolutely detests.
“Cone heads are for dogs that don’t know any better,” he says. “Maybe Echo can wear my cone head instead?”
“Not a chance, Kiddo,” I reply.
Just then, I pull out a book to read, which Echo immediately sees as an opportunity to jump on my lap and press his face into mine, smelly breath and all. I give up on the thought of reading, and turn my attention to Echo, but now he’s climbed onto my shoulders and looks down from his perch, his paws planted firmly on my head.
“Cook, I’m not sure who I feel more sorry for at this moment,” says Henry. “You or Oliver, who is recovering from surgery that may have saved his life.”
“It was a cyst,” Oliver retorts, “And it was benign.”
“And that’s my point.” Henry rolls his eyes and makes a face of exasperation.
Meanwhile, Echo, is jumping from chair to chair. He skitters to the top of the furniture then bounds off to the next and won’t stay put but a second and soon we’re all dizzy just looking at him.
Henry wonders, “So how long will Echo be staying with us?”
“He only arrived this morning,” I reply.
Yes, but how long?”
“Well, after three days, we might all be chomping at the bit for our sanity.”
I nod in agreement as Echo continues sprinting about. Seems to me that red fox of a dog never sleeps, I kid you not.