A little about the blur

Wow, I thought I'd heard you scream before. Scream to get outside. Scream for a treat. Scream because someone (often I) so rudely stepped on your little toes. Even scream because your foot was caught in the Venetian blind cord by the guest bed. But no. Today's scream was different. Today's scream drilled a hole into the pit of my stomach that hasn't filled itself in, yet. I saw you running to get the soccer ball. I was thinking how nice it was that those men in the park donated their mushy ball labeled "Torres" to the little red toller that wouldn't stop chasing their good ball. I was thinking about how great it is that you can hold a soccer ball in your mouth while running up the street, and about how proud I am when people notice you. I was thinking about how I'd get your slobber all over my hands when you brought back the ball, and that such things just don't bother squeamish me. I wasn't thinking that your training collar would get caught on the spigot protruding from the patio. Or about how that would stop you so short that you would be yanked aggressively around, twisting your tiny little ankle, and end up trapped. Your scared little face and your wailing stopped time. I know you're not my kid. And I know that if you're making noise, you're not choking to death. But the lines get blurred sometimes. And that's why we don't leave you in the yard alone. And why we're reluctant to leave you with other people. So while you rest your paw (I'm sorry you're trapped in the kitchen -- it's the closest thing to "bed rest" we can enforce) I'm going to remember how resilient you are and make dinner right next to you.