Picture it. Scooter, snug in his thick winter coat, runs wide-legged and swift through soft sand, careening up to his elbows into the edge of ocean water that pretends containment,

“Scooter,” I said. “Let’s get you groomed.” He feigned renewed interest in the movie. I set up his grooming table . . .

“Scooter, you pointed! You’ve never done that before.”

It was the toaster that caused this, wasn’t it?” I ask. I stretch full body on the bedroom carpet, lift a back corner of our matelassé bedspread, and place my hand on Scooter’s right front paw.

I had plated a rare steak, buttered peas, and salad and placed it on a TV tray, then, for a reason I don’t remember, momentarily walked away.

“She was right,” you know.” Scooter’s speech was a bit slurred. The edge of his small pillow was in his mouth as he lifted it from his bed.

It was Saturday, that August day.

“Scooter, stop with the moon! We were talking about your birthday.

Let’s be fair. My darling flat-nosed infancy ended a good while ago. Even adolescence is behind me—what with adventures under the sofa and mattress, the deaths of Lambchops, those months during which my nose, body, and voice grew, and for the first time, things got clipped: my heavy coat, my toenails, and, well, my little boy balls. So goes growing up

“Scooter?”

He didn’t come to the door. I walked into the darkened bedroom, and there he was, as I expected, lying in on the Matelasse Cotton spread.

When I was younger, I would never have said, “Just deal with it.” I didn’t know I could be curt. But now I’m nearly two.

I have a pup who needs me to return to some familiar time cycles: time to play, time to be outside, time for grooming, cuddling, roughhousing, learning, time to find mom’s sock and exchange it for a treat.

“Scooter! No!” came my mom’s hissed whisper as she shot through the door and ordered me back inside.

What happened to #39 PUPPY blog post? Find it at PineWordWorks.com

I am now 22-months old, and practically every day of those months has exposed me (and my human family) to some sort of “first, and well, right, some sort of thrill.” You may remember the first Lambchop I eviscerated . . .

“What are these?” Scooter asked, sniffing fresh cut flowers. He was suspicious. “What are they doing where Dad sits to call me for my halter and leash?” He’s not in the best of moods.

“How about this?” I asked today, bringing the from the Pet Store a near-pillow-sized stuffed Monkey. He wants something big to challenge.