Running my hands down Lily’s sides is like trailing my fingertips through sand. Her fur is thick and catches gently underneath my nails as my hands travel a smooth path from her shoulders back, no longer skipping like a stone across prominent ribs.
Her neck has filled out and we don’t call her Big Head anymore, which is what Jerry’s daughter Erica named her. Poor Lily was so scrawny that her width and height came from bone alone. Her skull beneath withered flesh looked huge stuck at the end of her flattened sides. She doesn’t lay down with a succession of thumps as her knees elbows hips and head drop to the floor to rest. Now I hear a sigh and the tinkle of her tag resting on the floor tiles
She has added 20 pounds, and enough energy to go on and on, long after I have stopped throwing the stick and turned around to go home.
Still getting up and out early. Still trying to burn the energy she accumulates from sleep and full meals. Still trying to run the puppy out of her when I get home from work. We both put a couple miles on our shoes then go with Hershey and Bandit into the woods after sticks and to drop on our bellies in the vernal pool. Ozzy explained to me recently that, as a pug, he is not interested in long walks in the woods, on the beach, or anywhere else that involves taking lots and lots of steps. My legs are really short, he seemed to convey by standing still on the back patio, then turning his stubby little body and returning to his corner of the couch.