White Dog has grown up with me singing to her. It started when she was a puppy and needed to be comforted or calmed. A couple of years ago, when I was recovering from the pulmonary effects of congestive heart failure, I developed a routine of singing for half an hour straight every day, usually in the early evening as sun set and we waited for Steve's return from work. It was just the two of us then and I warbled and built up strength as we sat side-by-side in the falling semi-darkness.
My breathing abilities are back to "better than normal" yet I continue this physical therapy because I have discovered it does not just balance my breathing but also because it balances my thinking. But now I don't just sit with WD, I feel as though I give a Bob Hope concert performance to the troops...because I perform nightly for The White Dog Army.
Quinn, Nuka, and Puff have all, one-by-one over time, come to share in my vocalizations, sitting arrayed around me and watching expectantly. Sometimes they get the urge and join in; others, they sit and let my voice (such as it is) wash over them. At those times, I thrill to see them relax into the sound of my noise and it makes me less aware of my stumbling off-notes.
I resist the urge for "stage patter" even though it seems natural and I sing a variety of mostly pop tunes...but I have added a few crowd pleasers like "The Mighty Quinn" and "Puff The Magic Dragon." It is during these times that I am inclined to most agree with Michael's assertion that Another White Dog, our deaf girl, can read lips for she is right beside the others staring at my face and panting happily. Still, after all these years, my personalized version of Cat Steven's "Moonshadow" brings White Dog into my lap to curl up and go to sleep.
You know the saying, "Dance like no one can see you?" In my living room at twilight it is "Sing like no one can hear you...except for your loving pups!"