September 10, 2019

White Dog harrrrupmed, "I will sure be glad when the Beds4Kidz people come to pick up the donated bed. There is no room t even turn around right now." She was echoing a malady that seemed to strike the entire White Dog Army today.

Our home is small but not impossible. The WDA has swelled to twelve at times and we have been just fine; we have human guests who shared our lives for months. Our sun porch is versatile enough to hold an auction inventory or eWaste holdings. White Dog was being more than a bit over-dramatic.

She was not alone. Each member of the Army seemed claustrophobic but refused to go outside. They sighed when another laid down to nap too close...or in the same room. The WDA was snarly about being passed in the doorways or hall. Offenses were called out in painful woos that lasted longer than being looked at disrespectfully. They roadblocked each other preventing passage. A marking fest claimed "personal space" in a way that meant that the carpet cleaner would be called out. Any action on the street brought a Wagnerian aria of threats to those daring to walk on our lands and our road or taking up any space visible or just heard.

"Would everyone just calm down and be NICE?" I begged...but the apparent answer was "um, no." as the bad attitudes continued even when Steve came home. The contest to be closest to dad drove him to stand outside in the hopes the WDA would get a grip. It did not work.

Storm noises this evening add another level of restlessness and the possible elimination of energy-letting bedtime walks.