A few weeks ago, we took Murry to be shaved. Going in, he looked like a tan sheepdog. Coming out, he looked like a thin-legged goat with a lever attached to his rear. Perhaps too many hunters got lucky last buck season, severely slimming the pickings in Deerville, but every time that doe sees Murry clumsily galumphing across our back yard, she comes running to meet him at the fence.
Nose to nose, the two stand, separated by cold, hard steel (or whatever it is our chain link is made of). Our other dog, a Jealous Noisy Terrier, will ferociously yap the whole time, his front paws hitting the ground so hard with each bark that he's bounced into the air. He has no patience for romance, no understanding of love.
Or maybe he does. Maybe he understands that Lucy came first, that Murry's not being faithful. Maybe he's shamed by his friend's two-timing ways.
Or maybe there's one ounce of normal in both dogs combined, and that ounce is telling him deer bark.
As I type this, I can hear Murry's moony woohing from the next room, his sweet serenade of a rat.
Before long, a different kind of nature will prompt him to trot into my office, looking all watery-eyed and fidgety, needing to visit a tree. And visit his deer.
But fickle is the heart of my Murry, and I expect his loves will be fleeting.
Yet when I pause to look into his deep brown vacant eyes, I get the feeling he understands. Love must be plucked where it's found, and enjoyed for the brief hour it lasts.