Always, when I walk through the door, the first question on my mind is: what did the dog eat/pee on/destroy while I was gone?
I turn the light on, stand in the doorway with arms crossed, and survey the damage.
1: Candle, chewed on
2: Monkey, flung
3: Table, toppled
4: Wisconsin cheese curd lid, licked
5: Glass (formerly of coke), licked
And then, passed out, arms akimbo, snoring, Zeke.
Looking at him, lying in the middle of all this, I realize this all feels very familiar to me. I come from crazy, self-destructive, addictive personality folk. And here I am, once again, cleaning up after a self-destructive binge. Instead of overflowing ash trays and too many empty vodka bottles, it's cheese lids and monkeys, but still. That old adage about dogs looking like their owners? Not even close. This dog looks like his owner's soul.
I'm silent for a moment. Zeke snores and twitches a leg. I sigh, and begin to clean up his mess. It's like living with John Belushi, I tell Rory. And how can you not love him?