So, I don't want to put any graphic images in peoples minds, but I'm sure it comes as a shock to no one, considering I live alone, that I don't close the door when I use the bathroom. I like to think of myself as an efficient person, or least someone who, like the Borg, strives for efficiency, so naturally I would not waste the precious seconds it would take me and the infinitesimal energy I would expend to close the door. In fact, I have two doors leading to my bathroom, so I would double those seconds and that energy if I really wanted privacy. I guess I just don't feel like that is a good use of calories.
For those of you who don't know, I own a dog. She's 50% dachshund, and 100% adorable, and for some reason, unless she is sleeping, she is of the mind that she can be no more than one room away from me at any given time. In fact, she usually seems to feel that she needs to be in the same room as me. This can get interesting as my kitchen is very small and she is easy to trip over.
It can also get interesting due to my aforementioned bathroom habit. What this basically amounts to is, periodically, if she is in the living room and here's me go into the bathroom she will immediately stop what she's doing (which, granted, is probably not much on any given day) and come and visit me, tail wagging, looking to be scratched behind the ears, while I am on the toilet.
It's one of those things where, if you think about it, its pretty normal, but if you don't think about it, if you just go with your gut, it feels kind of strange. Maybe a bit icky. But definitely awkward.
Last night, Fudge and I stayed up late watching The Office. She fell asleep on my lap as I lay on the couch, stroking her head absentmindedly. When the episode was over, I picked her up and put her on the bed, because she seemed far too tired to want to get off the couch walk 10 feet into the bedroom, climb the stairs up to the bed, and find a comfortable spot to curl up. Her eyes closed and she sort of shifted a bit to settle in to her little pillowy area, and she seemed comfortable, content to spend the night where she was. So I popped into the bathroom to complete my evening routine.
Now, even though Fudge was more tired than I was, and even though she's a pretty old dog and getting up and down her tiny pet steps into my big bed is not an easy feat for her, as I was brushing my teeth, I heard the tell-tale squeaking of the springs and, a few moments later, felt her cold, wet nose on the back of my leg, like a little greeting, like she was saying, "Don't worry. I'm still here."
When I turned to her, mouth full of minty foam, and cooed out my own faux-maternal salutations, her tail wagged and her eyes, lids still heavy in sleep, smiled brightly up at me.
Somedays, she digs through the trash and spreads apple cores all over the dining room, and I yell at her and then worry that she doesn't understand that I can be angry and still love her. And somedays, she sits and waits with me while I pee, or takes naps with me on Saturday afternoons, or does her little happy-dance jump circles when I get home from work, and I think how little it must matter to her whether I love her. She is almost always happy to see me, happy to be near me, and I love her for that. Even if it gets a little weird sometimes.
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