I’m on one end of the couch, the usual side (the one facing the window where I can stretch my legs out and watch TV if I turn my head to the right) and my Jack Russell, Julius, is on the other. As always, he is sleeping. Paws crossed.
Before leaving, I cover the couch with a waterproof blanket that has 344 (mostly positive) reviews on Amazon from other (mostly sane) pet owners. Although Julius now wears a diaper, he will sometimes Houdini/wriggle himself out of it, so the blanket is more of a safeguard. Incontinence is just one of his Cushing’s Disease symptoms. This weekend, a Lap of Love veterinarian will visit our home, and our fifteen years together will end.
We’ve owned two couches. The first was from Astoria, Queens, where we lived from 1998–2006. It was one of the first pieces of grown-up furniture my husband Abe and I purchased after college. A sectional, like our current one, but with a bed tucked inside for houseguests. As newlyweds, Abe would pick up Greek food (spanikopita and lemon potatoes) on the walk back from the N/W Train, and we’d spread out on our couch. Eating carefully, while envisioning our future. “We need a dog,” Abe announced. I told him it would be too much work, that we were never around enough. “You’ll like having a dog around,” he insisted, “for when you’re feeling depressed.”
