Chet Baker likes beech trees, old hollow ones with high squirtle and racketycoon potential. The terrier part of him comes out of hiding when he fearlessly enters their depths to investigate. You might be surprised to find me a rather lassiez-faire dogmom. I let him do his doggly things, within limits. At five years old, Chet has a good understanding of those limits. Cattle herding is out; he knows that. Horses are to be approached gently. Squirrels, rabbits and deer are to be chased, but only for short distances, and never pursued into briars (gotta take care of those googly eyes). Hollow beech trees are to be investigated. Offisa Pupp jumps on the case.
Into the beech tree he goes.
Perps beware: you're about to be told to move along.
Little-known Chet trivia: He has a jaunty white chevron just above his johnson. Boy, that's a weird shot.
It matches his Michael Jackson paw. Wouldn’t be hard to pick him out of a lineup.
He peers up into the hollow tree and
sassified that there is nothing more to find, he exits, covered in beechdust
To make a Christopher Robin moment for a mother, watching her two boys
On a walk almost forgotten, but preserved in precious images she's saved in the ether.
His sweet sleepy head sags on my arm as I share them with you.
He’s not heavy, he’s my heartbeat.
Photo by Bill Thompson III.
No comments:
Post a Comment