My unsmiling dog

Gilligan (not my Killian).

—“Ya know, a dog attaches to whoever feeds it. Didja know that?”
“Yeah,” I would say; “ya told me that some time ago, and you’re missing my point.”
I didn’t say that; I don’t wanna hurt her feelings.
“Missing my point” is more my speech compromised by aphasia, an after-effect of my long-ago stroke.
“You talk just fine,” my friend says. But she wasn’t around before my stroke, so doesn’t know how much better my speech was back then.
I started by telling everyone I had an Irish-Setter Rescue Calendar, and it has a January picture (above) of a smiling Irish-Setter.
My dog hasn’t smiled like that yet, and we’re going on two years.
Such discussions jam up immediately. I need to explain “Rescue Irish-Setter,” plus my “Irish-Setter Rescue Calendar.”
Try to do that when my speech is already messy, and my trying to explain things crashes in flames.
I probably shoulda limited to “I’ve yet to see my dog smile.”
I don’t know that my previous dog was happy, but she’d do the “bellies-to-the-sky” bit. That’s turn over asleep on her back, and paw the ceiling.

 “Bellies-to-the-sky!” by Scarlett, my previous rescue Irish-Setter. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

Despite the most depressing thing that ever happened to me — the death of my beloved wife, the BEST friend I ever had — that silly dog remained extremely comfortable with me. And I was a mess.
She also was my dog. When my wife died, at least it wasn’t me.
My current dog, Irish-Setter #7, and rescue Irish-Setter #5, isn’t that comfortable yet. He seems sad.
He came from a broken home, and was already age-9. That means over half his life he was a family-dog. Lots of people to pay attention to him, instead of just one person: me.
Living alone I spend a lotta time taking care of things. I hafta screen out my dog while doing so.
Scarlett was rescued from a backyard breeder. Attention from only one person, two originally, was wonderful.
My current dog probably gets more walkies (hunting) than he got previously. But that doesn’t change his sad look; plus he seems wary of me.
Most people don’t understand my caring so much about my dog.
“He’s just a dog,” many say.
“But I promised him a good life,” I say.
“But he’s doing better than in a broken home.”
“But he’s starved for attention. Just me is not enough.”
“What difference does that make? He’s just a dog.”
“But I’d rather see a happy dog. I run him as much as I can, but there’s all the time I hafta screen him out.”
“Maybe he’s just getting old,” my friend said. “What age is he now?”
“He sure doesn’t act old,” I say. “An 11-year-old puppy!” (Lunge, BOINK!)
“He follows me wherever I go. If I change paths, he looks for me so he can stay with me.
He’s extremely attached, but unfortunately I’m all he’s got.”

This is Killian: my current Irish-Setter. It’s a cheat-shot. He’s thrilled because I just let him in after screening him out so I could mow lawn. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)


• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke. It slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty finding and putting words together.)
• My current dog, “Killian,” is a “rescue Irish-setter.” He’s 11, and is my seventh Irish-Setter, an extremely lively dog. A “rescue Irish setter” is usually an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. Or perhaps its owner died. (Killian was a divorce victim.) By getting a rescue-dog I avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Killian was fine. He’s my fifth rescue.
• My Irish-Setter Rescue Calendar is an annual calendar put out by the Irish-Setter Rescue group to which I belong. Killian is via that group.