Clearly she is not impressed - with her little face buried in her quilt. "Go away,'' she is saying. "I'm no longer young and beautiful.''
Did I ever tell you the story of how I got my sweet Emma? Five years ago today, I went to the circus in Augusta to do a story on alleged elephant abuse (See? That's how you can tell I'm a real reporter - the use of the word "alleged" right there).
My daughter was with me and she took my hand and dragged me over to a herd of puppies.
Yes, I am admitting it here - and maybe that is why Emma's face is hidden in shame - she comes from performing folk.
Her mother was Angel.
Her father was Bambino.
Of course they weren't performing when we saw them. Bambino was no where to be found (oh how typical!) and Angel was lying there desperately chanting "Will someone please come and take these puppies so I can fit back into my tu tu?"
Emma was one of about eight puppies going CRAZY for us. Well, Emma was actually the only one NOT going crazy. She was sitting back from the rest. Her little bowed legs making her look a bit like a duck. She kept tipping her head this way and that way, wondering what all the excitement was about. I know now that she probably couldn't see us very well. She seems to be very near-sighted.
Well, I hemmed and I hawed. Then hawed a bit more and finally my daughter convinced me.
I have the smartest daughter in the world.
Emma was just what I needed as I was suffering from the worst case of empty nest syndrome ever diagnosed.
We brought her home - all four pounds of her - and here she is, the real queen of the household. She's never chewed anything except a pair of flip flops she thought were a new toy and my daughter's invisible braces. She sleeps behind my knees and snores louder than a roaring freight train.
She's afraid of thunder, afraid of riding in the car, afraid of half-opened doors and is the-dog-that-hates-water. And when she is stressed or thinks I've left her, she'll have an accident (can you call a deliberate poopie an accident?) She's massively allergic to bees and cats and I have to put lotion on her poor dry belly all the time. She never really grew and stayed the runt - she weighs a whopping 12.5 pounds now.
And she loves her rotisserie chicken. I'm headed out right now to buy her one for her birthday supper.
Happy birthday, my sweet girl. You have enriched my life beyond measure, saved me countless times from oppressive loneliness and made me laugh when I wanted to cry. You've snuggled your little head under my chin to catch my tears and literally dance around the house when I sing. (Maybe it's my voice?) Six times you have warned me that a bat has invaded the house yet you sweetly won't bark at the deer in the backyard.
You deserve an entire farm of rotisserie chickens.