Guest Blogger

I'm a little busy, so I'm handing blogging duties off to me dog Warden today. Perhaps this will provide a fresh perspective--CGJ

Curt is so funny sometimes. Ten times out of ten, I'll jump onto his bed when the alarm goes off, climb on top of him, and lick his face a few times. Nine times out of ten, he'll make some pathetic groan, say "Warden, off", also pathetically, and push me back on the floor. But every once in a while, he lets me stay on the bed. And it's enough to make me keep doing it. He'll always say, "Warden, I'm going to start being consistent with you, and we're going to break you of that!" He says that about everything. But I know what I can get away with.

Curt is always running late. He doesn't have a yard, and he knows I won't "dookie" (that's his ridiculous name for number 2) on concrete, so we have to walk down the street a little bit in the mornings to a little patch of grass that I find acceptable. But I love pooping in the snow, so this time of year he can just take me out back and I'll take care of business. I guess it's a win-win for both of us. One less thing for him to worry about in the mornings.

I know that Curt is lonely. I don't know that I ever really understood until Stella passed. Stella was there when I first came into Curt's life. She was there when Curt left in the mornings, and when he came home. She was there when Curt got drunk and let us run through the Cemetery in the middle of the night. Sure, she would find a way to break out of the basement--or wherever else we were sequestered--without helping me get out too, but I never took it personally. Sure, she would nibble at my hindquarters and pound me with the most annoying bark in the world, but that was all a part of who Stella was. Stella was a free spirit, and just love, pure love. Her energy was contagious.

But I think because of the way my simple brain works, I never can truly feel a loneliness as consuming as human loneliness. I'm only a bone stuffed with peanut butter, or an unfettered cemetery run away from feeling complete, even if it's fleeting. But I see Curt pull thing after thing, and person after person into his life--chess, butter, gin, Tina, Bailey--and I know that it's exceedingly "hard" for him to get to that place where I can go so easily. When he is down, he walks around mumbling things. "All is vanity, Warden, vanity!" or "Just hanging on in quiet desperation, Warden!" I don't have enough licks to give that man.

But Curt's story isn't just about sadness. He came back from dark, dark places to be able to get out of that bed every morning, and to find things that he loves and to find the means to do them. He has people in his life, and a dog, who couldn't love him any more if they tried. There are people who thought that he would always be a failure--and maybe they still do--but Curt Jimenez is anything but. Curt Jimenez is a good man, and the best damn dog owner this dog could ever ask for.

-Warden