Fur Fix

The phone would ring.  I would answer.  "Hi, this is Doris Uptheroad."  For the longest time, I thought that was her name.  We became such good friends.  Doris and I traded off driving to town to do our grocery shopping together, having lunch out and making a day of it.  We joined the Red Hat Society and co-hosted events here for the ladies.  After Doris's cat, Ringo, died, she would come to my door.  "I need a fur fix," and I'd leave her to play with my dog and cats.  She hadn't come to see me.

Animals need no training to become therapy specialists.  They seem to have a natural empathy, picking up on and responding to our moods and needs.  Stroking Celeste's silken fur is calming and comforting.  Ralph is the family clown, and can always raise my spirits.  Bessie Anne is my constant companion; we go everywhere here together.  There are times she will take me to the door, asking to go out, but then she will not go unless I step out too.  She seems to know that I need to take a look at the "bigger picture" when I become too self-absorbed.

Ralph woke me this morning, headbutting my hands until I petted him, and then doing figure eights so I could reach all sides.  Celeste guided me to the treats bag in the kitchen even before I made coffee.  Bessie is lying on my feet right now under the desk.  I can't imagine life without a fur fix.