At our suggestion, our grandson Robert l

At our suggestion, our grandson Robert lives with us to lower expenses while starting a business. So his dog, Bailey, lives here too, and when Robert is gone, like last night, she’s ours.
As I sat on the couch last evening, she jumped up beside me, stuck her face in mine to make sure we had eye-to-eye contact and started barking. And howling. And whimpering. She had something to say and didn’t care that I don’t understand Dog.
She’d already done her business so what was her problem? As I listened to her talk, I realized that, as an unusually well-behaved dog, she’d been quiet and considerate for over a month while all the humans in the house were either ill or incapacitated. Maybe she needed to run.
I put our coats on, Bailey’s on her and mine on me. Than I grabbed a ball and stood in the doorway and threw it down the driveway, the only part of our property not two feet deep in snow and into the inky black of the night where it was immediately lost in the few inches of new snow.
Bailey ran into the night and found it and I waited for her to lose it in the snow, which would be normal for her, or to bring it back so I could throw it again.
She did neither. With that ball in her mouth she charged up and down the driveway, passing me in the doorway with the speed of a jet plane. Back and forth, over and over again, up and down the driveway.
As I watched, I was reminded of myself and other writers I know who often are amazed when we read reviews of our works and, even though they may be wonderfully positive, often they describe stories that we’d not recognize as the ones we wrote. Because we don’t always read a story the way the writer wrote it. I’m not sure what Bailey was trying to say but her barks drew a response from me. Maybe not the right one, but what I did worked for her.
Bailey ran and ran and ran until, knowing that her paws are easily torn in the cold, I called her back. We came back inside where she carefully added the ball to the line of boots in the hallway where it would be available for the next time. Then I returned to the couch.
Bailey jumped up beside me and, again making sure she had my complete attention, she barked again. Sharply, loudly, for a few times. Then she lay down beside me, put her head on my lap, and went to sleep.
Though the details might have been muddled because, like I said before, I don’t understand Dog all t hat well, communication took place. As a writer, I can only hope that the same thing happens when someone reads what I write.

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