The boot

By Christine Tailer
HCP columnist

In the evening after dinner, we settle down to relax; Greg in his comfy chair, and I on the couch. Our puppy dog usually curls up beside me. I actually hesitate to call her a puppy anymore. She has become more and more like a real dog. Sometimes she lies with her head on my lap. Other times she climbs up on the back cushions and drapes herself around my shoulders. We are definitely connected.

Greg might decide to watch a video that relates to one of his current mechanical projects. I might decide to read, or write, or research the answer to a question that occurred to me during the day. Or perhaps we both decide to watch a show on television. One never knows what might strike our fancies, but usually, without fail, right about eight o'clock in the evening, our puppy dog rises from the couch.

After a long stretch, she heads downstairs to the ground floor. We can hear her thumping and pumping below. The thumping and bumping grow louder and is often interrupted by a cacophonous tumult of quick-paced crashing. Something has fallen back down the stairs. The thumping and bumping then start again, and soon we see our triumphant puppy, with a tall rubber work boot held firmly in her jaw, round the top of the stairs and dash toward the couch. With a wild lopsided leap, she bounds onto the couch and looks at us with a triumphant grin.

Now the boot she has worked so hard to retrieve is one of my chore boots. It is always the left boot. I have no idea why. My boots are parked right beside Greg's boots, but she has never once brought one of the other three boots upstairs. It is always, every single time, my left boot, and being a chore boot, this means that it regularly stomps through mud and muck, horse, cattle, sheep, and goat droppings, chicken splatter, rabbit pellets, and who knows what all else.

Greg and I would never ever wear these boots inside the house, even though every day, once our animal chores are done, we rinse them off at the frost-free spigot. Only then do we head inside the cabin, take them off, and place them by the door.

So, imagine my distress at my dear dog's delight in retrieving the boot. Greg shakes his head whenever this occurs. He looks over at me when we hear the first sound of thumping from below, and simply says "Here comes the boot."

I sit and wait. I think that perhaps she will simply play with the boot and leave it downstairs, but no. I could have followed her downstairs when she first rose from the couch and headed below, but I do not. 

I could have found some other place to leave my boots, but I have not. This has become our special ritual, and so every night I rise from my comfortable couch position, and with a stern "No" I take the boot from her. I tell her that I recognize her dedication and hard work and I pat her on the head. Boot in hand, I descend the stairs. She dutifully follows. I place the boot next to our other three work boots. She sits beside them and looks up at me adoringly. It is tempting, but I dare not give her a treat.

I suppose we really should build a high shelf on which to place the boots, but perhaps this is only a passing phase. I am thankful that our leather couch is easily wiped clean. I also keep it covered with a thin comforter that I can wash on a regular basis. I can only say, boot or no boot, I do love this dear doggie.

Christine Tailer is an attorney and former city dweller who moved several years ago, with her husband, Greg, to an off-grid farm in Ohio south-central Ohio. Visit them on the web at straightcreekvalleyfarm.com.