Only Fools Fall in Love

 

Pray for me. Pray that I don't fall love with this golden beauty, because as soon as I do, his owner will call and reclaim this sweet ol' boy.

The thing is, I think he might be an angel. I mean, just look at this...

He's just nothing short of ethereal. Or I accidently over-exposed the first picture I took of him. Still, there are no coincidences, right?

We know not from whence he came. Last night we were going to make the forty-five minute journey to town for a few last minute errands, and just a few miles down the road from our house, there he was, jogging down the road.

We said we should stop. Then we said we should keep going. Then we knew we should stop. So we turned around and pulled over, hoping he'd have tags and we could whisk him home to his owners.

He immediately came over to my side of the car, and when I opened it he came crawling over, and then crawled right up into my lap. Poor guy was so cold. I don't know if you can tell from the picture or not, but this guy is a full-grown golden retriever, so that was a lot of dog on my lap!

We headed back home and put our own mongrels in the bedroom so that we wouldn't have a dog fight. Since we have three dogs, sometimes their pack mentality can take over in situations like this. We couldn't leave him alone in our house since we didn't know what he would do, so my husband brought the babies back in the house and we stayed in for the evening. Going to town is overrated anyhow, and we lit a fire and nestled in, so it worked out alright. We slowly acclimated our dogs to him and they all slept in the kitchen together for the night.

We felt so bad that someone is probably missing him on Christmas, but also glad that at least we knew he was warm and safe. Hopefully word gets around and his people come get him.

But in the meantime, I'm in trouble. See, he's kind of sweet. He's kind of a romeo, as far as dogs go. Ever since the moment he climbed into my lap, he's been workin' it... He rubs his head against my hand when I walk by. He looks at me adoringly. When I scratched is head and told him we would find his people, he rested his forehead against my leg in ever so solemn and loving a fashion. He does this:

"Love me. And rub my belly. And love me. And then rub my belly some more. And then just fall completely in love with me. It's easy."

Stop it! It is easy. Way too easy.

"Just put your hands up in the air and say, 'I give in'. See, just like this..."

 

Seriously, he's got to stop this behavior. After all, I'm already committed to this guy:

Meet Burley. He's tall. He's dark. He's handsome. He turns heads. Seriously, he does... When my husband takes him along to the resort where he works, people take a second look when Burley struts by.

He's a gorgeous mutt, but that's not why I love him. I love him because he lets me rub his soft muzzle. Not all dogs will let you do that. But Burley does. And rubbing his velvet muzzle brings me inexplicable joy. It's like rubbing Lola's old man whiskers. There's just something all warm and fuzzy about it.

Hmmmm... Maybe it's because they're warm. And fuzzy.

Anyhow, back to Alan Jackson.

Are you confused? How does Alan Jackson figure in to all of this?

It's what I've decided to call him, the sweet ol' boy. Hopefully his people come and find him, but in the meantime we've got to call him something. And since I'm listening to Alan Jackson Christmas songs and he sort of looks like Alan Jackson, golden locks and all, Alan Jackson he shall be. For now, until he is reunited with his people. And I know, I just know, that the joy I feel at seeing him reunited with his family will far outweigh the urge I have to hold him and pet him and love him and make him mine.

I just know it will.

Until then, we all can use an angel watching over us, right? Even if that angel does happen to have really stinky breath.