When DD was in Germany, her friends kept coming by, "In case I was lonely." I appreciated seeing them, but there was no chance of my being lonely. None whatsoever.
Why? Because it's hard to get lonely when you're _never alone._ In my case, I have a small dog with a morbid fear of being away from me. She's also terrified of luggage, aluminum foil, and thunderstorms, and the only "cure" is to be with me, constantly - no matter what. The husband isn't good enough, nor is the child; just me and only me, all the time, 24/7.
I can't put my feet down while I'm at my desk, because there's a little dog there. I have an escort to the bathroom, who, when banished from the room, lies across the doorway so I can't escape. I really don't want to be on the toilet with those huge brown eyes staring at me. Besides, there's only one way out, and I've been finding my way out of the bathroom for years, even without assistance. Imagine that.
When I sleep, the little dog follows me into the bedroom and circles around on her pillow three times before lying down. Never twice, never four times, always three times, while she's staring at me mistrustfully, as if I might escape during the twirling ritual. Only when she hears the noise of the CPAP machine does she allow herself to relax. (But if I need to use the toilet in the night, the whole escort and twirling ritual needs to start all over again) I don't allow the little dog in the room while we eat, so she lies outside the kitchen door, whining quietly with every exhale. The second we start gathering the plates to clear the table, guess who races right back to my left ankle? There are days when I curse the fact I taught this dog to heel.
Beading is no different. If I'm in the recliner, she's under the footrest - peering out to make sure that no one goes near Mama. (Or worse, that Mama escapes without her little dog) I'm in a regular chair, beading at the table, guess who's right there? I strongly suspect that the Secret Service is far less vigilant in watching the president or visiting heads of state.
The worst though, is when I (egads!) leave the house. That's not very often, because I'm not well enough to go out very often. As soon as I put on shoes, the little dog visibly panics. By the time I have my purse, Sophie is trying to block the back door to keep me from leaving. Even though I'm certainly not in top physical condition, I do manage to get by the 12 lb. dog without a lot of trouble.
Sophie's other problem is that she doesn't always realize that if I leave the house, I'm not there. Sounds pretty basic, but she always thinks that even though she tried to block me from leaving, and she cried as I locked the door, she might find me with a thorough search. Unfortunately for us, it's air conditioning season, and her opening of doors wastes lots of power.
The doors are firmly shut and latched, and I've never actually seen her open one (because I'm always on the side of the door where she wants to be) My family members tell me that she head butts the door repeatedly in an upward motion, to unlatch the door, then shoves her body to push the door open. If only she could shut doors as well as she opens them.
Tonight I decided I'd like a little privacy while I shower, monster that I am. I ignored the frantic little bumps and whines at the bathroom door, hoping she'd get the hint and go away. Fat chance. Next thing I knew, the little dog had unlatched the door, slammed it back on its hinges (she must have taken a running leap to do that) and was attempting to join me in the shower.
I think not.
Sophie's now sulking in the living room while I am all of ten feet away, writing this post. I'm absolutely sure that the moment I open the door to the den, she's going to be right there, making sure that the bogeymen don't come to get me.
I can imagine Sophie's idea of a perfect life: I get one of those baby carriers that you wear, and use the dog as a garment for the rest of my life. Unfortunately for her, that's just not gonna happen.
Kathy N-V