You may be wondering why I have not waxed poetic about the joyful reunion I had heading back east when I stopped at Dr. Virago's to pick up my dog Wiley. Dr. Virago and her s/o Bulloch had been minding Wiley while I was in Vegas and, while I missed him terribly, it seemed the feeling was not mutual.
As you can see from the above photo, taken in their living room, Wiley was more than happy there, enjoying himself tremendously and enjoying Bulloch's masterful cooking (see photo below) even more.
When I pulled up to their house, Wiley didn't even recognize me. Or maybe he just wasn't letting on. In any case, I know, he's 12 and he's a dog and whatever, but to be honest I was pretty hurt.
It was only on the last day of my stopover, when I started packing and getting ready to go, that he started following me everywhere. When we got home, he hopped out of the car, walked a perimeter of the apartment and then plopped down as if he'd never left.
He's come around to me in the past few days, though to be honest I'm not sure if he remembered me or if he decided I was a convenient biped whose cooking was acceptable. He definitely did remember the routes we drive to his favorite long walkies spots, and started barking his head off on the approach.
So, yeah, the dog I rescued from the mean streets of Moscow, for whom I hired a dog nanny when he was a puppy, the dog I brought back to the States at no small expense and fed and cared for and loved, and for whom I purchased "intellectually stimulating" toys and wake up early to ensure sufficient walkie times, yes, that dog seems to remember favorite trees more than me. Sigh.
