verge (vʉrj)
the edge, brink, or margin (of something): also used figuratively the verge of the forest, on the verge of hysteria

to tend or incline (to or toward)
to be in the process of change or transition into something else; pass gradually (into) dawn verging into daylight

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Otis, Making a Joyful Noise

Otis the kind of guy who cries during commercials.  You know the type.  Sensitive and thoughtful. In touch with his feelings.  And, he's big and strong.  Very strong. He's an Olympian ball fetcher who never tires, even when the ball is kaput and the thrower's arm has turned to mush.  When the ball comes out of the bag, Otis sounds his trumpet and sings his joyful song from the bottom of his toes to the top of his lungs.  His joy knows no limits--he sings for all to hear, whether it's 6am or 10 pm, and so the thrower learns to quickly get that ball launched to echo (or redirect) his happiness.

His athletic skills qualify him for the Majors.  If I were looking to win the Series, he'd be my shortstop.  No matter where you try to send the ball, he always finds a way to get under it and then rips it home.  Nothing gets past Otis.  In fact, he renders outfielders unnecessary.  And catchers, come to think of it.  He makes home deliveries--and for free.  After he delivers a fetch, he does a bit of a Papelbon-Riverdance-type victory dance.  The greats have their superstitions and rituals, and this is his.

Otis is with me this weekend and I must note that his manners are exceptional.  I would prefer to dine with Otis than some of the two-leggeds I know.  If he could, he would hold the door open for me but instead, he simply nods to say "After you", before we head outside.  This of course earns big points with me.  Other delightful quirks:  he oversleeps in the morning, he leans on my leg, he lays on his belly with his hind legs straight out behind him, he's afraid of the dishwasher, he carries his own leash.

He watched a movie with me last night.  While we watched, he snacked on a sweet potato chip made especially for dogs.  Sara, the daughter Poet in Residence/movie companion, and I both got curious about it--we love anything having to do with sweet potato--so we sniffed it and were seriously (and brazenly) tempted to split it with each other.  Otis patiently waited until we came to our senses and decided to give it back.  But it's so like him to be willing to share it with us.  Sweet Otis. We resumed the movie, Otis leaning against us both, the two of us wrapped in blankets to ward off the fall chill.  The house was still, the kitchen tidy, and the balls were tucked away for next morning's backyard drills.  The movie went very late and was a tear jerker.

Guess who cried.....

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