There are some days when the last thing I want to deal with is that big drooly-mouthed dog on the front porch waiting patiently for a little love and attention as I go out the door, but since last week I now pay Mopar, our large English mastiff, a whole lot more attention.
Last Wednesday, just after the kids left for school on the bus, I stepped out on the front porch to enjoy the fresh air. I patted Mopar absently on the head, and scratched Molly, our other dog, under the chin. As I stepped down from the porch to get a better look at the beautiful sunrise, a huge clatter rose behind me. In his excitement to see if I was going to his rope, Mopar threw his weight against our lattice porch railing. Corner posts and all came crashing down inches from my backside with Mopar riding the trestle. Molly howled in confusion, Mopar barked in excitement, and I screamed, because I did not know what else to do.
My husband inside thought the world was coming to an end. But it was just Mopar keeping things in perspective.
Most of the time, I really like Mopar. He is a big lovable giant who reminds us over and over that the only thing that really matters in life is giving some love and attention to those who are most important.
I believe Mopar’s top priority is to make sure everyone in our family knows that we are loved. He does this with big drooly-mouthed kisses, by inserting his head up and under unsuspecting hands for a pet, and by wagging his tail with glee and knocking over anything and everyone within reach of the sturdy weapon.
I understand that he tries to eat the school bus bumper every morning just to let the kids know he is going to miss them.
I know he works diligently to protect us from threatening snakes, broom handles, hissing air-hoses, and anything with tires in motion, but really, Mopar, was there anything wrong with the front porch?
Mopar thinks he is my husband’s number one garage assistant. He particularly likes to crawl up under the car or truck with Harold and lay his head on his legs, pretty much immobilizing him, as he watches intently which tool Harold will lay down next. We have all learned to look for missing tools in Mopar’s dog box. He particularly loves to pick up hammers, wrenches, screwdrivers, anything with a handle that gets laid down where he can get to it. He also likes cell phones, but that is another story.
Mopar considers it a top priority to entertain us, and others who venture on our yard, with his rope antics. Nothing is quite as spectacular as seeing a 150-pound dog swinging from a rope connected to a branch 25 feet in the air, going around and around and around.
He loves to put on a show. The more clapping, cheering, and encouragement he gets the higher up the rope he goes. He loves nothing more than a challenger to try to take the rope from him, a contest he almost never loses.
Mopar is a lovable dog; because of him we now have a very nice view off our porch of the front yard with no lattice or porch posts to look around. I kind of like it that way. I just hope Mopar does not decide to do any other house redecorating any time soon. Dog-on-a-rope is really enough excitement, really.