The holidays approach and our focus naturally turns inward toward our families. As I scan the serene setting in our living room, I listen to my wife and daughter talk about Christmas. The tree is adorned with ornaments, decorations sit atop the mantel, and gingerbread cookies are on the counter. It is a scene out of a Norman Rockwell painting.
And then something sniffs my ear.
It is Angel, our dog. You may recall Angel, our German Wire Hair and something else mutt. My daughter named her. (She also wanted to name her Tinkerbell or Fairy. Angel was the least worst option.)
Angel could be a bomb-sniffing dog, if bombs smelled like (a) ear wax, (b) human breath, or (c) parts of the body usually covered with trousers.
She could never be a military police dog, since she has yet to meet someone she does not like. No, love. No, adore more than anything or anyone else she has ever met until the next person walks by.
She cannot hear very well, because she does not do anything I tell her. Oddly, however, she can hear me open a package of cheese from the other side of the house. Weird.
If she were human, she would be a “close talker.” She violates people’s personal space – not by simply getting too close, but by actually climbing up onto their chest until she has one paw on each shoulder.
Then she sniffs their breath. If they turn away, she smells their ears. If they dare to look at her face-to-face, this is what they see:
Which is why we don’t get many guests at the Bacon house.
Not having guests allows us to focus on the Christmas stories, the tree, the decorations and the joy of being a family. Maybe our dog is an angel after all.
An angel who likes the smell of ear wax.