(LONG READ, PART 2)
Frank loves to run after balls. But once he finds it he looks at you with a sort of "Here it is!" glance and then moves on. He doesn't pick up the ball, or if he does it's to move it slightly to the left so he can pee in the spot where it landed.
Frank loves taking walks but hates putting on his harness. He loves his food but only if it's sufficiently mushed with a fork. He loves dill pickles but not half-sours, red peppers but not green. Spinach but not iceberg - get away from him with your damn iceberg you bum.
The dog of my dreams, the dog I imagined before adopting Frank, was small and white and fluffy. He was a delightful eight pounds or less. He was a quiet ham, friend to all - uninterested in maiming hands that came too fast, relaxed around other leashed beasts. He would know when I was feeling sad, and immediately curl on my chest to soothe me. He would sleep soundly in the crook of my neck and lazily awake when I rustled the sheets. The dog of my dreams was clean-breathed and calm.
The dog of my dreams doesn't hold a candle to Frank. I couldn't have dreamed him up if I tried. For all his quirks, and idiosyncrasies and more, he is the dog of my life. And I feel like the luckiest girl in the world.