Georgie, the golden retriever granddog, has been back home for a few weeks now. Reminders of her are everywhere as the two hundred million or so blond hairs she shed are never disposed of that quickly. We will find these furry remnants for many weeks to come. By the time she visits again, we may be down to the last few tufts.
Memories of Georgie linger like the hair. Since I am not a great sleeper, I am never early to bed so as to avoid tossing, turning and disturbing my husband's sleep. Georgie was in the habit of staying up with me the first week she was here. Then she'd had enough.
One night, she rose from her half of the couch and stood in front of me, staring, hardly blinking. When I made eye contact, she looked at the stairs, then back at me, then at the stairs. Repeat. I got the hint.
While I was in the bathroom, Georgie went to the bottom of the stairs and waited. When I entered the room again, she looked at me, looked up the stairs, back and forth for several repetitions. Georgie doesn't talk but is a great communicator. Any night she was ready for bed, she did the same thing. I am well trained.
Before the days of political correctness, Newfoundlanders had an expression. We'd say things like, "That fella got me drove," meaning he is driving me crazy.
Well, Georgie got me drove...to bed.