Thursday, May 30, 2013

Hops in the Right Direction: Summer Camp

When I was a kid, I went to summer camp.  For three weeks every year, I spent my days swimming, sailing, horseback riding, and making really terrible crafts.  Every moment, I was with at least eight other girls my age--a summer experience unheard of on a farm.

I had a lot of fun.  I made a lot of memories.  I did a lot of lip-synching to "Barbie Girl."*


I'm picking Prada and Stink up from my folks' house this weekend.  What with Kentucky and Mexico trips in two consecutive weeks, it seemed wisest to have my parents petsit rather than kennel Prada, who finds kennels stressful instead of fun. 

My parents have a large yard ringed by woods and two dogs of their own.  Prada's been able to play offleash outside everyday for weeks.  With other dogs who know her, and have learned to play a bit more gently with her (so as not to knock her over/piss her off).  Her days end in happy exhaustion. 


I wonder if my parents felt guilty about dropping me off and leaving me for several weeks, or if they worried that I was having more fun and learning more than I could hope to the rest of the summer at home.  If they did, I could assure them that as fun as camp was, it was great to come home to my family and relax.

And that's why I refuse to feel guilty about leaving Prada and bringing her back home.  I'm just going to assume that she has a great time while she's there and still misses me, even though I do live in a hot, cramped apartment with no yard and no other dogs for her to play with.  In the end, I just hope that it matters most that I've missed her too.

1 comment:

  1. Good analogy! There's just one thing I wonder about. When Prada has all that room to run outside and other dogs to play with, that's like your swimming, sailing, and horseback riding, right? So what is her equivalent to "Barbie Girl?"

    True: A few years ago, we had a half-dozen chickens. When they got to be too much work to take care of and too expensive to feed, we gave them away... to someone we suspect wanted to butcher and eat them. But wifey told our son, who was four years old at the time, that we sent them to get groomed. He still asks sometimes how it can take so long to groom a chicken. I think she finally broke it to him that we're not getting them back.