All seemed to be well, so I moved a little more. I must have just gone to sleep in a strange position. Zacchi did his very best from the floor on the far side of the bed to tell me he was happy to see me moving, but if I hadn't moved, that might not have been enough. I sleep with my cell phone beside me, just in case. One night in January there was friendly debate about which of the gentlemen present at dinner I should call if I took ill in the night, the one who lived closer, or the (self-described) more reliable one? ... but no, I would call my female friend in the daffodil painting, because only she holds a spare set of keys to my house.
But it got me thinking about Zacchi, lying there watching him trying to get up to me. I don't pat him enough. He is a scruffy little Fizzgig, thinks he is a farm dog and finds smelly things to bring home, to roll in, to breathe all over me. He gets oily, and is always dirty, even two minutes after a bath. I sometimes scratch his wiry head, or comb his tangled coat, but I don't pat him enough. I wonder if that is why he pretends to be frightened of big dogs? So I will pick him up and cuddle him, carry him a while. Because when I do, he is in no hurry to get back down again.
Last week, in our patch, Zacchi's normal daily stretch of village, a young dad wanted his toddler to meet Zacchi, to play a little. Zacchi ran behind my legs, leaned in, and said "No Mum, he's bigger than me..." Yesterday Zacchi barked most ferociously. Someone was gathering wild asparagus down below my patch. Zacchi let them know he was in charge. You can be, when Mum is standing behind you!
Zacchi is my second gift dog. The first was Pulce, or flea, whom I renamed Pulcetta, because she was such a little flea. She was doggy-napped, then stolen from the street before I had tracked her down. She had value on the re-sale market. Then Zacchi arrived, a rather reluctantly accepted gift from the same friends who can't contemplate that I could possibly live alone.
Passed on to my soft-hearted friend I suspect because the interesting mix that is Zacchi had no sale value, he was covered in ticks and the most timid wee dog I have ever encountered. Friend had accepted him without looking too well, obviously not wearing glasses that day. Much treatment later, during which this frightened little creature lay perfectly still, almost showing me where the next pink patch was, I was an expert on tick eradication and Zacchi was my slave for life.
The Italian for tick is zecca, plural zeche. I named him Zacchi.
helping mum get better...
1 comment:
Oh, Fizzgig!
You are named after a tick!
It is your mother you should be barking at, boy!
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