Loyal and true, the best friend ever.

The sun is shining brightly. The cloudless sky holds breezes that are embracing rather than whipping. The Sea is dotted with splashes just offshore, where fish are jumping. I see a Seal or two farther out and a few sailboats trying their luck. The tide is out so far, the starfish dot the water's edge. Unless the water comes in soon, the eagles soaring above will have them for appetisers. It truly is a day in Paradise here by the Pacific.

After months of questionable weather, today marks the second in a row, where summer is truly here in unmistakable glory. It is not too hot, although the warm factor goes up with every bathroom of every subsequent home I go into. Wouldn't you know it? Today is a day where I am showergirl for almost everyone.

Around eleven, I realised I was dehydrating. Just in time, I guzzled two glasses of water.
My lovely gentle Miss shared a brownie with me. Whew!
The next lady was sitting having a sunbath when I arrived. We quickly turned THAT around.

I finished my workday with a kindly gentleman right in town, who has not been feeling well of late.
"Sir, it's good to see you up and around. How are you doing today?"

"Not very well. I had the pain again last night. It started in my right hand and went up my arm and across my shoulder and then down into my chest and belly."

"Did you use your Nitro Spray?"

"Yes. Once then. And again this morning. And about ten minutes ago."

oh dear....

It would be perfectly understandable for me to say a shower was too risky and we should forget it today and just help him with a sponge bath. After all, I have to assist him to the bathroom, and into the tubchair, all the while making sure he does not fall. He is a high risk.
And he did fall last week. But I believe that is his right: to choose how to live and how to die.
I believe today my strengthy is equal to the task. If I did not believe that, we would not be going anywhere.

There is this little dog in the home. The dog long ago decided that I am an interloper and must be chided. Out go the ears, and back goes the head, and bark bark bark. In dog talk I imagine it goes something like this:
"Take your hands off my Master. Don't be touching him again. Get out of our house."

Last week the moment I opened the bathroom door after his shower, the dog came in. Barking. This week she went one better.

We came out of the bathroom and I assisted the gentleman back to his chair by the window.
The dog rushed over and leapt into his lap. She looked at me and then, carefully began licking him. I think she was showing him that I am redundant.

"Look Master. I can bathe you MUCH better than that person. See? *lick lick*"
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The Papillon is not without issues.
Each year, as the announcer for the Westminster dog show introduces each dog into the ring, he carefully captures the personality of that breed with just a few sentences. In the case of the Papillon, the description is less than subtle.
"The Papillion is a very old breed," he intones. "They are bright, interactive dogs. However, without the proper handling," he cautions, "they will live up to the nickname the 'Little Tyrant'."