Clara and Wilbur

     Yesterday when we got home with our new dog, Wilbur, the first thing we did was to put out his dog dish and lay out his pink, terrycloth bed. Clara had not been feeling well when we went to the Humane Society to pick Wilbur up.
     When we got home though, and Wilbur came into the house with us, Clara was excited.  As excited as someone with a terrible cold virus and emerging molars can be.
     She assumed that the dog dish and dog bed were for her.  An understandable mistake.  We poured some dog food into Wilbur's dish and some water into his water bowl.  She took a handful of dog food and put it into the water when our backs were turned.  Wilbur took a drink from his water bowl, and she attempted to drink from it, too.
     "This is Wilbur's food and water," we explained.  She seemed a little miffed.
      For his part, Wilbur was concerned at the level of instability in this miniature person with lots of hair.  He rolled over for a belly scratch and she slapped his sensitive tummy.  He extended his nose to sniff out the delicious layers of ketchup and Cheerio aroma on her and she attempted to grab his nose.
      Much to Wilbur's consternation, she was also apparently against saying nice things like, "Good boy," or even a simple, "Wilbur."  Instead, she ran around the house shouting, "Dog! Dog! Dog!"
      When we put her down for her nap, Clara yelled and cried for a while.  Wilbur's chunky legs churned up the stairs in alarm and he stationed himself in front of her door.  He looked at me with bafflement and deep concern.  Finally, when he realized there was nothing he could do, he headed outside, to the far corner of the lawn.

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     When Clara woke up from her nap, she attempted to commandeer Wilbur's dog bed.  One thing we've quickly learned about Wilbur is, if he doesn't want to budge, he won't.  And his girth makes moving him incredibly difficult.
     Clara tried to be sweet about it.  She brought Ugly Baby over and snuggled her down next to Wilbur.  She laid down next to him too, and sort of pushed against him to maneuver him off his terrycloth mat.  Wilbur only looked at her balefully.  She tried to kiss him on the nose, but he quickly turned his head, frightened, no doubt, by her razor-sharp baby chompers.  Finally she put her dimpled baby hands on his considerable flanks and pushed.  Wilbur was unmoved.

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     Today Wilbur seems to have come to terms with the fact of Clara: unpredictable, loud, not inclined to scratch behind his ears.  He snoozed on the couch this evening while she alternately pretended to read to him, petted his fur in the wrong direction, and wedged one of her plastic play cooking pots under his jaw.  She was pretending to feed him, I think.
     "Be nice to Wilbur!" we said.
     Wilbur only cracked his eyes open a bit, repositioned his paws, and fell back to sleep.