In case you haven't met me before, my name is Foster, and, now, my mom has given me a new name: 12th Dog.
Before moving to the Lovestead in Sandpoint as a young pup, I lived in Seattle. My first owner was and still is a card-carrying Seahawks fan. He has season tickets, and I can only imagine how he was behaving yesterday.
Lemme tell you what it's like living in a house with two Seahawks fans, especially when they watch three quarters of the Big Game and gripe because their team is losing.
Well, my mom didn't exactly whine yesterday. She kept coming up with all kinds of hopeful comments: well, I've seen them do a lot of comebacks . . . well, Russell Wilson will find a way . . . .
That all changed to "well, four minutes left and no hope . . . think I'll go outside and shovel some more."
In the meantime, my dad was hardly watching the game. He was troubleshooting, and having a lot of trouble doing that with his new wireless printer. He'd already had a lot of trouble the day before.
Every once in a while he'd come out to the living room where I was sitting next to my mom who had her laptop out and was texting my best friend Annie in Minnesota and telling her to eat more Skittles out of that bag she bought at the Minneapolis Airport when her flight home to Seattle was delayed and she got to watch the game after all.
Anyway, my dad would come out, holding that laptop, kinda irritating my mom with questions about his downloading process.
She would just bark "yes" and then later "yes" and even later would admit, "I really don't know the answer, but you need someone to tell you 'yes.'"
Well, Mom went to the bathroom with her outdoor clothes on, and I got excited cuz I could go outside too.
When she came back, stuff started happening on that TV set. Someone threw a pass and someone with golden slippers started running and then they said it was a touchdown and everyone cheered loud enough to start an earthquake and then they said it was not a touchdown, and it got quiet.
Mom sat there in her four layers and kept on watching, and, by golly, pretty soon they got that touchdown and Mom yelled to Dad.
Then, Dad came out of the bedroom and announced that just when the two-day download for his wireless printer started working right, the Seahawks started doing things right too.
Well, Dad finally came and sat down and Mom finally decided to take one layer off and watch the rest of the game.
Meanwhile, back at the airport in Minnesota, Annie said she was getting a stomach ache from eating all those Skittles, to which Mom texted something about sacrifice and look at Richard Sherman playing with that sore arm and to please keep eating those Skittles.
Moments later, it wasn't an earthquake but more of an eruption that occurred at our house and probably a lot more and for sure in and around the Clink over there in Seattle (where some people had left the stadium and then had to peek in to see the action).
I wonder just how happy my first master Raine was.
I know people were acting crazy on the TV, riding bicycles around, and Mom just plain settled in to watch and cheer like everyone else. I think there might have been some tears of joy too.
Back in Minnesota, the Skittles lady was getting on her plane, headed back to Seattle, stomach ache and all.
Then, my mom did something I was secretly hoping wouldn't happen.
She went and got that Seahawks shirt she bought me for last year's Super Bowl, and she made me put it on and then took a picture. Then, she called me the 12th Dog and put my photo on Facebook.
I do kinda like that shirt, and last year I knew everywhere she put it and would go to wherever the shirt happened to be every time she said "Seahawks."
I don't know what she's gonna expect me to do this year, but I might as well get used to wearing it.
Heck, maybe if I'm good, she'll turn the TV on upstairs on Feb. 1, and I can wear my Seahawks shirt while watching the Puppy Bowl.
Maybe this won't be so bad after all. For now, I'll just humor her and go along with whatever------as long as she doesn't start feeding me Skittles and making me wear golden slippers!
Foster aka 12th Dog