I'm sorry to Ashley about my last post. I see how it could be sad, if you think it's really a dog writing it. But remember, Darling, it is not a dog writing. It is a poet, who wondered the same thing I wonder, and probably feels pretty bad about having to put his dog down.
In order to lighten the air, I will tell the story of M: a thirteen-year-old autistic boy who used to be in my group at camp. He was the most difficult, and the most gratifying of the campers.
He uses rocks as puppets. They have names, and if you ask him a question he'll protest: "Don't ask me! Ask Shelly!" Then you ask the rock.
He loves meatball subs. He also loves to swim - It's next to impossible to get him out of the water.
He thinks it's hysterical when we sing and dance to the radio on the bus. He dances too, all flailing elbows and rythmic rocking, punctuated by claps.
When he wants your attention, he sticks his chin out and half closes his seafoam green eyes, and he'll call you the most ridiculous names. I have been: Molly-head. Molly-girl-face. Moose. Princess. Panacake man. And (my personal favorite!) Hot Sauce.