Wendy and the Lost Boys

Wherever I go, my dogs are right beside me. They follow me throughout the house, my constant shadows. Mostly it is comforting, sometimes it is suffocating.

"You're their Wendy," my Mom said to me today.

"What?" I asked.

"You know, their Wendy, like in Peter Pan," she offered. "They're the little lost pugs without you! They're in search of a mother."

I laughed, but there was some truth to what Mom was saying. Alfie never had much parenting. Her pug mama accidentally squished one of Alfie's siblings and so was only allowed in with her puppies when they were nursing. Waffles lived an independent life running  rampant with the other pugs at my friend Joan's. Both pugs are as impish and as mischievous as the Lost Boys. When I'm not home, they wait for me by the window, when they're not fighting over bones, knocking over trashcans, banging into each other. They seem to be in need of mothering, someone to teach them some order and discipline. Someone to give them some nurturing.

Sometimes I'm at a loss as to what my role should be with these two. I'm in search of a metaphor, a way to connect and interact with these two alien creatures in our makeshift pack. Maybe being a Wendy to some lost pugs is a place to start.