I was unaware that yoga required a spotter.
At least partially under the instigation of her colleague and our friend Seema, my wife has recently taken up yoga. A couple of times a week she’ll pop in the videotape, position herself in the middle of our livingroom rug, and go through the positions, movements, and breathing exercises explained by the drowsiness-inducing voice accompanies by vaguely East Indian sounding music. She says it’s very relaxing.
Our three older dogs are completely unphased by this and ignore it completely. Our 16-month junior, Mira, is completely fascinated by the process. She stations herself right next to my wife, watches her doing this obviously bizarre and possibly dangerous thing, follows my wife’s hands as they move, bats at her occasionally with her right paw, and—if required—washes her face.
Mira obviously considers herself to be my wife’s yoga spotter.
When I saw this whole operation this morning I dashed for my digital camera. My wife absolutely forbade picture taking. But blogging was okay I was told. Consider it blogged.
