I don't know what kind of relationship you have with your dog, but mine is caring, rewarding, and built on two-way communication. We have frequent conversations (and before you ask, no, I'm not mentally ill, nor is "dog" a cute reference to my husband). My dog is a three-year-old Golden Retriever, and she talks. Not the way we do, but with her eyes, her tail, and a low-throated whine.
Yesterday she was in a talkative mood. First, she told me she wanted a snack. I gave her one, and a few minutes later she mentioned she wanted another. Since her snacks are located in the kitchen, very near my own, I gave her another, and got myself a cookie too.
Then, bolstered by success, she announced she wanted a walk, by whining and looking longingly at the front door.
Wanting to get back to blogging, I tried to distract her. "We'll walk later," I said. "I don't have my shoes on." She looked at the floor, right at my muddy New Balance. "But I don't have your leash--" She turned her head pointedly toward the closet, where the leash hung on the doorknob. No excuse was good enough, and since the sun was clearly shining, I knew I couldn't pull the "It's raining" one over on her either.
We went to the woods, and for once she stuck close to me, since the day before she had been brutally raped in these same woods. The perpetrator was a young Weimaraner, whose operation had apparently left just enough juice for certain animal urges to be acted upon.
This time, only a squirrel teased her, shamelessly waving his tail from the lower branches of a beech tree. Little did he know my dog can climb trees, too, but with memories of the rape still fresh, she was in no mood to display her awesome tree climbing ability.
When we arrived home, she still wasn't content. I was sitting at my computer, happily blogging away, when she came to the doorway. I ignored her, as I'm trying not to spoil her with attention, but then I heard a thunk.
She'd dropped her brush, not on the carpet, where it wouldn't make a noise, but on the hard floor.
So I stopped blogging and brushed her, and gave her a little massage while I was at it. Thirty minutes later, I went to the kitchen, thinking it might be time for a snack. She followed, and whined again. "WHAT do you want NOW?" I snapped, tired of submitting to her whims. She turned and gazed at the basket of dog treats, not in its usual place atop the fridge, but on the counter. Her gaze didn't waver, but I did. I gave her a treat, then another. (Tomorrow I'll get back to not spoiling the dog.)
What I want to know is, when is she going to start her own blog? Imagine the snark: "Suckered Mom into forking over 10 cookies. Even ate the peanut she put out for that wanker squirrel! And get a load of Atrios's cats! Wish I could be in the middle of that!"
