Ah, the life of a dog in my house

So there I am, outside on a warm summer evening, enjoying the sunshine with my two dogs by my side. Well, not quite by my side. Rizley was a bit freaked by the idea of outside and needed to sit in my lap while shaking and waiting for the onset of Doomsday. Snowy peed on the ferns and then curled up under one of the rocking chairs to see who would rock on his tail first.

At some point, my arms hurt too much to hold Rizley anymore so I put him down and told him to go be a dog. He looked at me with a very puzzled face. He clearly had no idea what I meant. He sniffed where Snowy peed on the ferns, gazed out with imperial boredom at the beautiful day and finally slumped on his side in the sunlight with that quizzical look still on his face while he pondered the meaning of life and what I meant by “be a dog”.

He never did figure that out. I know this because the minute the door opened to go in, he bolted to the safety of the house, up the stairs and on to the bed. If being a dog means going outside and facing all the scary things out there, then he’s chosen to not be a dog… unless you have treats. Then he might reconsider.