I’m crazy about dogs.
Five minutes after meeting yours, I’ll most likely be under the coffee table with it, demanding that he or she hand over that bone. For this reason, dogs love me. Isaac, one of my favorite dog owners, claims that it’s because dogs are good judges of character, but I think we all really know that dogs love a fool.
I went to visit Isaac and Cathy and their amiable mutt Molly yesterday. Molly and I had a tussle over a cloth donut – “Give me that donut! Give that to me right now!” – and then we curled up on the rug for a snooze. Cathy looked over from the computer, where she and Isaac were looking something up, and found me and her dog in a ying and yang shape on the floor.
One thing I love about dogs: They really appreciate naps.
I didn’t always love dogs. Growing up, we had some bad experiences. A large black lab lived next door to us and attacked my sister once. She wasn’t hurt, but I’m still not sure she forgives me for running like hell when the dog burst through the hedge.
My parents weren’t dog people either. My Dad had spent much of his childhood scooping up poop from his sister’s dogs, because girls in the ’50s weren’t allowed to touch crap, and my Mom is just plain afraid of them.
Then my sister got Luke. Luke is, for want of a better word, ridiculous. He’s a yorkipoo, which is basically a designer mutt, and he spends much of his life looking for comfortable places to nap. Most of these places are on his people, either their laps or, if couch cushions are conveniently placed to prop him up, their shoulders.
He’s also crazy about cheese and never does what he’s told without a struggle. Also, once he gets ahold of something, he’s liable to shake it til the stuffing comes out.
I love this dog, which might be terrible vanity: It’s been pointed out to me that we have the exact same personality.