As part of your life with me there are some things you’ll have to accept. I travel for work sometimes. I work a lot when I’m home. I currently have a very bad knee, soon to be replaced, but in the mean time and during recovery this will mean limited outings of any great fun.
It has been four days since I returned from my latest work trip. During the week I was gone you stayed at “camp” with your pals, got daily nature walks, played in play groups with other dogs, had cuddle time and small bits of training, though you’d never know it given the current attitude.
About play groups. Once again the staff mentioned that you “played like a boss” and so had to be moved from the small-dog play group to the medium-dog one. While you and I know that your normal play style and vocalizations seem much like an assassin sent in to rend and kill a warring group of chupacabras, we really must work on this. You’re scaring the pit bulls again, and the Shepherds, while avoiding you, seem close to rushing in to stop the fun. This could end badly for all.
Anyway, since my return we’ve gone for walks daily, had plenty of cuddle time and shared popcorn. While this is supposed to be sweetly bonding, you’re clearly wanting more.
I’m sensing this because last night, as I spoke on the phone to a colleague about work-related matters, you attempted more than once to jump up on my desk without the aid of a chair or stool. This led to some spectacular falls and what looked like painful landings. You emptied my trash. You left my office and then reappeared carrying a winter boot. You dropped it, looked at me and started chewing on it. You sat next to me and howled, a double-eared flip howl, the kind when you’re all-in. You took paper out of my waste basket. You came over and, when I mindlessly reached down to pet you, bit my hand. You humped my arm. You went back to the waste basket and started shredding things. You came back to my chair and chewed on the arm rest while staring at me, unblinking.
I gave you a bully stick which you chewed to a soggy, slimy point before bringing it over to “share” by impaling my shin. Blocked from the window seat by an x-pen, you tried to perch on the back of the recliner. Sixty years of worn, fake leather afforded you no purchase and you flipped over the back instead, landing out of sight with a dramatic and sustained crash-and-scramble, coming out a moment later with a slight limp and dragging a paper shredder by the cord.
This morning does not bode better. Our normal, bucolic routine of coffee by the window, with you curled at my feet, was prefaced by a slightly unnerving change. Rather than burritoing in right away, you lay staring as I prepared my coffee, half-covered and with an expression that could be taken a few ways: Doleful. Woebegone. Unimpressed. Certainly not pleased.
When you finally covered yourself it was with a huge sigh, one more of despondence than relaxation.
Life is imperfect, Beagz. Perhaps a frozen Kong will cheer you up later. I’ll see what I can do.