I overheard my Mom and Dad had argued about whether to get a “canine” before they brought me home.  My Mom had a “feline” named George before me who was basically an old man.  Dad had lots of dogs growing up and thought they were no problem, but of course he came from the “sticks” as one co-worker said where humans just put us in the back yard.

Little did my Dad know how challenging I would be to train, being the west-side dog that I am.  I’m in puppy kindergarten every week, I saw a”behaviorist” at the vet when I went for my shots, and even had a private session with a trainer – all to try to get me to “behave” whatever that means.  I do know how to sit, lay down and come but whether I do it or not depends on whether I’m in the mood or not.

Tonight when Mom got home I greeted her by running and getting the mop and dragging it across the floor to my bed and here I am gnawing on it – tastes almost as good as my bone.  I wonder what else is in the kitchen for me to “eat?”