Doggone It

I’ve decided that having a dog is a lot like having a child. They cost almost as much to feed and keep healthy and take as many attitude adjustments. Take our dog, Jack. He’s six years old. That’s 42 years old in people years, but he acts like a three year old. I’ve already established that we’re crazy dog people. I’ll admit it. It’s our fault for spoiling him, but he is so gosh darn cute it’s hard not to. Just like a child. We have to spell the words “bone” and “bye-bye” because he knows what these mean and will have a barking, jumping, hissy fit if he hears them. He will then drive us crazy begging for a car ride or a bone. He’s LOVES to ride in the car, but he really loves Hubby’s old Ford truck. When it leaves the garage, he waits patiently for the return of that loud, rumbling motor.

He sits right here, by the window. (Note the throne.) He will sit for hours, hoping Old Blue will pull up and take him for a ride so he can hang his head out the window and sniff the smorgasbord of a million smells that populate the highway. He also knows that he gets treats when he goes through the drive-thrus of the bank, the drug store and the liquor store. He hit the treat trifecta one day last summer when Hubby stopped at all three places. It took two days for the rotten mutt to come down off that Milk Bone high. I thought we were going to have to stage an intervention.

If he doesn’t get a ride, he whimpers. Just like a kid. Then he pouts.

Like this. He sighs and sighs, showing us how annoyed he is that his peeps didn’t give in to his whims. And just like a child, he will ignore us if we try to talk to him.

See. I was inches away from his ear in this picture, and he wouldn’t even look at me. He wouldn’t acknowledge my existence. He banished me from his personal space, and refused to listen to anything I had to say. It made me want to pick him up by the scruff of the neck with my teeth and cart him off to the time out corner….and ground him from any treats. After all, I’m in charge, right? Right??