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New Dog has a new nightly routine. It begins around sundown, with her making it very clear that today has been a *massive* disappointment.
This occurs whether or not the day has, in fact, been even vaguely disappointing. Today, for instance, we went down to the huge dog park by the river - the one where it takes nearly an hour just to climb all the way down the bluff, walk out to the point, and back. Her favorite.
But once the sun is down, everything is quite inadequate, and humans must be punished for it. So first, one must stare, and pace, and whine, and pace some more.
By this time, she& #39;s convinced Old Dog, who was PERFECTLY CONTENT UP TIL NOW, that things are terrible. This necessitates the Distribution of Biscuits because how else is an old dog& #39;s* soul to be soothed?
(*Old Dog is in point of fact 9YO, but his soul is 83)
(*Old Dog is in point of fact 9YO, but his soul is 83)
Once the biscuits are distributed and Old Dog is once again happily curled into a swirl on the couch, the pacing and staring can safely resume. So New Dog resumes them. At this point, it is vitally important that I let her out to pee at least twice in a row.
This is not because she needs to pee. She doesn& #39;t. She was out a half hour ago. It& #39;s because that tank needs to be fully empty or she will add peeing on the floor out of spite to the pacing and staring.
By this time I will have offered her every toy she possesses, which is Many & Then Some. She could absolutely go get any one of them on her own but she likes to pretend that I have never once thought enough of her to give her even one toy EVER until one is laid before her.
The next vital step in the routine is to reject all the toys.
EXCEPT. There is a glow-in-the-dark ball on the bookshelf. I do not want to give her the ball because her favorite thing to do with it is lose it under every single piece of furniture and then attempt to jam her little body under it so violently that she could break her own spine
But she knows it& #39;s there. And I know she knows it& #39;s there. So eventually, I ask quietly, "do you want your ball?" At which she then launches her entire 28-lb body into my knees in an effort to communicate, through physical pain, how very, very stupid I am.
So I toss her the ball, as Old Dog preemptively adjusts his position on the couch to get as far from whatever& #39;s coming next as possible. New Dog clamps her jaws on the falling glowball like a gator attacking a tourist. Thrilled with her victory, she leaps to the couch!
And then:
I could have taken a video of that, but it would have looked the same.
It& #39;s the most passive aggressive thing I& #39;ve ever seen. Endless minutes of pacing and staring and whining just to get the ball, and then: she just tucks it carefully under her head and lies on it, looking so bored you& #39;d think I& #39;d bored her on purpose.
Eventually there is some *extremely* half-hearted chewing, so as to indicate that she is DOING her BEST, but SOMEONE insisted on giving her ENTIRELY the wrong sort of ball.
But a dog who happily runs 174 laps up and down the stairs every day and has been known to fetch balls for several hours without stopping apparently cannot sustain this jaw-dropping pace of wrong-ball-chewing for long. And so, within five minutes:
She& #39;ll be awake in an hour and this entire process will begin again, even though the ball is now underneath her and I cannot give her a ball she already possesses.
