One thing that makes dobermans a great breed to own is their quick sense of boundaries. When he hit thirty pounds Max figured out that he could push open our back screen door with the crappy latch if he jumped on it, yet before he doubled that weight he would stand at the threshold with the door wide open and cry until we tell him it is ok to come outside. We never explicitly trained him to do that, he just knew that mom and dad expect you to ask and wait for an answer before crossing a big threshold like inside-outside. Kids are even smarter than a doberman (okay, we have faith) so DMDFII should pick up that lesson twice as fast. Right?
We wanted to teach Max to keep off the furniture altogether but Dr. Mrs. Dr. F. had a moment of weakness, the same flaw of character that Max exploits every damn night at dinner, and now he owns this one loveseat. This being the one thing that gets him off the floor and up where People go, and comfy as heck and warm on a cold day, the dog spends an easy majority of his day on the thing. In another of our informal agreements Dr. Mrs. Dr. F. has claimed the pristine white couch for working and reading while the dog and I share the loveseat. Don’t get me wrong, I could use couch if I wanted to, the dog and I both like the loveseat.
So today I’m poking around on the computer before dinner and this happens.
First he brings me a ball. Then he brings me a tug rope. Finally he just stands near me and starts crying in the way that every doberman owner knows like the sound of yourself breathing. Then he starts licking my hand, and then the phone rings and I get up to pick it up, and when I turn around I see this.
I considered yelling at the SOB or lifting up his butt to make room. I thought about the vacuum cleaner, too cruel, or offering him a treat in the kitchen, which just rewards this kind of crap. Instead the hardwood needed sweeping anyway, so I got the broom and cleaned up around the living room. It is not my problem that the dog has this inexplicable thing about sweeping. When he grumbled and made for his crate I put down the broom and went back to work on my computer crap. Now he’s curled up in the two foot space next to me while a batch of Belgian trippel bubbles in secondary fermentation, and all is right with the world.
Well, I can’t help whatever stupidity Eric Cantor thought up this week. But things are pretty good.