Dogs.
We’ve got two dogs in the house: Cookie and Princess. Cookie, my half-retriever ad half-spitz, was named for her fur color, which is a sortof light cookie dough. Princess, a chowchow pedigree, was named for the manner my parents planned to treat her as, and eventually, also for her attitude towards life.
I was heading off towards work one day; Princess toddled after me, as per her usual. Princess spends most of her time lying sprawled on the floor pretending to be a hearth rug, and one of the few times she chooses movement over inertia involves waddling after me as I leave the house and peering out at me from beyond the gates, in the improbable event I ever decide to take her with me.
On this particular occasion, she waddles into the garden to pee first. She scrunches up her nose and sneezes, twice.
Shaking her head from the unanticipated head exercise, she walks back towards me.
Then rubs her nose against my pants until, I suppose, she’d gotten all the boogers out.
This is how the dog world in this house views me – either as a walking handkerchief, or their personal tummy massager.
Cookie
Princess
