The (adorable) pest in the house

My dog is a complete ingrate. He makes me feel like I'm living with a homeless person. Or at the very least, a rude and pesky roommate who sees me only as a giant bag of gold, the mere sight of my person only serving as a reminder of money. "Oh hey, it's you. Can I borrow a twenty?"

Except instead of money, the dog wants something infinitely more valuable to him: freedom.

He wants only to go outside.

This is ALL he wants, ever.

Gazing longingly at the seemingly unreachable outside.

"Oh, hey, it's you. Can you let me out?" (<-- if this dog could speak, this is all he would say.) I just took him for a one-mile run. The minute I got home, turned the key and cracked open the front door, he bolted through my legs to the back, sending me spinning. He stood there panting and pleading at the back (as if he had NOT just sniffed the urine of 278 trees, shrubs, and bushes mere moments earlier) and threw himself against the glass, screaming for freedom as if he'd been locked in a tiny crate for 19 hours and OHMYGOD, bladder life is 19 hours and 1 second and if I wait ONE SECOND LONGER he will explode all over the tile floor. And boy will I be sorry.

He shrieks all this at me, warning me there will be trouble. Except he's still panting from the run. He doesn't NEED to go out. There cannot possibly be even an eighth of an ounce left in him. I have no idea why he acts like this.

Some background: this dog has THE. LIFE. He is exercised multiple times a day, fed wild Alaskan salmon, showered with toys, cuddled (but only during thunderstorms, otherwise he does not like to be touched), anti-mosquitoed/ticked/bugged, his cushions fluffed before bed, and he's scratched and scritched in the acceptable places (like, his ass). This is a good life for a creature. Heck, I'd apply but the household is not accepting any new applicants for spoiled beast.

A typical scene: my left foot hovers over the top step as I begin to descend from upstairs. The dog spies this and springs to life from living room.

"Oh hey!! Hey! As long as you're coming down this way, could you maybe open the door? Please?"

But I just let him in 10 minutes ago. I am now on a mission for water, for myself; since no one will feed/water me, I have to do it myself. I check his bowl just to make sure he's not thirsty, and get a glass for me.

He crowds my legs as I'm drinking. Nudge nudge.

"Excuse me. Um, that door over there? Could you maybe just craaack it open? Just a bit? Just a little bit. Please?"

I ignore him and down the glass.

"The DOOR." nudge nudge.

I am unmoved. I start downing more fluid.

"Hm. Maybe you didn't hear me? I just need out. Over there? Let me show you." (Runs to back door, then back to me again.)

"See? Just right there."

I set down the glass again and ignore his request, thinking good, I am using my ape brain to not be manipulated by a canine.

"LOOK," he wags desperately, "there's like RABBITS and stuff back there. You just don't understand. I. NEED. to. GO. OUT."

(a pic in which he finally gets his wish...
Still leaping and screaming and excited....)

His message gets more insistent. Maybe it ends with a good body slam (rattling both the sliding door AND my nerves) or maybe just a twisting leap in the air accompanied by what I call his "nervous yap" -- the noise he emits during a small mammal sighting. It doesn't quite resemble a bark, more like a cross between a freshly disemboweled but living hyena and a barn owl. Whatever it is, I can unequivocally state that it is a most decidedly unrelaxing noise.

And that is how I end my night. Any wonder why it takes me so long to unwind??

Digging, anyone? Bueller?

The dog, blindsided by a cannonball while I watch...


Leaps and bounds happen both IN the house and out.
These are Dan's photos, more pictures of the dog are on his blog.