My new right foot: Ben

We've completed Week One of "My New Right Foot" and I think we've gotten the routine down.

Well, everyone except Ben. Simply put, he is mystified by this strange turn of events that has me home 24/7 but completely useless when it comes to walks, working in the backyard and fetching treats.

He IS a happy camper that someone is home all day who's not opposed to sharing a futon and down comforter with him. BUT the walk thing has him completely and unequivocably flummoxed. To whit:

It's no secret the dog knows how to tell time. Like sunrise, he stirs about 6:30 a.m. each morning and is standing at attention at the side of my bed at 7 -- the time we normally leave for the park. His cognac eyes sparkle with anticipation. . . until I wallow on over onto my feet and he spies the accursed surgical shoe. (I think he goes to bed each night praying this odd human footwear will somehow evaporate overnight.) His ears sag -- and then collapse backward when I tell him, "Not this morning. Go find dad."

Be assured, Ben is NOT walk-deprived. He's out the door with the WPS by 7:30 most mornings. It's just that, well, it's DIFFERENT for a dog of Ben's sensitivities.

Afternoon is no different. By 4:30, Ben is upright and rigid on the futon, eyes darting back and forth from my foot to the bedroom door. By 5, he pulls out all the stops and goes "cute," resting his head on the bed and fixing me with an unwavering, unblinking, soul-penetrating stare. Thankfully, the WPS intervenes and breaks the canine guilt chain.

Walks completed for the day, he's a different dog. Back up on the futon, wrestling me for comforter real estate, he's content to hunker down while I read and watch TV. But I know, although Ben's happily sprawled out next to me, he's wondering when life, as he defines it, will be back to "normal". . . when that strange shoe goes away -- and those funny sticks that currently prop me up are back in the closet.