We've been walking for 40+ minutes. And I managed to discreetly deposit your poop bag in an unsuspecting trash bin along the way. Yesssssss.
The prospect of another cup of joe has me looking at the last quarter-turn with enthusiasm.
Not to mention a much-needed potty break. Yeah, I'm of a Certain Age.
And then. And then. You do it AGAIN. What you do EVERY morning when we hit the corner of 27th and Monroe. You lope up the grassy knoll (no, not THAT one) and proceed to put on a clinic in Dawdling.
You stand and look regal. WhatEVER.
You sit, hind legs all a-kimbo and lick your rocket (otherwise known as your Unmentionable). So undignified.
You give that pesky itchy spot underneath your collar a vigorous scratch. Ahhh.
You take a longing, lingering look across the street toward The H's house, your Surrogate Family when we travel. Then fix me with a Royal Stink-eye.
THEY always give me two treats in the morning, you seem to say.
I give you an encouraging "Come on, Ben! Let's go get some breakfast."
Nonchalantly, you look up and away, as if savoring some distant, delightful scent. Instead, I know for a fact you're saying, "La. La. La. I can't heearrrr you."
FINALLY, you slowly turn your head toward, eyes half-closed. Oh, was that you? Did you say something?
It's then that you get up, stretch and give a vigorous shake. One last questioning look back at the way we just came and you seem to grin as you run up to me.
What are we waiting for? I'm starving! Let's go home!
Dear Dawdling Dog.
Ben closed himself in the bathroom AGAIN yesterday. This time upstairs. He is obviously an advocate of bathroom nondiscrimination.
In looking over my blogs, the last three bathroom adventures occurred on Tuesdays, starting in mid-November. Can't speak to the episodes last March. Is it some new-found element of separation anxiety since Tuesday is the one day when the Wonderfully Patient Spouse and I are both gone all day? If yes, why now after years of long Tuesdays?
It appears to be somewhat purposeful. Gawd knows why, though.