My new insurance agent’s office keeps a pooch, this elderly, fat, patchy cocker spaniel mutt with a cyst on his back, named “Lucky.” As I waited this morning, Lucky came over, gave me a sniff, then rolled onto his back and insisted on a belly rub. I rubbed the dog’s tummeh and was certain I had picked the right insurance agent.
|When she visits the Big House, Maddy Pryor has an amazingly specific ritual.
First, she has to explore the house. She walks into the dining room, the kitchen, then downstairs to my space. Then, I have to encourage her outside for a “strictly business” trip. Then, she’s back inside to do a bit more exploring and to collect a biscuit from me.
Soon, she gives me that snort that tells me she wants to go outside again. I have come to expect this trip, the one in which she must go tilting.
I open the door, and she takes off, direct in her purpose. She runs directly to the white shack in the far back right of the yard and growls and barks ferouciously at it. In a moment, she is apparently satisfied that she has appropriately terrified the building, and she wanders the yard for a bit, sniffing. Then, she returns to me.
She only does this once per visit.
Dogs are amazing.