Wagging Our Tales

   I keep showing him I don't want to go that way by tugging strongly at his leash, but he always insists on walking down the road with all the trees anyway.

   He can be so dense like that.

    While my friend Charcoal tells me that her Friend Feeder always goes where she directs, I'm stuck with this guy who heads off down that boring street.  Listen, I'm not complaining; he's otherwise pretty well trained. My water bowl is always full of fresh water, I get to taste some of that warm stuff he eats if I don't Labrador  too much, and he didn't yell much at me when I had the little accident that time I was dreaming about the wolf pack.

   But his walking skills have deteriorated badly. When the female with Doberman-coloured hair lived with us, he'd always happily follow wherever I led him. Sometimes, we'd walk for hours.

  Since she ran away, though, it's like he doesn't care any more.

   LISTEN, I tell him, walks are our life. Walks are as fascinating to us as the light box is to them. We have favourite shows, too, you know; episodes and characters to follow.  When you drag me down that same boring, dog-less street with all the trees, I yelp, it's like you're changing my channel.

     But he doesn't understand. For a clever species, they sure don't speak much Canine.




The End

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