My old dog Brutie is set in his ways. There is one door in the house that he uses to go out and another he scratches at to come in. I’ve tried to mix them up, but he won’t have it.
His days are carefully ordered. At daybreak he wants out. This is fine in the winter when I can sleep until seven-something. Not so good in mid-summer when he gets antsy around 5 a.m.
Of course, there is the “morning cookie” when he comes in. And then he’s gotten accustomed to me mixing up his medicine in a piece of cheese. If I tarry with either task, he whimpers, whines and makes a general nuisance of himself until I get on the ball.
The next part of his day involves the front porch. That’s where he wants to be, and once fastened to his tether, where he will survey his kingdom for long hours. On the porch he will announce his presence to all who walk down the street, challenge those who don’t show proper deference to his authority, and quietly supervise the squirrels in the yard and the birds at the bird feeder. In between court sessions, he sleeps.
Periodically he will ask to visit the back yard for a brief tour. Then, back to the porch. I don’t know what the porch has that the back yard doesn’t. When I ask him to explain, he just rolls his eyes in canine exasperation.
When the sun goes down, it’s time to come in and supervise my wife and me. That means it’s time for supper and television. More than once he has sidled up to my wife when she has been working late on the computer, lifted her hand from the keyboard with his muzzle and let her know it’s time to migrate to the family room.
While we eat and watch the news, he sleeps. Later he will get up and let us know it’s time for his “nighty-night cookie.” When I finally yawn and switch off the television, he announces his need for a final tour of the back yard. Tomorrow will be another day.
The irony of this relentless schedule is that we trained him to do it. When he was a puppy we tried to get him interested in normal dog things, like chasing a ball, rolling over and shaking hands. He wasn’t interested. When I would throw a ball for him to chase, he would look at me as if to say, “Well, you threw it away. I guess you don’t want it back.”
The problem with this, of course, is at some point I have to ask myself, exactly who trained who?
