Jackson and I took Peewee to his first training class last week. Peewee is a good boy at home, and out in the world beyond our neighborhood he’s very well behaved, but if Jack or I take him anywhere within 500 feet of our building he becomes very territorial. He barks at neighbors he’s known for years, he lunges at other dogs. If Jackson takes him, he’s the soul of discretion, meek and mild and the baby Jesus, but if Jack or I are holding the leash, he can be sort of obnoxious.
I really want to understand what he’s trying to tell us. Sometimes I wish he could talk.
Peewee: “Put me up on the bed.”
Me: “What’s the magic word?”
Me: “Oof. Okay then.”
Me: “You’re welcome.”
Peewee: “Now scratch my butt.”
Me: “You know, I’ve got a lot of work to do here.”
Peewee: “You can type with one hand.”
Me: “Uh, no, actually, I need both of them if I’m going to get anything substantial done.”
Peewee: “Then I’m going to sit on this power cord and skootch my butt back until the magnetic connector pops out of your laptop.”
Me: “Oh, God, I can’t breathe.”
Peewee: “Hey, while you’re up, will you get me the other half of that banana?”