Wednesday, November 25, 2015
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Published: Friday, 7/27/2007

When Good Dogs Go Bad


1 PM

I love my dog.

No, I mean I really love my dog.

As in, I love my dog so much that, when he was still a puppy, my daughter once asked me if I d ever loved her that much when she was a baby

Yeah, embarrassing.

And, OK, while I m at it, let me confess this, too: I talk baby talk to my dog.

(When my daughter was still a drooling, mewling infant, I used to snarl at my own mother when she fell into sing-song cooing -- always verboten in our house, until this lump o dachshund came along.)

I tell you all this by way of driving home the point that I am indulgent, and then some, when it comes to my sweet dog the one I nearly killed last night with my bare hands.

Thunder. Whining. Lightning. Yeeping. More thunder. Turning in endless tight little circles on the bed. More lightning. Whining and yeeping and circling and pawing and pacing all the major displays of Doggie Agita.




Or so it seemed. Honestly, it was like having a small infant again the profound yearning for sleep colliding head-on with the inevitably of weather-induced sleeplessness.

Finally, toward the end of what would be considered the middle-of-the-night segment of the overnight hours, the weather and the dog grew calm.

This morning, as my alarm shrieked, the dog raised his sleepy-eyed head and threw me a glance. Again, I love my dog -- which is to say, I know my dog, i.e., I can interpret all his little gestures and expressions, all his doggie nuanced means of communication.

Yes, I know my darling little dog very, very well.

And that glance he shot me this morning?

That glance said: Could you keep it down, please? Some of us trying to sleep.

Someone s growling around here, but it s not a canine .

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