“You know, you don’t have it all that bad.”
Flash gave me a steady look from big brown eyes.
“There are some dogs who would undoubtedly say that you have a pretty good thing.”
Heavy sigh from the dog.
“I know, being a writer’s dog is boring,” I said.
Flash studied his toenails.
“I’m home all day. You’re rarely alone. Maybe once a month for a few hours. I leave a room, you follow me. I enter a room, you follow me. We’re together all day.”
He groomed his paws.
“It’s not as if you’re alone for more than five seconds. We’re attached by Velcro, fuzzy butt. Sorry about the bathroom door, but there are just some things I will not share.”
Brown eyes are now rolling. (Mine, not his.)
“Yes, I want you to be quiet in the morning, but I go and exercise with you twice a day. I play with you. I cuddle you. I give you puzzles to stimulate your mind. I care about if you’re cold. I take you to the vet. I spend a fortune on your food.”
“Yes, I know, the road crews have driven you nuts in the last month, not to mention what the jackhammer does to you. But they’re gone now.”
One more yawn (impressive display of sharp teeth).
“So, what’s with the attitude lately? You don’t bark at me, buddy. YOU don’t demand when we play, got it? And stop going to the window and whining, like you want the road crew to be back. Or you’re pining for the sight of a squirrel. I have to work.”
He turned and walked away.
I shrugged and considered the lecture well given.
However, I can’t help but remember my son and his teenage years. I love my son, but that was not a fun time. Same scenario of me being serious and wanting to connect, mind to mind. Same bored look. Same barely concealed impatience. Flash is five now. Maybe that’s what we’re going through, hmm?