The coyotes sang to us all the way home on our walk. It was freaking us both a little out because they seemed to slowly be getting closer, but one of us was not so freaked out that he didn’t run off to the neighbor’s yard, grab something, and then hide behind a tree to eat it while I panicked that he was about to be eaten himself by coyotes.
Now he’s moping because he didn’t get a treat at the end of his walk.
My argument that bad dogs don’t get treats and that whatever the hell he had from Bobby’s yard surely constituted one hell of a treat anyway have failed to convince him. After all, the treat drawer is right here, just begging to be opened.
Yes, we have a treat drawer for our dog. Yes, we are dumbasses.
Not as dumb as the dumbass who doesn’t open the drawer and eat all the treats while we’re gone, but still pretty dumb.
I’m a fool for this dog, though I am trying very hard to not show it right now, because he’s so bad.
Also, the coyotes sounded almost like geese. Like if a goose and a firetruck had a bunch of babies who all sang to each other just north of you. You can tell it’s cold when they’re down here out of the hills. Normally, they stay far above us and we hardly notice they’re here.