Yesterday, I met a rescued greyhound who sniffed me all over and, because I smelled like Sonnyboy’s slobber and fur and farts and burps, decided that I was okay. I was a person another dog was cool with. The rescued greyhound could be cool with me, too. She curled up right next to me and went to sleep.
Oh, but when I got home! There was such drama.
Who is this I smell on your clothes, B? Don’t you remember what a good boy I am? How soft my ears are? What if I cuddle with you like we’ve been separated for five million years? What if I pace back and forth, panting, because you’ve cheated on me with another dog? How could you? HOW COULD YOU?! I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t even happily bother the Red-Headed Kid. Are you happy? You’ve ruined my whole life. Please don’t leave me.
The Butcher has other dog friends. They’re totally cool. But apparently I am not supposed to know any other dogs that Sonnyboy doesn’t know.
Wait. Are those cookies? You know, I think this could all be cleared up between us for a couple of those cookies.
And when I tried to show him that I didn’t have any cookies, he tried to eat my hand. Which is normally a behavior punishable by banishment from the kitchen. But we weren’t in the kitchen. And I know I shouldn’t laugh at such bad behavior, but the look of shock and disappointment when he’s all “Those were just your fingers! You tart!!!!!” made me laugh.