Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Selective Hearing

For the last couple of months, my dad has been clearing our yard to give me more space to run. Here I am doing a fine job supervising:
The downside of this is that for now, I’m knee deep in mud. But the upside to this extensive project is that my invisible fence has been temporarily disabled. It’s given me a great opportunity to go around and meet all our new neighbors.

Here is where my parents and I have a difference of opinion. They call this “running away.” I call it “spreading my adorableness” around the neighborhood. This has, on occasion, led to people calling the number on my collar, so that my dad has to come fetch me from a yard that doesn’t (if you want to get technical) belong to me. But most of the time my parents just open the back door and rattle the lid on my treat jar, and no matter where I am, no matter how far I’ve wandered, I hear that treat calling my name and I come bolting back to our house just as fast as my little legs can carry me.

Sometimes though, I'm sorry to report, my hearing isn’t quite so keen. Like when my paws are muddy and my dad says, “Sage. Marie. Get off the bed.” Sorry Dad, whaaa? Come again? You want me to play dead? 

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