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I was out this morning with Roland for our first Big Walk since he came back from the boarding kennel. I visited my parents over Thanksgiving, and their house is not exactly dog-proof; also, mass transportation is not dog-friendly. He was really excited to be home, and spent the first ten minutes doing laps around my apartment and depositing a fresh layer of dog hair.
We were on our normal route when all of a sudden, he darted in front of me, tail up, fur standing on end, and doing what I like to call the war dance. I looked down the path; I saw nothing but a discarded plant by the side of the path, but Roland’s behavior made me nervous. I tried to turn around, but my brave little beagle would have none of it; in his little doggie brain, something had invaded his territory and threatened his human, and there was going to be hell to pay. He put his head down and pulled me toward the offending thing.
It was the dead plant; as I got closer, I could see that it was some kind of viny thing that might have been a fuchsia at one point, but that obviously didn’t click in Roland’s brain, because he was now stalking it. Yes, my dog, fur on end, tail up, head down, was trying to sneak up on deceased vegetation. “Roland. It’s a plant,” I said. “A dead one at that! It’s not going anywhere!” Roland has a limited command of English, because he was unconvinced that it was anything but a groundhog-sized brown block of doom that was going to eat him and me in one bite, Audrey II -style, the moment his back was turned.
I think the mighty hunter was surprised that he managed to sneak up on a dead plant, because he took his time investigating it. He stuck his nose out for a sniff more cautiously than I’d ever seen him act. Suddenly, he bolted like a startled sheep, running through the mud puddle to our left and hitting the end of the leash so hard it almost jerked his legs out from underneath him. When he realized that the dead plant wasn’t chasing, he worked up his courage and came back for another sniff, and another.
After the third sniff, he finally peed on it and strutted away more proud than I had ever seen him before, acting in stark contrast to the Angry Geologist nearly doubled over in laughter at the other end of the leash.
We were on our normal route when all of a sudden, he darted in front of me, tail up, fur standing on end, and doing what I like to call the war dance. I looked down the path; I saw nothing but a discarded plant by the side of the path, but Roland’s behavior made me nervous. I tried to turn around, but my brave little beagle would have none of it; in his little doggie brain, something had invaded his territory and threatened his human, and there was going to be hell to pay. He put his head down and pulled me toward the offending thing.
It was the dead plant; as I got closer, I could see that it was some kind of viny thing that might have been a fuchsia at one point, but that obviously didn’t click in Roland’s brain, because he was now stalking it. Yes, my dog, fur on end, tail up, head down, was trying to sneak up on deceased vegetation. “Roland. It’s a plant,” I said. “A dead one at that! It’s not going anywhere!” Roland has a limited command of English, because he was unconvinced that it was anything but a groundhog-sized brown block of doom that was going to eat him and me in one bite, Audrey II -style, the moment his back was turned.
I think the mighty hunter was surprised that he managed to sneak up on a dead plant, because he took his time investigating it. He stuck his nose out for a sniff more cautiously than I’d ever seen him act. Suddenly, he bolted like a startled sheep, running through the mud puddle to our left and hitting the end of the leash so hard it almost jerked his legs out from underneath him. When he realized that the dead plant wasn’t chasing, he worked up his courage and came back for another sniff, and another.
After the third sniff, he finally peed on it and strutted away more proud than I had ever seen him before, acting in stark contrast to the Angry Geologist nearly doubled over in laughter at the other end of the leash.
