good dog
Yesterday I sat on the floor with Tobey to give him a good scratch and a belly rub. As always, he immediately turned over to expose his belly so that I could reach the 'good bits' - the underside of his snout, the crook of his neck, and of course, his belly itself.
And as I scratched away, digging my fingers deep into his fur and as he closed his eyes with a satisfied sigh, I thought about how privileged I am, to be able to share part of my life with a dog. Because let's not forget - this canine, this animal who so willingly allows me to prod the tender areas of his body - this dog could very well just turn on me and use those teeth the way nature intended. Instead, he more than tolerates whatever we do with him, like brush his teeth (ewww).
He's getting older, our beloved poodle. With The Bun around, Tobey doesn't quite get as much full-on attention as he used to, but my sister and I always try to scoop him into our laps for long scratch sessions as often as we can. He is really like our true firstborn, the first love we opened our hearts for.
Tobey is always heartily praised at home whenever he (resignedly) submits to The Bun's various shenanigans. Unlike a child, he cannot be spoiled by too much praise; instead, each 'good dog!' always is returned with a quick lick on one's nose while he looks straight into your eyes.
I've also been trying to teach The Bun to praise him:
Me, to The Bun: Tell Tobey 'good boy!'
The Bun: No! He's not a boy! He's a dog!
So 'good dog' it is.
And as I scratched away, digging my fingers deep into his fur and as he closed his eyes with a satisfied sigh, I thought about how privileged I am, to be able to share part of my life with a dog. Because let's not forget - this canine, this animal who so willingly allows me to prod the tender areas of his body - this dog could very well just turn on me and use those teeth the way nature intended. Instead, he more than tolerates whatever we do with him, like brush his teeth (ewww).
He's getting older, our beloved poodle. With The Bun around, Tobey doesn't quite get as much full-on attention as he used to, but my sister and I always try to scoop him into our laps for long scratch sessions as often as we can. He is really like our true firstborn, the first love we opened our hearts for.
Tobey is always heartily praised at home whenever he (resignedly) submits to The Bun's various shenanigans. Unlike a child, he cannot be spoiled by too much praise; instead, each 'good dog!' always is returned with a quick lick on one's nose while he looks straight into your eyes.
I've also been trying to teach The Bun to praise him:
Me, to The Bun: Tell Tobey 'good boy!'
The Bun: No! He's not a boy! He's a dog!
So 'good dog' it is.