Bad Dog
Damn, busted. All I really wanted was one, two max, you know, just a taste. But the whole bag fell to the floor and then I couldn't stop. Gone: one bag of yogurt covered pretzels. Master buys them in bulk; must've been two or three handfuls in there. That of course made me thirsty as hell and by the time I'd nearly drained half my water bowl I felt Master behind me, staring down disapprovingly at the empty bag on the floor. Busted.
"What's this?!"
What answer was he expecting? I offered nothing, just put the ol' tail between the legs and stepped lighlty toward the front door. I sat down, face penitent.
"Sure, a belly full of pretzels and water and now you need to go out."
(Emphasis Master's). I redoubled my look of contrition.
I didn't dawdle outside -- I found the first snow berm near the garage, raised my rear leg and fired, then marched obediently back inside, up the stairs, and plopped down in the most anonymous place I could find.
What's making me feel even more bad about this is that Master has been sick - really sick - since Wednesday. He finally went to a doc 'n the box today to get some whoop ass antibiotics prescribed. In spite of all that he's been making sure that I'm taken care of.
What's the line in that TV commercial after someone commits a major gaffe: "Wanna get away?"
Oh well, tomorrow night he has two tickets to Rob Becker's comedy "Defending the Caveman" at the Anchorage Performing Arts Center. Hmm, wonder who he's taking?