Coming Jan. 19: Robbie Forester and the Outlaws of Sherwood Street
This city was full of dogs cooped up all day who couldn’t wait to get outside. Pendleton wasn’t like that. He preferred the indoors, only wanting to go out when he was desperate, and he was capable of holding on for amazing amounts of time. I took the leash off the door, hooked it to his collar.
Pendleton didn’t move, just lay there on his side, tongue hanging out a bit, eyes vacant. I tugged on the leash, couldn’t budge him. “All right, all right—you can have a treat.”
He bounced up—maybe not bounced, but he did rise of his own accord—and hurried into the kitchen, stopping in front of the broom closet, where his treats were kept. Pendleton had proved over and over that he knew some words—outside, walk, come, no, and bad, forexample—but treat was the word he knew best. I took a box of biscuits, giant size, from the cupboard, and rattled it in front of his face. Now he was mine. I stuck a biscuit, just one, in my jacket pocket, collected a baggie and the scooper. He trotted after me to the door—his trot was clumsy and shambling, with a lot of side-to-side motion—down the stairs to the outside door and onto the street.
This entry was posted on Sunday, January 15th, 2012 at 7:55 am and is filed under Chet The Dog. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.