On Wednesday morning, I leashed up Boscoe and Riley to take them on their morning walk. Doug was getting ready for work, and I had the day off, so it was just the three of us.
We got halfway down the front sidewalk when Boscoe put the brakes on. Putting the brakes on is an old trick of his--he refuses to budge until we turn in the direction he wants to go.
Lately, he tries to make me turn to the right because he likes to chew on the tall grass over by the railroad tracks, but I try to get him to turn to the left so we can go down to the lake.
We have started having stand-offs.
But on Wednesday morning, I was not interested in a stand-off. I was interested in walking around the lake. I pulled. I tugged. Come on! We're going this way!
Finally he relented, and he trotted down the sidewalk behind me. But he was limping heavily.
You can imagine how that limp terrified me; it had been only a week since Boscoe had fallen on the trail.
I turned around immediately and brought the boys back into the house. Doug was tying his shoes. "What's wrong?" he said.
"That's odd--he wasn't limping earlier," Doug said. He called to Boscoe, who trotted over to him, perfectly fine. No limp.
That damn dog. It was all a ruse!
I leashed up Riley and took him around the lake.
Boscoe's punishment was that he had to stay home. Where Doug gave him extra scratches and a couple of Milk Bones before heading out to work.
My reward? I got to pick up two bags of Riley's poop.
You tell me who's the smart one in our house.
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