Toby so owns us. On Friday we thought the best news we would have was that we could bring home a sick dog. We were hoping we would have him through the summer, or at least until after Kate came home. Not that I am prone to hyperbole or anything. I forgot that he actually has nine lives (this was his fourth one, but who is counting).
We brought home a tired dog, but so far he seems to be enjoying the attention. And the hamburger, and the beef bologna, and the cheese slices. In fact he passes the kibble and stands at the refrigerator and waits for me to bring his real dinner. We gave him a bath, and lots of brushing, and my friend Lisa even taught me how to do Reiki healing on him. I also bought him a new bed, which he has ignored (which shouldn’t be a surprise, because he has always ignored dog beds, but it seemed like the right thing to do.) He’s perking up a little more everyday, and I am hopeful that by the end of week we will be able to genuinely say “Toby, you are SUCH a doofus.”
For now he just sits on our bed, like the king he so clearly thinks he is. He must think he’s special or something.