I’m on another dog sit; happily cohabitating with a couple of Boston terriers for a few days to immerse myself in the writing world. However, I have been distracted by a small moral dilemma. Today, I am wondering if it is always the right thing to do to tell the truth. In this case, do I tell these two new friends the truth:
Now, in the dog world, everyone knows that Bosties are in their own category. They march to a different drummer – an enthusiastic, energetic drummer, with no discernable sense of rhythm.
But these two Bosties are another thing entirely. There is no way that these two little puddings are aware that they are dogs. In case you’re skeptical, allow me to present my evidence for suspecting that my new roommates are delusional.
First, there’s the farting.
I have occasionally met dogs who look slightly chagrined by their own farts. Sometimes, puppies can be quite shocked to find they’ve sprung a leak. But never have I heard these dainty little squeaks that were clearly suppressed as much as possible, followed by a look of absolute mortification. I’m telling you, June (not her real name) looks like the organist at church who tried to fart during the loud part of the music and mistimed it tragically.
Second, the blankets.
I will allow that some dogs – often terriers – like to be snuggled under the blankets at night. But during the day? All day? And I’m pretty sure June switched beds once to get the blanket that matches her collar.
Third is the disdain for the great outdoors.
And no, it isn’t cold. Or raining. Or windy. It’s really nice. I know because I just returned from a lovely walk through beautiful trails. Without any dogs!
When I left on the walk, I tried to talk them into it even though their Mama said not to worry about walking them. It was so counter intuitive to leave the dogs to go for a walk, that I could barely do it. I decelerated unconsciously as I headed to the door, to the point that I was almost in slow motion by the time I reached the exit, using every doggy-approved version of the word WALK that I could think of. Nothing worked. Not even Walkies in my Ethel Murman voice.
I have to drag these two outside for a pee. Watching Roland (not his real name, but probably should be) tiptoe around the patio for a suitable spot to step off the concrete onto the – egads! – wet grass is a painful display of daintiness more befitting a middle-aged museum curator than a dog. Once the unpleasantness has been taken care of, he rushes back to his little bed with the fleecy blankets.
(Hold on a minute while I soak their kibble in hot water so it’s easier to chew.)
Where was I? Ah yes, the moral dilemma. Should I sit them down and tell them that they are – and I’m whispering now – dogs? I’m pretty sure they would just look back at me with the look of incredulity that I have received with each suggestion of walk. Or play. Or fetch. Or anything that could be classified as a ‘dog thing’.
Perhaps I should test my theory first and suggest a museum visit to Roland? Perhaps an organ recital for Miss June? If that gets a different response, I’ll know. But that still won’t solve my dilemma. Tell them they’re dogs, or continue to play along?
Sometimes dog-sitting is a lot more complicated than you’d think.
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