I'm not what you would call a dog person. Of course, it's true that, next to the television's remote control, dog is man's best friend. Perhaps my justified ambivalence toward Poochicus Biteyourbuttabit is due to too many an untoward encounter with the snarling, hydrophobic malevolence of a Fido, a Rover, a Rin Tin Tin, intent on my evisceration. This since toddlerhood. I have scars yet upon my person that prove my canine-fanged point. Would I lie to you, dear and curious reader?
Fast forward past a quarter-century of caring for dozens of family pets - both canine and feline (don't get me started on Miss Kitty and her dozen siblings!).
My current assignment is housesitting, and that with a most unusual doggie in attendance. She is what is commonly termed "a love" and is a lumbering ottoman, though she actually hails from Oz. She and I have the same monikers in real life, which may cause you, the discerning reader, to scratch your proverbial noggin. But names truly are not at issue here. What is at issue is whether or not I shall become a worthy care-provider for Cara Mia. She has caught me totally off my guard. With ravenous abandon, our well-padded lady broke into an unattended, opened can of dog food. She was licking her capacious chops when I caught her.
She was not the least embarrassed.
She dropped the can at my feet and let out a lusty belch, all the while wagging her tail ...