Callie (my dog, Ian) is now just over a year old, and is turning out to be a ball-crazy border collie. I've discovered that, to Callie at least, I have one purpose in life: to Throw The Ball.
We have a yellow spiky football that we adore. The sole purpose of consciousness is to retrieve the ball or to tug on it. Either works, really.
I was trying to check my e-mail today when I felt a head insert itself under my arm, slipping into prime petting position. Fair enough, I thought, giving the dog a rub, then felt her slip away. A moment later, something fell into my lap, and I looked down to find the yellow football waiting for me. Callie stood at the ready, looking at me as if she had just given me the greatest gift the universe has ever known, and stepped back, waiting for the toss. I threw it, she retrieved it, and the cycle continued for several minutes. Eventually, I told her I didn't want to play any more, then turned from her sorrowful eyes to the MSN homepage.
A moment later, a piece of wet fleece landed in my lap, and I turned to see Callie's hopeful eyes and the other end of the fleece, which she was holding in her mouth.
The dog doesn't sleep. This might be a problem...
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