As much as I like dogs, I’m not sure they’re for everyone — my wife included. Sure, Sophia loves Prometheus (it’d be hard not to fall for the little bugger), but his less reputable behavior often clashes with her germaphobic tendencies. Last night’s episode proved a perfect case in point.
In an attempt to distract Sophia from her vexation over the “Body O’ Christ” incident, I invited her to witness Prometheus fetching sticks. I’ve been working diligently with him for the past week, and he’s become quite adept at the game. The three of us adjourned to the backyard, and the critter obliged me with several successful toss and returns.
Delighted with her “son’s” performance, Sophia decided to give the activity a whirl. She launched a suitable specimen to the edge of the woods and told Prometheus: “fetch.” As commanded, he bounded toward the stick’s landing zone and then commenced a thorough sniffing of the entire area. It took him a bit of wandering and time, but at last he trotted back to her with his mouth firmly clamped around the retrieved object.
From a distance, I could tell he’d returned with a shorter and thicker stick than the one Sophia threw. She noticed too. But seeing his nubbin wagging contentedly, she didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d fetched incorrectly. Instead, she held out her hand and simply told him: “drop the stick.” He obeyed. Only, the item he deposited squarely onto my wife’s bare palm wasn’t so much a small, fallen tree branch as … a half-dried log of dog poop.
I wonder if Sophia has begun to regret her four-legged father’s day gift. Perhaps I can pose the question upon her return from work today. When she finally emerged from her marathon shower session last night, looking like a shriveled beet, I didn’t dare ask.
A proper fetching stick