es. There she stands dressed in

							es. There she stands dressed in long johns, pajamas, sweat
pants, hooded sweatshirt, flannel housecoat, jacket, coat,
gloves, hat, scarf, and ear muffs and then has the audaci-
ty...the utter, unmitigated gall...to order me out. Then she
stands by the door window and watches me.
But don’t worry, I have my own routine. At first, I act like
I don’t hear her. I stay in my bed and pretend to sleep
soundly. Then, just as she hits 6 on the angry-pet-owner-
o-meter, I “wake up” and yawn. It’s my really cute yawn,
followed by some ultra-cute lip-smacking. Humans are
such suckers for that. After a little “ooh”-ing and “aw”-ing,
I follow her. Then I cut down the hall toward the living
room. She is forced to follow. There I sit in the middle
of the room and do my little schtick: “Who, me?...You...
mean...me?...Are you sure you’re talking to me, because it
could be the other dog....Oh, right, right, right, we don’t
have another dog....So, the cat, then? The cat needs to go
outside?....” It doesn’t work, but it’s a lot of fun getting
there, you know.
We reach an uncomfortable detente. I slowly edge toward
the door, making sure to shoot her the dead-dog-walking,
condemned-pet look. She barely registers any hint of re-
morse. Don’t get me wrong, if this were July, I would love
to be out on one of these morning sniff-and-pees, but,
come on, in February you need an ice pick and shovel to
drill down to a decent scent.
It’s tempting to race outside and go the bathroom, but
part of the fun is in testing my human’s patience. Some-
times, I pause on the porch and sniff
the friggin’ frigid arctic air that
she sent me into. Eventually,
though, I do what I have to
do and she smiles. I wonder
if she’s more relieved than I am.
All is apparently forgiven because
when I come back in, I get a treat.
‘Just wonderin’ what would hap-
pen if I used the cat’s litter box
tomorrow morning...




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