With all three dogs on the back porch, and with a gentle cold rain falling, I walk out into the yard and squat down near the stand of bamboo, just out of the dogs' sight, reasoning that their curiosity will soon overcome them and they will run out to find me. Everything is soaked to the bone--the plants, the patio stones.
I wait. Through a crack in the bamboo culms I can see them staring nervously at each other, not sure what to do, debating about whether I am worth the trouble.
Forget about curiosity. Isn't it just common decency to come out and see if I am OK? Maybe I've slipped on the stones and hurt myself. Or maybe I'm doing something fun--wouldn't a dog at least come out to see what I'm doing, at least pretend that I am slightly interesting and fun? Are your little paws so delicate that you can't walk on wet stones? Even you, Willow?
I wait, resolved to wait it out.
Finally little Dewey cannot hold himself back; he trots out to see me. What a good, good boy. I'm taking you to lunch today, little man.
I go back to the porch and Jam is staring out, pretending that he is still conflicted about the incident, pretending that he really wanted to come see me. Bull.
Jam and I both know that he wasn't ever getting off that porch, not even if I stayed out there for an hour or a day, not even if I bribed him with chewy treats, not even if the porch caught on fire or became infested with snakes. He was never moving off that porch.
What a complete and total baby.
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