Location, Location, Location

I’ve found definitive proof that reincarnation exists.

At least for some people. I’m convinced that realtors are reincarnated as dogs.

How do I know this? Because apparently, as with all real estate, the defining characteristic of appropriateness is “Location, Location, Location”.

Even for potty.

It’s gotten colder this week. Enough so that it’s no longer pleasant to go out in the pre-dawn in gym shorts and a T-shirt or even a flannel robe while waiting for El Doggo Importante to conduct his morning ablutions.

So here’s how it happens.

Sometime, between 4:30 and 5:30 in the morning – he is as much a morning lark as any of us – we hear a whimper from the crate that we euphemistically refer to as his “bed”. By the time it increases to the sporadic “yip”, the meaning is clear.

If we don’t go out RIGHT NOW he’s not going to be responsible for the consequences.

So I put on something warm and go out in the yard with our nifty new leash that has the flashlight built in.

This is necessary if that plastic bag is going to do any good in the pre-dawn darkness.

All that’s not so bad. After all, as I approach 50, I have to get up in the night, too. I can’t really blame the dog if he can’t hold it all night long. The difference is, my target is somewhat specific. I want to get to the bathroom and back into the bed as quickly as I can.

Not so for the pup. Any trip outdoors is an opportunity to explore the yard just to make sure that it hasn’t changed in the last 6 hours.

He’s an herb dog. It’s kinda like a drug dog, except he goes around the yard in a definable pattern sniffing the herbs growing in the flower beds – cilantro, oregano, basil – the big three that we know are gateway herbs to the hard stuff. You talk to them about responsible choices, but who knows if he’s listening.

Only after he’s made these rounds can he piddle on the ground.

Then, of course, we have to use ALL the leash to go around the entire yard sniffing at every stray leave or weed, checking out the view, the breeze, and who knows what else in that little fuzzy head until finally he can go potty.

He sniffs a spot. Nope. Not that one.
Then another. Nope. Not quite right.
How about over here? Nah, that’s not good, either.

It goes on for a seemingly interminable period of time until he finally picks a location which, for the life of me, I can’t tell from the dozen he checked out before that.

Then I either realize that I was too sleepy to bring a plastic bag or I put the flashlight to use.

After that, we go back into the house, but not to sleep. After all, if we’ve done our business, that means we get a cookie. We sit and look at the cookie jar on the counter, hoping to levitate the cookies down to puppy level since all the tall people in the room are lots more interested in making that dark stuff to drink instead of takin’ care of business like they ought to be.

Little dogs do not understand that brain cells do not work clearly until they’ve had coffee administered.

The dog food, of course, is right there, so everyone ought to get their breakfast. He’s not yet acquired the taste for coffee or he’d understand why that happens before the dog’s bowl is filled.

And we’re up to greet the day. Our schedules aren’t yet in sync. He wants to play while I’m drinking my coffee and reading the paper. By the time I’m awake, he’s ready for a nap.

On my recliner.
Or the couch.
And on very rare occasions, his bed.

If it’s in the right location.