I am making the bed when I hear the happy patter of Angus' paws as he races up the stairs. He sticks so close to me in the house that his nickname could be Velcro. He loves to leap on the bed when I am trying to get the covers in order — something about the billowing sheets and the flying duvet is enthralling. But his enthusiasm makes bed-making impossible.
He arrives at the top of the stairs and I sigh, block the doorway, put my hands up in the halt position, and bark out, "Back!" A very useful command. It stops him cold.
Am I imagining it, though, or does his little face collapse in disappointment? He lies down on the hall rug and looks up at me — mournfully, I think.
I finish making the bed unmolested, but at what cost? Sometimes I worry that all of this training, all of this "Down" and "Stay" and "Leave it" and "Back" and "Come here," is making me a tyrant and breaking Angus' spirit.
On the walk earlier this morning, I made him stop staring down a squirrel. I wouldn't let him eat a piece of jelly toast (!) that was lying in the grass. I had him sit and lie down at every corner. I stopped him from barking at Billy, the amiable dog who lives down the street and who likes to lie in the doorway and watch the world go by.
Did Angus have any fun at all?
Of course, I only worry about this occasionally, when I feel like Angus is growing up too fast and losing his puppy playfulness — the same playfulness that, truth be told, had me on my last nerve a few weeks ago.
In the mornings, he is obedient to the core and so sweet it makes my heart hurt. He matches his pace to mine when we walk; he follows all commands, whether voice or gesture; he keeps an eye on me with those dark eyes and anticipates my next move. We can't even work on "Drop it" in the mornings, because I can't get him to put any contraband in his mouth.
