Thank you, Sydney, for another Saturday morning event. You come bark at me; I get up; you go back to bed and sleep some more. I particularly like the way you raise your head from your pre-going back to sleep position and follow me walking around with your eyes. What keeps me from pouncing on you and grabbing your ears and pretending you are a motorcycle and I am riding you? Vroooooom! You didn’t think of that, did you? Well, of course, not. If I did something so heinous, all your little admirers would come running and I would be placed in a cell of shame with words or reprimand taped on the bars for me to read as I sit on my little prison cot.

You  .. . . . FURHEAD!  YOU SLEEPING FURHEAD!  I guess I will just have to go eat something tasty while you are sleeping, something like last night’s grilled hamburgers. Or maybe steak? Or Girl Scout Lemon Cookies . . . you know you love them.

Maybe I’ll just sit here and lean and NAP myself. How about that . . . FURHEAD?

I mean, who was it who spent two months on a futon with you when you broke your leg so you would stay calm? Who carried you in and out to do the bathroom thing – so, okay, once I did misjudge and knock your cast on the doorframe. Who fixes you rice and drained buffalo meat because you have a system vulnerable to pancreatitis?

Oh, wait. Is this some hazing thing? Some initiation into honorary doghood? That would be such an honor. Do I get a little pair of fur ears to wear? Whoa, I’m getting excited.