I’m house sitting for some friends. They have a dog. Samantha (Sam) is a white German Shepherd. She’s actually white and cream. Very pretty. She has a long snout. Sam has a chewed up tennis ball that she loves. So everytime I sit down to do something, like watch tv, write on this blog, exercise, it’s “throw my ball. Come on, throw my ball.” And with each progressive throw, the ball gets nastier to hold. Sam will run back immediately and chomp the ball a few times, just to make sure that it’s good and gooey. And she’s panting because it’s the most fun she’s had in the last three seconds. Sometimes she drops it, and sometimes she doesn’t. She is very good at responding to “drop it” though, which is far better than most dogs I know – especially those that enjoy the Keep Away game.
If I ignore the invitation to play ball, it is usually placed upon me in some fashion. This time, it’s in my lap, on my work clothes.
It’s sprinkling outside – thanks to Hurricane Simon (now defunct). Sam is afraid of the rain. Not just the thunder (not that there has been any) but the rain. Outside, it is slightly damp. Nothing terrible, in my mind. Just a tad damp. It took a lot of convincing to get her to go outside and do her business. In fact, I had to throw the ball in the yard just to get her to go into it. I have visions of coming home this afternoon to poop on the carpet. I hope not.
Some fierce protector she is. Her mother tells me that the fear comes from a tornado incident in Indiana when Sam was a puppy. That’d probably freak me out too.
My friends will return on Saturday. I have to say, I’m ready to not throw the ball.

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