March 31, 2003
Sweet-faced girl.
9:30 p.m.
Ack. It feels like February out. Dusty is not a big fan of the elements. First it was the rain, now it's the wind. When a big gust comes along, she jumps and turns around, trying to figure out who ruffled her fur.
It's also cold out. I'm not the only one who's complaining. She sat down in the park this afternoon and looked up at me with pleading eyes: "Can we go inside?" Of course, once we're inside, she forgets all about the cold and wants to go back out again. Sometimes that amnesia hits as we're getting ready to go back inside.
The front porch blocks some of the wind and gets all of the sun. As we walked up the front stoop, Dusty suddenly stopped and refused to go any further. I looked in her brown eyes for answers and the reason was clear: she wanted to go walkies. Me? I wanted to go inside and rediscover my hands (they were numb; I wasn't wearing gloves). A classic impasse.
I had a size advantage, but I didn't want to use it. So I waited. I coaxed. I demanded. I went inside and closed the door, leaving Dusty stubbornly stranded on the other end of the leash. Nothing worked. I finally had to go pick her up, force her to go inside.
Early onset of doggy teen angst? A stubborn moment on a cold day? I'll never know. She did it again a few hours later, but this time I gently tugged, tugged again on the leash and she finally followed me indoors.