He Made Me Do It

It was a long day. When we got home, I didn't have the energy to speak. The bed was calling, but the keyboard won -- it usually does.

As I was sitting there at the keyboard, the dog kept coming into the room. Each time, the clinking of his collar preceded him. He would come around the corner, come up to my chair and gaze up at me. I would reach down with my left hand but otherwise ignore him.

He did this several times, gradually becoming more insistent. The dog tags clinked. He came around the corner. He looked up. I reached down. Finally, he pawed my legs.

He pawed at me several times. Each time I would say, No, and he would turn around and leave the room. One time, I let him jump up. He sat in my lap as I typed, and he wagged his tail and poked his nose in my face and made himself as disruptive as possible.

And then he turned and sat down and looked me in the eyes.

He was right in front of me. I couldn't see the screen. He sat down and stared straight into my eyes. I had no choice but to look back. He didn't bark. He didn't whine. He just stared. And I knew just what he was saying.

Ok, I said.

I stood up and pushed the keyboard aside. I went into the bedroom and changed my clothes. I got the leash, and we went running.

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