You always reckon your dog is a genius. Brightest of the bunch.
Sometimes they want to be boss too and that's when the battles start.
Take today. Freezing, frosty morning, out on the fields with a whanger
and three balls. Two to fill a Staffie gob and another to throw.
He
likes to feel something squidgy between his teeth. Hey ho. So, round we
go, him looking like a cancer victim with two large tumours in his
face and me humouring the daft beast. Till we get to the end. Two balls
back in the bag, one to go. Made the mistake of asking for it.
He
would have carried it all the way back, huffing heavily up the hill as
it blocked his airway, but he would have made it. Foolishly though, I
ask for it. So now I have to have it.
Otherwise he wins. Nobody
wants a Staffie, however wonderful, to win with his teeth. So I grab the
ball. There's space in there, he can, after all easily accommodate two
tennis balls, and I hold on. Did you get that? I have my fingers
between his jaws. And he's rumbling! But I can't let go.
We spend
ten minutes in the frosty wood locked in combat. Until he finally sees
reason, because I wasn't going to. He tugs a lot, gets nowhere, and
finally loosens off. Victory was very sweet! He got a stack of praise
for that. What a good dog! Until the next time.
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