Dogs don’t get it

On most mornings the dogs wander into the bathroom just as I’m finishing my shower. It’s the walk-in type, and that’s exactly what they like to do when I’m done. Walk in and lick the water on the tiles and drain.

Before you report me for mistreating animals, I’d like to assure you that there are multiple bowls of fresh, clean water in the house. I fill the one in the kitchen at the same time I load up the coffee maker each morning.

Why they love the shower water, I don’t know. Dogs. Go figure.

Anyway, this morning I finished, toweled off, went through the usual routine and got dressed. No dogs. Where could they be?

Here they are. Looking out the window on my bed.

Is that woman every going to take us outside for a walk again? Bitch.
Is that woman every going to take us outside for a walk again? Bitch.

They do that every morning, too, but this morning I suspect they didn’t jump off to slurp up shower puddles because they were mesmerized by the view. The sun is shining and the snow is twinkling like an ice dancer’s tutu. I mean, it is gorgeous out there this morning. Postcard perfect.

I suspect they were thinking what I was thinking:  has the promised rise in temperatures started already? Could we maybe – just maybe – go outside for a walk?

I pulled up Accuweather on my phone and the temperature was . . . minus one degree. Yeah, and that’s Farenheit, folks.


The dogs are still wistfully looking out the window, this time from an armchair next to my desk. Richie even growled a little for no apparent reason just a second ago. I think he’s pissed because, well, dogs don’t get it.

The last time I tried to walk them just a teensy bit on a sunny, super-cold day like this, we didn’t even get to the end of the driveway. Little Richard started hopping around like he was dancing on a hot skillet to the tune (no doubt) of “Tutti Fruity.” And Mick Jagger just threw himself on the ground, refusing to walk another step.

I rushed them back to the house to remove their coats and warm up their poor, cold little paws. I could possibly get dog boots on Mick, by  the way, but it would take all morning to chase and wrestle neurotic Richie into any kind of foot protection, by which time, Mick would have gnawed his off.

It’s supposed to get up into the mid 30’s this week. If only I could explain and ask them to be patient. I want to go outside, too!

But dogs just don’t get it.

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