After living together for going on 6 years, I’ve had a revelation: my dog is me. Those of you who know my family may think I’m referring to Bobo, our pug. He is lazy, fat and generally clueless (wait a minute . . . maybe Bobo is me, too . . .). But it’s Wilson, the little white fluffy dog, in whom I have seen myself.
- Looks cute (well, we each have our moments), acts grumpy
- Likes the thought of meeting new people, but on his own terms
- Loves snacks
- Engages in destructive behavior when bored
- Has bad hair days with regularity
- Hates crowds of people (unless there are snacks)
- Loves going on hikes
- Enjoys a good spa day (until it’s time to do his hair)
- Teases his housemates (until the cat comes back at him, then he retreats)
- Every so often, with a devilish look in his eye, ignores all the rules
I don’t know what this says about him or me, but it sure explains a lot about the little human-like monster we’ve been living with.
I’ve seen the enemy, and he is me.