We are snuggled on the bed, Stormy the Wonderdog and I, me working on the laptop, he curled close to my legs. Sound asleep. SNORING, even. And the doorbell rings. And he IMMEDIATELY jumps up to attention and runs to the door, pawing to get out of the bedroom so he can get to the front door AND ANSWER IT DAMMIT.
As of yet, the front door has never been for him, so I am perplexed as to his incredible desire to ANSWER THE DOOR. He is worse than a teenage girl waiting for that special boy to call. The teenage girl might have a chance. Stormy? I really don’t think that anytime soon I’ll be answering the door to a cadre of dog friends who want him to come out and play “Sniff my butt.”
He has also turned into a FEROCIOUS protector of all things Collins. The house. The children. The dog treats. Aha, I think I sense a trend. If Stormy could talk, he would say, THEY ARE AFTER THE TREATS. THE DOG TREATS. HIDE THE TREATS. He doesn’t run to the door expecting that poodle from across the road to be there. No. He thinks that EVERYONE who comes to the door is after the DOG TREATS.
That’s all I can figure.