Be Glad You're Not a Dog

Be glad you're not a dog. Especially be glad you're not a dog in the Midwest. How would you like it if your whole life all you've ever known is green grass and temperate weather in which to do your business? Our little Christmas Eve pup probably was too young last winter to be out in the snow. Last night we had our first real snow. So this morning she scratched on the back door to signal she needed to go potty outside. I hooked her up to the tie-out, opened the door and looked down to wait for her to leave my side. She stood there. She looked around and felt the gale of a wind blowing across our back deck. "On second thought. . . " she seemed to say, and turned around to try another time. "Fine," I thought. You'll have to give in eventually. Two more times she scratched at the door and then chickened out. Finally on the 3rd or 4th try, she must have internally bucked herself up and ran out the door. Is there an Olympic contest for going poo and potty in lightening speed? If so, our Kip may have won the contest this morning. Out she ran, kicked up her hind legs in playful glee, and got right down to business. Thatagirl, Kip! In she came and -- she made me glad I'm not a dog.