(pause for a moment before I start writing this blog — I’m watching Daniel Tosh on Netflix and this guy is so freaking realistically funny that a conservative suburban midwestern middle aged guy like myself should NOT be laughing this hard)
Nick is not giving up the couch. No way. There are pillows there. Steve is sitting next to me and allowing me to have his space because he feels guilty for yelling at me.
Yeah, I did.
My sheltie does not like for anyone to leave the house. As soon as the shoes, or coat, or keys come out, he goes into freak out mode. He has separation anxiety, I guess, and from what I read it’s not uncommon for his breed. Nick has an excuse to be the way he is. The dog was born that way.
I guess I could make a Lady Gaga reference here. But I’m conservative midwestern middle aged Christian. I am supposed to hate Lady Gaga. I do, but it has nothing with the way she chooses to entertain. I don’t like having my intelligence insulted.
Back to Nick.
When I decided to venture out into the world outside of my two story home this morning, Nick freaked. I was sitting on the couch while I put on my shoe. Nick jumped up next to me, barking, then jumped from the couch right on my surgically repaired foot.
Yes, it hurt. And I yelped.
Nick was immediately at my feet, apologizing and shivering. He also is very much a human pleaser and his human was not pleased. Gone was the separation. In its place was sorrowful remorse. HIs ears were flat. If dogs cried tears, Nick would have been weeping.
“Come on up here, Nick” and I patted the couch next to me. I cried a few tears with him as I put my cheek next to his muzzle and petted him between the ears for a few minutes. “It’s OK.”
I waited a few minutes until he calmed down. Man’s best friend let me leave in silence. Nick earned a few minutes of comfort on the couch. I even tossed him a few potato chips.