I know that Hank loves us and is thankful for the loving home we have given him. He shows it. The other night he jumped up in bed next to me and collapsed, exhausted, from one of his typical energy-filled days. Moments later he lifted his head and looked over at me, thumped his tail wildly for a moment, and then collapsed again to snore loudly beside me. But tonight I wondered if perhaps Hank misses some small element of his former hunting dog life as he spent 45 minutes stalking a fly buzzing around our bedside lamp. Surely this is a poor substitute for a mallard or a pheasant? Surely skulking around the bed from nightstand to nightstand lacks the vigor of bounding into a lake or across a field? Surely the texture of a fly in one's jowls disappoints when compared to a fleshy, feathered mouthful? Or maybe with a tummy happily stuffed full of premium dogfood, rawhide chews, liver snaps, and table scraps snatched from a kindergartener the fly is like a rare French delicacy capping off a multi-course meal?
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
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