Must love dogs
I have a dog. Well, to be more accurate, a dog has me. We named him Stewie because he seemed to have plots being hatched behind his deep brown eyes and fringe. He was 4 years old, had come from a family who lived in the country, and was nervous of men, especially those with bags or umbrellas. Don was the only man he allowed near him. It took about 2 weeks for him to fully train Don to get up, go for walks, and provide snacks on demand. When Don took a nap, Stewie took a nap, lying in the same position. When hockey was on, Stewie sat and watched intently. He learned our routines, and promptly took over. He would wake me every morning at 6, and paw on the bed until I got up. He would remind Don of the time to come pick me up from work – and the time to take him for walks. Once we welcomed him into our home, there were certain things that we gave up – the ability to sleep in on weekends; the ability to use the bathroom without a small furry face staring at you; the option to sta