Dog has trained me well (much like Lucy did).
If I come home from work and Addie's not here, and Dog's acting fussy, I'll put him outside on his line. And after that, if he's still fussy, I'll hang out with him on the couch. Or even take him for another walk. Or treats. Whatever will sate him (reason #876 why I'd be a terrible mother).
So, Dog, being the wundernut that he is, has learned that if he sits at my feet and whines hysterically, and gives me this face
I do this for a few reasons. 1) I love Dog and it's not an issue for me to do things that'll make him happy; b) I know that 99.99998% of Addie's emotional and physical well-being is tied directly to Dog, and if any harm should befall him while under my care, like a stroke-inducing anxiety attack or a bladder infection, I'm almost definitely sure that Addie would hold me criminally responsible; and finally, there are few things more frustrating than a fussy being who cannot communicate what's making him fussy and is determined to make you suffer for it (same can be said for human babies).
So of course, Dog waited til I was in my writing clothes (usually an unfortunate combination of boxers, t-shirt and my "Cleveland Steamers" hoodie), and since I was lazy, I just took him for a walk in my totally classy outfit. And while we were walking, a truck passed us, and this skeezy guy leaned out and was like HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY GIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRLLL as he sped by.
That, ladies and gentlemen, marks the first time a white dude has ever hoot and hollered at me.
In North Carolina.
In my squirrel print boxer shorts.
In my red crocs.
I still got it, baby.