The Observer

Many writers are observers. That is, they watch people and situations more than engage in them. This describes me. My new little pup was the same.

The Observer

January 2016, winter, I would let him out and then watch him through the window. He was content to sit at the end of my sidewalk and examine his surroundings, without running off. 

Parking himself to see what was going on became such a routine for him, I began to call him "The Mayor of East Street." I was so pleased that he was content to stay in the yard, on his own.
 
"We're going to get along fine," I concluded.

But trouble again introduced itself. A red flag was raised when I took him for a walk. Having been born and raised his first four months on a ranch, where he had freedom, the leash idea was a puzzlement to him.

"What?"

We stepped outside and he pulled on the leash. For the first time in his life, he was not in charge. At least for a few minutes. Then he regained control of the situation...

Petey holding the leash in his mouth.

For any parents among the readers here, remember pushing your toddler in the stroller, and then one day he (or she) wanted to get out and push the stroller himself? You held onto the handle while he wrapped his pudgy hands on the side bars. You had to straddle the kid to keep up while he repeated, "I want to do it! I want to do it!"

That would be a good picture of how my first walk with Petey went.