Where The Rubber Meets The Road

We eventually got an indoor dog. Noelle had initially wanted a giant, ass-kicking superdog, but realized that our situation and living environment wouldn’t support such a choice.

So, we got a little anklebiter – not that he’d ever bite – of a Bischon Frise, and appropriately named him Spike, short for William The Bloody. Take a bow, Buffy fans.

Crating Spike proved less than effective, which didn’t much bother us, since it’s a hit-and-miss technique, and we (Spike included) were happier with him roaming freer than that.

Anyway, all of the above to say that the downstairs quarter-bath became Spike’s bedroom for his first year of life. Recently, however, he has progressed in both temperament and training to the point that he now shares a bedroom with Noelle and I. At first, Spike relished his new arrangements, busily snuffing around the new digs, and generally behaving in that doglike blend of excitability and contentment.

This evening, however, he paced the room restlessly, frequently coming to a stop at the door and emitting a forlorn whine, then returning to the bed to gaze at me with his puppy eyes laden with meaning.
“What’s wrong, fluffy boy?” I asked him. “Have you already figured out it’s just a bigger bathroom?”

He continued to stare in his affectionate and inquisitive way, and I scratched behind his furry ears.
“I hate to break it to you, buddy, but they’re all just bigger bathrooms,” I told him. “Even for Mummy and Daddy.”
How lucky for him that – being a dog, and a barely more than a pup, at that – he had no idea what I was talking about. The rest of us have to muddle through, from bathroom to bathroom.