Not-My-Dog

There’s this dog. Really he’s a tragedy. His official, AKC name is Bartholomew J. Simpson. (We call him Simpson or Simmy for short.) He’s had 4 owners so far in his life. The first one died tragically, the second one died tragically, the third – you guessed it – died, and the last was away from home all day which made this very-much-a-people-dog miserable. He’s living at our house while we find him a new place to live.

The problem is that he’s decided that he’s MY dog. He follows me around like Lassie. He tries to make sure I’m within his sights at all times and, according to eyewitness reports, cries when I go to the grocery store. He’s decided that Abby is my puppy and so she needs protecting.

Have I mentioned that he’s over 100 pounds of purebred yellow lab?

With a bum right knee?

And some current gastrointestinal issues?

This not-my-dog sleeps in *my* room. He sits by *my* chair at dinner. He tends not to pull when *I* hold his leash. *I* cooked him rice for his upset tummy.

I keep telling him he’s not my dog, but I don’t think he’s listening. I might not be listening, either.