Leader of the Pack

I just growled at my dog. I think we've been spending too much time together.

I was sitting at the desk in front of my computer, checking a few websites and getting ready to update this mofo when I decided to indulge myself in a couple of the oatmeal & raisin cookies that Connor's great-grandma (that's Nana to you, bub) made for us today.

I had one cookie in my non-mouse-using hand while I munched on the other when I felt a slight nudge on this cookie-laden hand. I instinctively looked down and Murphy was making his move for it. For a second, I was stunned. He's usually a very well-behaved dog (unless he sees you walking your dog in the park, in which case, he'll turn into a drool-spewing looney — sorry), and to see him moving in on my turf isn't a regular occurence.

I gave him the requisite, "NO" and then growled at him when he didn't retreat fast enough for my liking. It seems that all the freebies that are coming his way now via a very friendly toddler acquaintance ("one for me, two for you") have taught him that he eats first and we take his leftovers. He's gotten so used to taking handouts that he'll eat pretty much anything that comes his way — carrots, bananas, spare change — whereas a few years ago he'd turn his nose up at most anything not up to snuff.

So, I growled at him. He immediately broke his stare and hustled off, his tail between his legs, glancing back at me from across the room with an obviously confused look that said, "What the hell, dad? I wasn't gonna TAKE it. Honest."

Order is restored. The big dog is riding high once again. You want some?