Baleful Dog is Baleful

Emily is curled up in the center of her bed (which is large and round). For a 60 pound dog to take up a space that would normally fit a good-sized Thanksgiving platter is, I still think, an achievement. She is dozing, eyes closed, but every now and then she looks up at me with an expression I can only classify as baleful. As in: how could you do this to me? Why are you doing that noisy thing with your fingers and the silver box? Why is my life so tragic?

How could I improve her life? I suspect that playing footsie and tug of war for hours on end would be a good start. Lobbing bits of steak at odd intervals, just to keep things interesting, would doubtless help. Six or seven hours at the park, with periods of dozing in the sun and catching flung balls, would be good too. If only I would simply subsume my life in hers, perhaps the tragedy of her life would subside a bit.

This supports my ongoing theory that cats are situation comedies and dogs are hour-long dramas. I rarely have stories about The Weird Thing My Dog Did (whereas I used to have stories about my cat that would curl your hair), but I could tell you chapter and verse about the drama in Emily's life. In her own mind, anyway.