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THEY SAY A DOG'S A MAN'S BEST FRIEND, and that may be true, but I'm here to tell you it can be an irritatin' relationship, sho'nuff.


We once had a dog named Pico, a brown and black mutt we picked up at the pound, and he was a good friend. But he had an unbreakably bad habit of getting into the kitchen garbage when we were gone and strewing it all over the living room floor. Chicken carcass grease, coffee grounds, ketchup and various unmentionables smeared on that berber carpet, turning it from a pleasant off-white to a septic splotch that should have been secluded with crime scene tape.


Normally when I got home from work he'd greet me with great enthusiasm. If instead he held back and looked guilty, then we both knew he was.


Training proved hopeless so we turned to architecture, which worked fine as long as we remembered to shut cabinet doors nice and tight. Pico had some persistent aggravating personality quirks, but it was a sad day when he passed, really, a sad day.


Now let's haul our butts to the present day and behold Pico's successor in all such things, a mix of border collie and James Cagney pugnacity quite appropriately named Goon. He didn't do the things Pico did until after a bout of IMHA, which very nearly killed him. Most of him survived, though he lost several toes and thus became a bit gimpy.


Part of his treatment, and it will be ongoing, involves steroids. And steroids make a dog mighty hungry all the time. Suddenly, Goon is channeling Pico, eating (not just chewing) the crotches out of underwear, shoes, and just this morning strewed a bag of kitchen garbage all over the floor. If he doesn't die of chicken bone lacerations by the end of the day I'll count myself surprised.


But he's a good friend, anyway. He's a country dog, and a little too aggressively territorial to ever be mistaken for a "nice doggy" by any visitor he doesn't know, but I like him. I just have to remember, when my wife leaves a bag of garbage on the kitchen floor for me to take to the bin outside, I need to do it lickety split. Even with his gimpy feet he can bust into a sprint if he sees the opportunity to tackle a meal, be it a squirrel or a bag of trash.

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I WAS STANDING IN MY GARAGE AT SIX THIS MORNING WHEN I HEARD A FAMILIAR SCREAM. I ran out to the driveway to watch a fawn run in terror across my front lawn and driveway, screaming as it passed ten

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