I have a dog. A dog who, as I write this, is curled up quietly on the sofa, probably dreaming about dog things: Chasing squirrels. Riding in the car. His fake doggy girlfriend in California whom he’s never actually met.
And, just like every other night, before we go to bed, I’ll open up the back door so he can prance out into the yard to drop a toaster-sized stinker on my lawn. Which I’ll promptly pick up some time next month. Maybe.
This entire routine required a learning curve that took all of about a week when he was just a puppy.