I can’t speak for everyone, but it seems to me the South Shore Drive is filling up with sissy-pants dogs.
Some readers will strongly object to the use of such an insulting term for man’s best friend, but what else can you say when you own the sweetest but wimpiest dog in the world? And I’m not speaking of Mr. Magoo, the pug. After all, he is a pug, and they are bred to be wimps and sit on laps.
No. I’m referring to Abby, our 8-year-old Setter mix. I’m not sure I’ve ever met more of a wussy. Loveable, but sheer wuss.
We were happy to provide a home and family for this handsome 70-pound black canine, and last summer before she moved in, Dick, naturally, anticipated hunting and taking long walks with her. After all, she is a big dog, and that is what they do. At least that is what every other big dog we’ve owned did.
Meanwhile, a neighbor at the other end of the South Shore Drive had adopted a large breed rescue dog and was also looking forward to its arrival. In conversations, during chance meetings, he and Dick discussed their up and coming situations, figuring they might see each other out on the road during long rambles with their new dogs.
Guess what? Both dogs have arrived and long since adapted to their new homes but the two men have never run into the other walking on the South Shore Drive. This is because neither dog likes to walk.
It appears both are loveable, friendly creatures who are totally disinterested in exercise. If a couch-potato contest were held, Abby would take first prize. She considers lounging on the sofa her favorite form of recreation.
If a sissy contest were held, she’d also win, hands down. I’ve never seen a bigger drama queen than Abby in cold weather.
After a few minutes of frigid cold, she stumbles and halts, lifting her front paws in the most piteous manner letting the world know her feet are frozen. Her pained face indicates that her feet might fall off if we don’t let her into the house, immediately.
Once she reaches the deck, she high-tails it to the front door where she circles pathetically, eventually crouching down with a martyred look urging me to flat out run and open the door. Doesn’t matter that I’m shoveling snow or feeding the birds, she wants in now.
Back in the warmth of the house, she plops down with a huge heavy dramatic thump directly in front of the living room heater and nestles as close as possible to the warmth without charring her hindquarters.
Maybe this summer, I’ll try to get her more interested in long walks, but I’ll wait until the thermometer reads +6o F or higher.
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