The Taming of the Arrow

I’m not sure this house is big enough for two dogs. I have things all worked out. I get my ears scratched and my belly rubbed almost on demand—especially from certain people. I've got my favorite sleeping places on the bed, on the couch, under the bed, under the table, under the blue thing, and on feet.

I know all the places to look for food-related things when everyone has gone to sleep. Popsicle sticks near the TV. Tasty napkins on the table. Arrow has no appreciation of the finer things. He’s too busy carrying toys and shoes up and down the stairs.

Today, as my owner mom came in, Arrow ran out the door. I know he’s new and had to pee, but he seriously cut into my greeting time. My owners are well trained to do a lot of rubbing and petting—and even hand out treats—when they come in. Instead, my owner mom ran out to the street with a couple of leashes, yelling for Arrow, who conveniently forgot his name. I followed. While she was screaming at a man to grab Arrow, I found some regurgitated pizza, with just a hint of pepperoni, laying right in the grass. Our neighborhood is just an All-You-Can-Eat Buffet in the summer. Of course, I didn’t get much before I was busted, leashed, and practically dragged down the sidewalk. Arrow didn’t even notice. He was searching for the perfect tree to pee
on.

In the park, I have my friends. I chase them around or just relax. I know where to find chicken bones and leftovers under benches and around the trash by the picnic tables. Arrow, on the other paw, could care less about licking gourmet garbage. He’d rather race around, greeting everything that moves. And when I grab him by the ear to get him back, my owner mom thinks I’m being cruel. There’s a difference between herding and hurting.