4 p.m., and I'm raring to go. So I make the appropriate noises, nudge my leash, and plaster myself to the door to the garage. There's only one way I go after 4 p.m., and that's by C-A-R.
Mom, thinking she's going to win this one, coaxes me to the front door. She wants to walk, not drive, after she's just filled the wagon with gas at $3.15 per gallon. And blah, blah, blah. She's complaining that she's going to put on all her gear, make sure she has this, has that, etc., etc. and that after she's all ready, I'll refuse to go.
I'm good at this. So good, in fact, that when my very first blog follower came for a visit, I pulled the same trick. The idea was we all were going for a walk to Morses Pond. No one, of course, consulted moi.
"Does he like his crate?" this dear person asked. Mom practically snorted.
Sure, I like it just fine, and just long enough for Mom to give up and drive me to a nice, big field. After all, I like to do things one way—my way.