Whoever said I was normal?

Who's the boss? It's me, enjoying my new ball from Unleashed.

That's what great-grandma used to say whenever Mom questioned her about her atypical habits. Great-grandma loved me, so I invoke her comeback almost daily.

Take tonight, for instance. All of the neighborhood, it seemed—ok, four people, which is a substantial percentage of our neighborhood's population—was out walking, enjoying the evening air. All, except for my family.

Sure, they tried to put me on the leash and drag me down the driveway, but I was having none of it. If you've ever seen a two-year-old terrorize his or her parents, just picture that two-year-old as a 90-lb. toddler with four really long legs.

That's right.

I do like a good, old-fashioned passeggiata after dinner, but part of that old Italian ritual has to do with seeing and being seen. And mio piccolo quartiere just doesn't do it. No, after the evening meal, I yearn for more...is Wellesley Square too much to hope for? I think not.

So when they finally realized the walk wasn't happening and decided I would just have to suffer the consequences, blah, blah, blah, and Dad opened up the garage to get his basketball, I stood, Roman statue-like, by the car until Mom got the hint, opened up the hatch, and let me in.

I lay down in the back for a while, plenty long enough for them to realize that it might be a whole lot easier if we did things my way next time. Call it the new normal.