Arriving home on Monday evening, I changed clothes before talking Wylie out for his walk. While I was putting on my sneakers, Wylie hopped up on the bed, looked at me, and gave a short bark, “Rowf?”
“It was OK,” I replied. “How was your day?”
The next three minutes were filled with a cacophonous barking diatribe covering the rising price of milk bones, a world domination plot by cats and squirrels, and a concern that invisible ninja squirrels are developing an acorn-bomb.
I shouldn’t have asked.