Pooka is staring at me. It's a pitiful sight. Staring, sniffing around the couch cushions, whining a whistly little whine through her nose, and watching me eat every morsel of a bran muffin. Sniffing the bag. Licking her chops. Geez, kid, it's not as if I'm starving you. The bag says four cups MAX per day, and that's what you're getting. Plus treats for sitting down nicely. Plus treats for coming back to me at the dog park. Plus treats for exploring the crate. Plus treats for ... you get the idea. And yet.
I'm trying to explain to her why we go in the crate, on the advice of a coworker/angel. "You see, Pooka, you need to go in here for a few hours because I have to go to work to earn the money that keeps us in squeaky toys and dog food. I will be back in 5 hours for a walk. I will not leave you in here forever. I promise." Yesterday she seemed to get it.
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