The Guy and I attempt to eat supper out on our deck at least one night a week when the weather holds. Most afternoons, The Guy can be found putting around in the yard -- watering, mowing, wandering -- while I sit on the covered swing and read like the lady of
And where is the dog, you might ask?
Waiting to be let back into the house, of course.
I hear stories of people whose dogs go outside and play for hours. By themselves! They run and jump and dig and sleep and do all of this on grass and without cover of a roof. I have told Monty these stories. He does not believe me either.
It may come from being a small dog or a dog who spent his first year without a fence so had to be watched every moment in the outdoors for fear he would run after a rabbit and be eaten. It may come from the fact he is a princess who does not like to get his feet wet, or muddy, or snowy. It may come from the fact that he has no idea how to play with a person or dog let alone by himself. Either way, Monty detests the outdoors.
If we let him, he would go to the bathroom inside.
One particular night, The Guy and I were enjoying some free time together out on the swing. We sat, drank Iced Tea, and talked about our day and our plans for the next. After pacing by the door to be let back inside, Monty finally acquiesced to come sit with us on the swing. However, he did it with such reluctance that I could hear his eyes rolling back in his head and could see that, if he could talk, he would have said FINE! with the annoyance only a teen girl can muster.
We attempted to continue to enjoy our evening. But every time I so much as moved an inch, Monty was leaping off the swing, bolting up the stairs and pawing at the backdoor.
Yes, I get it, Monty. You're an inside dog.