Dog money

Mooshy struts around the house like he's some kind of mob boss; insisting his entitlement to all things human. I try to remind him once in a while with half a bottle of water dumped over his head that *I* am the original gangster but he is generally nonplussed.

Otherwise, the little mongrel is turning out to be fairly well trained - perhaps the snipping action had something to do with it after all (now there's a thought - emasculation made him smarter...there's a thesis in there somewhere I'm sure.) Whatever the reason, he suddenly understands 'sit', 'lay down', 'go outside', 'time for bed', 'find your ball', 'shake', 'hide and seek', and a number of other good-dog things. Hamid and I showcase Mooshy's skills to eachother daily and marvel over how terribly smart and cute he is. Like all dog parents we think our very own is the best and brightest of the breed, and as far as I'm concerned he is, except for the fact that he won't actually do *anything* we ask of him unless there's food involved.

Toward a semblance of order in the house we buy five dollar bags of gigantic dried strips of buffalo meat, his favorite bedtime snack; now referred to in sing-song, whenever we really do need him to listen, as 'beefalo'. Mooshy's mafioso attitude melts to pliable tail wagging furball whenever a chunk of beefalo is presented. Beefalo, I have discovered, is the currency of love in these parts. It's how I buy his cooperation. Where just a minute ago he was happily ignoring my increasingly anxious requests to stop jumping on the nice (frightened) man who came to deliver our water; now, like a paid stooge he waits, meek at calf level, sniffing anxiously after the dead beast in my pocket. Not so tough after all; easily bought. The man heaves 20 litres of water at us and scoots out through the garden gates just as fast as his little legs will carry him. Mooshy, blissfully unaware that his victim is escaping, noshes on his fix. Peace reigns supreme. For now.