Dirty Harry

Harry is the dog which we got from the pound on his last day. He is a chocolate lab, short and stocky, and one of the nicest dogs I have ever met. When my first dog I adopted as an adult died, I vowed to never give my heart to a dog again. And I didn't.

Until Harry.

He didn't require any housetraining; he somehow just got it. Even now, if he doesn't feel well when we are away, he will go to the back door and throw up, unlike Penny, who, well, is more spontaneous. However, it does make for some exciting homecomings.

When he barks at night, he has a very good reason, and we will get up to check why.

If he comes to me and barks, there is a purpose, much like Lassie. Unfortunately for him, I am not as smart as Lassie's people, and it takes me a bit to figure out what he wants.

When I took him to meet the trainer, she said, "What an awesome dog."

Every once in a while, Harry will do something to remind us he is a dog, like eat a tissue or swipe food by craning his neck and licking things off the table or get into the dog food bin and gorge himself, or eat something which requires an emergency trip to the vet.

Which is okay, as I wouldn't want to forget that about him.

So, whoever owned Harry before he was picked up as a stray, don't come around here asking for him back. I didn't give him my heart--he just took it.