My elderly basset hounds were excited to see me again, but soon justified my fantasy Westminster Kennel Club introduction: "an unusually treacherous breed."
Having woofed and leapt about me in an ungainly fashion, they turned to snuffle the shoes of the friend who drove me down from the Denver area, intrigued by the smell of his dog, Mulligan.
After satisfying their noses, they then pursued some crumbs from the pastries that another friend had waiting for us, grew bored, and collapsed on the carpet, exhausted.
They now come to my bedside at 5 a.m., apparently hoping that I'll give in, stand up, and walk them around the block. They'll have to settle for lots of ear rubbing for the next few months while my friend or someone else arrives at 7 a.m. to waddle them around the block. His arrival makes it plain that I won't get to sleep in, since the two little brutes go insane when they see his car pull up, racing around the house and woofing like idiots.
