Aside from some bad actors, dogs get a lot of good press. They save children. They alert their owners to the dangers of smoke inhalation. They fetch and guard and sometimes even sit and stay when asked.
I clicked on a link about a small dog that ran away from home and wound up in a hospital where its owner is getting treatment. The dog had never visited the hospital before, but somehow it got through the front doors in an effort -- the reporter speculates -- to comfort its ailing owner.
I don't mean to be unkind.
Perhaps that small dog has buckets of compassion. But my small dog, while she is an excellent sick-bed visitor and was happy to snooze quietly on Mummsie's hospital bed for hours at a time –– well, I am not so sure she's all about offering comfort. Seemed like she's more about offering access to her prime petting zones. (Ooh, a little to the left. Grunt! Grunt! Sigh.)
If Lilly ever tracks me down to a hospital (heaven forbid), it would be for the really good dog-biscuits. It would be because Uncle Markie or her own Food God had forgotten that she covets the ones I keep in a tub with bacon drippings in the fridge.
The English dismiss it as "cupboard love," but when she sits on my foot and gazes winsomely into my face with her sweet, clouding bug-eyes, well, okay then. Bacon-dripping-soaked dog-biscuits it is!
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