Last night, I was happy to go to sleep with Fitzroy lying on the bedroom floor, in his elegant little sleeping bag, which I had withdrawn from his kennel. The house adventure didn't last for long. This afternoon, Fitzroy made it perfectly clear to me that he did not intend to repeat the in-house procedure. I have my house, and Fitzroy has his... his own little private residence. And there's no sense in trying to combine them. It's amazing that a dog can get this complex message across in a perfectly clear manner, without the slightest word.
There's a wonderful story about a talking donkey, the friend of a little boy. The child wants to demonstrate the donkey's extraordinary talents to people in the village, but the animal refrains from uttering a single word. Afterwards, when the village people have stopped making fun of the child, and they've all gone home, the boy asks the donkey: "Why did you refuse to speak in front of the village people?" The animal explains: "I don't like to speak with all those dull folk, who wouldn't understand me. They bore me. I only take pleasure in rambling on with you."
I often feel that Fitzroy is a bit like that donkey. One of these days, my dog will inform me that he doesn't mind listening to my voice, but that the things he might say to me are so extraordinary that a fellow like me simply wouldn't understand.
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