Chester is no fool. He knows how to sit, spin around and speak on command. He knows what a treat is, and understands "Wanna go for a walk?" and "How about a beer?"
No, he's not my husband. He's my dog.
He may be bright, but lately he's been taking the Pavlov theory a little too far. When he was young, he got lost in a storm and thus wasn't thrilled with the sound of thunder. When the park down the street started hosting the July 1 fireworks, he became increasingly nervous at the sound of booming and screeching. Canada Day weekend had him hiding under various desks and tables, and he's not a little guy.
The smoke alarm beeps when the oven is too hot. I can't find the broom handle fast enough to disarm it. Chester heads for the front door and promptly pees on the floor. By the way, he pees like a girley dog and doesn't lift his leg. I've lost a lot of doormats this way.
Nowadays, I can't even open the oven door without him getting jittery. Just to be safe, I put him out the back door when I have to turn food over in the oven. He also paces like a prisoner when something beeps on television.
Because we have a bug zapper shaped like a tennis racquet, he freaks out if someone plays badminton in the yard. Bubble wrap? He can't even look at it -- he's out of the room in a flash. God forbid anybody should pop the damn stuff.
The damn dog has too many rules.