Bonnie Annie Laurie, the Scottish Terrier lass who runs our home with charm, grace and efficiency can do no wrong.
Although she steals dirty napkins as if they were prey and has relieved us of our socks and dish towels, we have responded appropriately — by buying more socks and letting her have her own dish towels. We keep ours in a basket out of reach and hang hers where she can steal them, as a proper Scottie must. Garry even ties them up a little to make the experience more challenging. She then takes the dish towels — and socks, let’s not forget the socks — out through the doggy door into the yard where they are never seen again. It’s hard to figure where they go. I mean … she has stolen easily a dozen and they are bright colors and reasonably large tea towels. But they are gone. We do not think they will appear again. Maybe she has friends with wings and donates them to the cause. Whatever.
She has the power of chemical weaponry on her side and can gas an entire room. Even the other dogs will leave while Garry and I cough and wheeze. Sometimes, it gets bad enough that she herself will leave. It is one of her many magical powers.
My husband will twist his body into a pretzel shape so as not to cause Milady discomfort as she stretches out on our loveseat. When Bonnie wants a treat or dinner, she makes her wishes clearly know, barking, pulling at Garry’s cuffs, or head butting the back of his knees until he falls over or accedes to her belief that if she is not fed right now, she will collapse from hunger.
She is the dog of dogs, the terrier of terriers, a Scottish Terrorist of the first order.
She is perfect.
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