Bit of dogblogging. It may become a regular feature, if I get any encouragement at all.
This is Misha, the big fat idiot. My father just went out to the store and this is what she does when he goes out, stare mournfully out the window. If she didn't fling herself about the car and bark at every pedestrian in sight she could have gone with him. Her response to everything is totally over the top. She hurls her not inconsiderable weight at you when you get home, when it's time for food she goes thundering into the kitchen, she stares at you expectantly and baldly, she galumps about the apartment at all hours and shrieks when we arrive at the park even though she only wants to walk 100 yards.
Everything is exaggerated with her except when she has a secret.
When she has a secret she is very very very quiet. Her main secret is the mysterious rite in the bathroom involving the sacrifice of shredded tissues and a libation from the ever renewing fountain of slurpiness. "She knows perfectly well when she's doing wrong," says my father.