I have a powerful case of Don't-You-Tell-Me-What-to-Do syndrome, with ancillary symptoms of You're-Not-the-Boss-of-Me.
Today, as on most days, I got up, put on my take a walk clothes, made myself some breakfast while working out some of the kinks I worked up during the nighttime hours (also called "sleep"), read the paper, checked my e-mail and The Huffington Post in case democracy faltered during the night. And so on. Bruiser, who knows that mornings usually result in a walk for him, is very patient for about 75 percent of this, but about the time I've refreshed Huffington for the third time, he comes over and says, Hey! and then Hey! again. Because a dog has only so much patience, and then Hey! it's time for the walk already.
Today I decided I'd get everything ready without Bruiser noticing, so as to avoid the nudging and the standing in my way and the gaze boring into mine. Because all that amounts to a dog telling me what to do and trying to be the boss of me. A dog. Bossing me around. And by God, I just can't stand that. Why, I'll show him. I'll delay the walk until I dang well feel like taking a walk. A walk that makes me feel good, invariably, that lifts my spirits and eases up the kinks and takes me out into God's own world, &c.
I'd like to report that being aware of this absurd and yet apparently permanent state of teenage rebellion undoes its stubborn power. I'd like to report that. I really would. I would especially like to say that I realize that MY DOG IS NOT TRYING TO BOSS ME AROUND. My solution, as of today, is to try to beat Bruiser at his own game, starting the walk before he expects it. This will work for approximately one and a half days, because then he'll recalculate and start with the nudging at an earlier hour. That dog! He needs to get over himself! I already HAVE a mom and dad!