Even Dogs Play Favorites

We have two dogs, both mutts, both delightful in their own ways. Georgie is a Rottweiler mix, aloof and protective, and so densely built that strangers assume she's a male. She once barked at clothes that were hanging on the back of a door; I suppose they looked ominous to her, and to be fair, they had appeared without warning. When I walk her alone at night and Mowgli calls out, "be safe," I giggle.

And then we have Jim, the pretty sweetie-pie of the house whose most dangerous feature is the stench of his breath. He loves human contact so much that he will let you rock him back and forth when he is standing. I once compared him, fairly, to Inspector Clouseau.

Jim is Mowgli's favorite dog. He has proclaimed this loudly, in front of both dogs, on numerous occasions, so at this point, every creature in the house is aware of his canine preferences.

My morning routine is to feed and walk the dogs, and then work on writing projects, with the dogs cruising by for pats and scratches. Sometimes I ask their opinion of this or that sentence, but they're generally reluctant to comment beyond a yawn. This goes on for an hour or so, and then I go upstairs to get ready for work. When I come down, Jim is inevitably waiting as you see him above, tucked into that corner between a speaker and an overstuffed chair.

This is his view:

He doesn't budge when I come down to gather my things. Why would he? He's waiting for his favorite human.