Kizzy's been begging to be taken outside on his harness every day. He doesn't care that it's cold. He doesn't care that people keep asking if we got a dog when they see us from across the street. He doesn't care that he's a pussy (SEE WHAT I DID THERE) when it comes to loud noises.
Or maybe he does now.
Usually it's me that takes him outside, but the other day I went to pick up a prescription and some stuff for spaghetti and came home to this.
I stared at Beloved. "How?"
Him: "There was a loud noise. He freaked out at the garbage can."
Me: "But ... how? There's no blood. No cut."
Him: "I know. Um? I don't know. He's magic."