My dog, Gus, is pouting tonight. After the stretch of snow and frigid weather, when we had a fire in the fireplace every evening, he’s come to expect it, like kids who get s'mores at every campfire. His head in my lap, he stares into my eyes with his mournful ones. I eliminated the other possible causes—did he have to go outside? We went. Did he want a treat? Always, and I gave him one. Finally, disgruntled, he crept into the living room and lay down in front of a cold fireplace. But hey, it was 55 degrees out today.
Gus isn’t the only one around here with expectations. The nuthatch counts on finding dried mealworms on the kitchen windowsill every morning. It snatches one in its scissor-like beak and flies away. The male bluebird assumes there’ll be fresh water in the birdbath before he goes to battle with his adversary, his reflection in the bedroom window. And most of the frequent-flier songbirds anticipate black oil sunflower seeds in the bird feeder. But my buddy, Gus, thinks he deserves a few more perks than the birds, and he’s probably right.
Then he’d survey his kingdom and patrol the pond. As cold as it’s been, he didn’t last long, but would come inside and park in his favorite spot. The fireplace.
As warm as it was today, I started feeling chilly this evening. So, now, there’s a fire in the fireplace, and both of us are happy. Pass the marshmallows, please.
