Driving Dogs

 Sparky gave me a hard time today.

I got him into the car -- dogs love to go into the car, and he tried to move into the driver's seat. I mean, does he want me to sit on his lap? Or more ludicrous, does he actually want to drive? Dogs can't drive and I told him so. It's like a thing people know. It is laughable except, apparently, not to dogs because most dogs can't laugh.

He insisted otherwise which is just like Sparky. He insists that he can drive, and better than I can. Then he insults my family and I am no longer laughing. I could say unflattering things about his lack of known parentage (and, according to the vet I paid, his inability to be anyone else's parentage, ifyouknowwhati mean) but I don't. Instead, I play the trump card:

"Sure, you can drive -- if I can see your license."

He hates that. I mean, where would he keep his license? He knows I know and I know that he knows that I know. But, bottom line, that dog won't drive.

Flip side? I sleep with one eye open because he is in a decidedly bad mood now. He threatened to expose me as a word I won't say, on his blog, but I refuse to be cowed by a dog.