The bats are out tonight.
It’s a fine time, that sliver after sunset where it’s still light out, twilight.
Mr. Wrigglesworth is just learning how to play fetch. I’m not certain if this is when that typically occurs. It feels like it shouldn’t have taken this long. He ceased being a puppy-according-to-the-calendar two weeks ago and a day. I have no firsthand experience to draw from or by which to establish this expectation that was clearly not being met until this evening. Now, he knows how to play fetch according to Erik. All that really means is that he brings the fetching object to me. (Rather than running away with it and barking until you chase him.) More specifically, to deliver the object into my waiting upturned palm. We’re still working on this part.
I had always assumed that playing fetch was in canine genetic code. A whisper carried on the wind from when dogs were wolves. Watch any dog on TV and you’ll agree. (Don’t tell me Hollywood has let us down here, too.)
Perhaps I shouldn’t have assumed that my dog could play fetch instinctually just because I’ve seen a curated collection of other dogs doing so.
I guess it’s like that old chestnut about sight and belief.
Not all dogs know how to play fetch.
