July 22, 2005

White Dog lies on the couch, thinking. She's a beautiful study of white on green, light dappling her, swamp cooler rippling her fur. "We should dine out tonight," I entice in an effort to gain an ally to my restlessness. "If Steve has to work, we'll be homebound all weekend."

White Dog stretches like a cat and says, "Cajun." She also makes it very clear that her nightly walk is not negotiable.

I agree to both terms and pick up the phone to call Steve. It is, after all, her 7-month birthday!