That thing on the end of my bed is called Bandit. That was his name when we adopted him from the SPCA 10 years ago. He was sooo good that first week. When we ate dinner, he went and relaxed in another room. We couldn't figure out why they named him Bandit... until he started stealing our food. He manipulated us. During dinner he'd come up to one of us pretending to be all lovey, licking and such, and as soon as that person let their guard down he dove at the dinner plate. He takes gum out of purses. He steals beds. His previous owners named him well.
He's an old man now, but still eats anything we turn our backs on for 2 seconds. That dog has eaten pounds, literally, of chocolate. And he had no complications. Man, I didn't realize how old he looks until this picture... :(
Despite this apathetic nose-less face, I know he loves me. I walked him (well more like he dragged me places and I picked up his poop), played with him, shared my bed with him, went to obedience classes with him (he was bffs with a monstrous canary bulldog but was sore afraid of the lhasa apso puppy), and refrained from killing him when he licked my birthday cake.
Here's to you, Bandit! The cats get a lot of attention because they are "special" but you're still one hell of a dog. And we all know that Charlotte wants to be you.
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