Despite appearances, Pettigrew is always on the alert: for intruders, food landing on the floor or in his bowl, and the chance to join us on an outing. Given the right cue, he can transform in a matter of seconds from snoring dog ensconced on the sofa to frisky pup ready for action.
Is it the smell of tuna as I open the can to make sandwiches? The sound of plastic containers tumbling over each other in the drawer as I search for water bottles and their matching tops? The shuffling of coats on the hooks as I unearth a backpack?
Whatever tips him off, partway through my preparations I find Pettigrew has joined me in the kitchen, eyes intent, watching, waiting, hoping for me to take down his leash and click it on his collar. Then, and only then can he relax, confident in the knowledge that he will be part of whatever adventure is happening.
Pettigrew is welcome to join us for walks in the woods, but our outing Saturday was not for him. He was on the list of the items not allowed. Despite his winning personality, renowned cunning, and best intentions, Pettigrew cannot be passed off as a service or guide dog.
So, for the March For Our Lives, he stayed at home.
I think he would’ve enjoyed the food trucks, the toddlers clutching fruit leather, and the mission—he doesn’t like firecrackers or guns—but the crowds might’ve alarmed him.
All in all, he made the right choice. He looked quite content, resting on the sofa when we returned. He even waited for me to have a cup of tea before I took him out for his afternoon walk.