Finnigan taught me how to play fetch this weekend. Here he is with his new red ball. Before this summer, Finnigan had no interest in the fetching process. He was content to bark and jump and menace the pugs and the children. But something's changed in him of late. It sounds corny but it was like a switch went off in his reptilian brain. Finnigan was looking for a connection. I will admit in front of a jury that Finnigan is not my dog. He is Scott's dog. I have pugs. Finn waits at the door for Scott to come home and hugs him. Me, he barks at. Sometimes, he bares his teeth. There is no respect there, none. He is a punishment from God, at least that's what I think sometimes. But about a month ago, Finnigan began to reach out to me. He began interrupting our Dominoes games by bringing me twigs, drooly, foamy twigs laced I am certain with E coli. It was a real nuisance. The twigs landed on my pants or my bare thigh and as many times as I tried to throw them out ...
More than a million served!