You and Dad are home all the time. I like it.

I have discovered that you pay a lot more attention to me than way back before Biscuit. 

Things changed. I don’t know why. We don’t see as many people. We walk outside and around the lake with one person at a time. I like them all. I still do not like skateboarders and I don’t like those people with long sticks on their feet or poles in their hands either. They could mean trouble. You tell me they’re okay, but I make my own judgments.

Speaking of trouble, sometimes Biscuit is a pain in the fur. I used to collect the mail from Tim. I’d get one treat, sometimes two, from Tim and then I’d bring it in the house and get another treat. I’d collect the morning newspaper and get a treat. I’d bring in funny-tasting boxes from a man in uniform and bring those in between my powerful jaws and get another treat. Life was one treat after another. That was many barks ago.

Times have changed. Biscuit jumps up and down and whirls around and bites at everything in my mouth. He tears and shreds all of these things. You don’t like the barking noise. You put in earplugs. You don’t like his attitude. Me, me, me.  My mail. My newspaper. My package. You have tried to teach him how to bring in things made of paper, drop them in your hand and get a treat. He is a slow learner in this department. It’s hard for you. I understand. Sortof.  You get a treat from Dad who calls Biscuit’s work “an assist.” I don’t agree with that but I’m not in charge, at least not about treats.

I like having Biscuit around—most of the time. Sometimes I don’t.  I have taught him many things, like making sure no one is treading on our perimeter. He’s doing very well in that department. I have also taught him to bark when we go downstairs to get ready to take a walk. You put those little things in your ears. I’m trying to teach Biscuit how to fetch, but he is not catching on. He has taught me how to jump on the bed. He’s good at it. But I’m better.

I know I’m really The Boss because I was here first. I have to let him know when he acts too woofy, like when there’s an especially delicious stick that one of us finds during one of our five walks during the day. I growl and act fierce, but he isn’t too impressed. It’s only when I snap at him that he pays attention, but it’s hard to do with a stick in my mouth.

Advice from Oliver: It’s good to fight for some things and ignore the rest.