The Dog, he’s a good boy, well-behaved, even does a trick or three, but I can tell, his limit of patience is tried by this faux Golden Crown, a buttercup yellow, fluffy-to-the-touch duck called Peep. She’s put him in an unenviable position as it’s twenty minutes since lunch and a dog’s gotta do what a dog’s gotta do. Gentleman that he is, he weighs his options: If he rolls over, he’ll crush that little piece of sunny lint flat as a pancake. If he stands up fast, she’ll fall off as she hasn’t got the hang of flying (too young, y’know). So, he stretches like a collapsible laundry drying rack opening up to its full size when Peep decides to web-ski down his back, waddle over to the dripping hose for a sip, or ten. The Dog saunters off to his own private pissoir to fertilize flowers, leave new evidence why there’s a burnt brown patch on the grass. Feeling lighter sans his Crown, The Dog lopes eagerly toward his favorite spot, announces his intentions with a wag of his tail, his signature snort, then closes his eyes for another well-deserved nap. Peep quacks. And quacks. Then quacks again. The Dog sighs, goes to her, lays down his front legs, keeping his hind legs straight (yoga fans know what I mean) as Peep web-foots it up his double coat of soft, beige fur, like a princess sliding into a waiting limousine to be chauffeured back to the palace grounds.