Working hard

Tiny Dog goes to work with me. Every day. She didn’t used to insist, but now she does, even on Saturdays, though how would she know it was the weekend?

She sees me put on my shoes and coat, and starts to trail me, hopping up on her back legs for attention: HEY you! Pick me UP!

Blurry since I am walking. This is outside, where she is refusing to walk.

 But you get the gist.

She's close to my left heel as I gather my lunch and coffee and purse and hat and mittens. Still dancing for attention.

So I put two coats on her, and her new hat. And she goes in my coat like this:

Two-headed 1/2 dog, 1/2 human monster.

The Walgreens checkout person asked me last week, with Tiny Dog tucked in my coat, Do you seatbelt her in too?  I do, I said, snug like this.

And when we get to work, she greets all the techs, making sure none has snacks. She dances and sneezes and play-bows for cookies. She twirls, she smiles. Treats fall from the sky, well, the techs. (You should see how ruthless her begging is at lunchtime as everyone rotates through their breaks.)

Most of the time she is like this:

A very kind pair of clients, who lost their dear old cat, gave me his bed. It plugs in, and the heater is activated by pressure. So Tiny Dog warms up, safely in a cage, out of harm’s way of feet and dogs coming through the treatment area.

It’s a pretty good dog time for her, going to work. I see why she insists.