This is my puppy:
His name is Toby. Tobius. Toby-turd. Tobs.
Toby was given to me as a birthday present a few weeks after I graduated from college, by someone who shall remain nameless. Happy graduation to me! Toby was such a sweet lil thing. He was darling as a puppy. I would take him to work with me at the flower shop and he would piddle on the floor and it was just, like, so cute. Totally. A couple of weeks after I got Toby, my horse Kota stepped on his leg and broke it. I am a bad owner and I should not have let the puppy into the horse pasture, because even as a little puppy, he still wanted to herd horses. He had to wear a cast for a few months and it was the most precious thing ever. You see, he's a farm dog. Horses, steers, chickens, goats, barn cats, you name it – he'll chase it. And then try to bite it and eat it. Seriously. He has eaten multiple kitties and chickens. It's a rough life on the farm, man.
As he grew up, my sweet little puppy, my dear little darling, has evolved into this:
I told you he would try to eat them. You see, he's bred to be a cattle dog. So he tries to herd things, like goats, guinea pigs (you think I'm kidding?), chickens, and little kids.
He looks quite demonic as he does it, too.
Recently though, since the birth of our wee one, Toby has acquired a new obsession besides herding things. He follows me around. All day. Every day. Right at my heels. If I go into the bathroom, so does Toby. If I lay down, so does Toby. If I go up the stairs and down the stairs and up the stairs and back down again, so does Toby. It was cute for about five minutes. Not so cute anymore. But if I tell him to leave me alone in an angry voice, he does this:
And he looks so dang cute again, I say “Okay, fine Turd, come on.”
I imagine it's quite like having a toddler.
Oh, goodness. We're in for it.