I negotiated a new job two weeks ago. One of the things on my list of must-haves? Fenway had to be allowed in the office. Daily.
Fenway likes to go to work. He is a working breed, after all, and he hates to be left alone. My sister refers to him as my third child and I don’t necessarily disagree. Fenway makes new friends everywhere he goes and there’s rarely anyone who doesn’t love him. I have a co-worker already referring to himself as Uncle-Greg. Of course, there’s also one referring to Fenway as “that dog”, but I guess not everyone can be puppy crazy like I am.
He spends most of the day laying under my desk or napping in my car (windows down – I would never leave him in a hot car). If I move around the office, he follows me. When I sit back down, so does he. He’s my shadow, a constant companion.
Some people think I’m nuts because my dog and I have this crazy relationship. I’d pick him above most people, my kids aside. He doesn’t complain, he doesn’t demand things from me (food, water and the occasional scratch on the head aside) and he always knows when I don’t feel well. He protects me by putting himself between the door and me. He follows directions better than most kids and some adults.
So if I let my dog curl up on my lap like my 5 year old, if I make special trips out to buy things just for my dog… call me crazy… it’s ok. Crazy, happy, dog girl and her pup will be in the office Monday morning, ready to work. Two peas in a pod.
Maybe I’m more of a dog person than a people person.