Presently at an impasse.

Grand strategies work or they don’t. And there are always unintended consequences. A lesson liberals never learn.

Thus far, Raebert doesn’t know what to think of the Scottie. Neither does Elliott.

Who’s the new bitch?

Oh. Yeah. You thought we were going to leap out of bed into a new day? No.

Except for the inexhaustible missus, all of us were fatigued, crashed in fact.

It takes me two cups of coffee to decide that I’m still alive every morning. It takes Raebert three (speaking metaphorically now). When I went downstairs to check on Eloise and Muffie, they were both snoring in their crates.

Elliott and Raebert filled up the couch till I decided I had to go down again and check. Muffie was curled up in a dog bed on the floor of the breezeway. As I dashed upstairs for my camera, the UPS came. Eloise barked and Muffie began her wandering routine. I just picked her up and carried her upstairs. Raebert was interested, followed her for a while and then returned to the couch and sleep.

Don’t blame me for the blanket.

Where was Raebert? Sorry. Forgot to show you. Here.

Boring? Sure. Wonderfully so. I picked Muffie up and held her. She allowed me to. She hasn’t been held much, I’m thinking. Then she wandered again. Resulting in the picture up top. Still outside. I started talking to her. Asked her to come closer. She did. (The Dog Whisperer btw is a control freak idiot.) She came all the way to my feet and I picked her up and held her again.

Raebert was right there and he said nothing while I explained that all her earlier life was no indication about this life. We would always be here for her. I told her I knew about terriers, and Scotties, and that she would always be free to be herself, that I would never spank her, that she would always be free to be independent and all I hoped for was that occasionally she’d want to be held.

She understood. I swear. In my 50 years of experience, Scottish dogs know English. People call them stupid. Stupid is the people who can’t perceive dogs smarter than they are. (The Scottie Rescue Directorate was arguing whether Scottie’s had five brain cells or one. Uh, then why bother?) If you think dogs who are supposed to be stupid really are, read Deerhound Diary. Enough said.

We conversed in this way for a full five minutes. Then she got down and followed my urging to go downstairs and into the breezeway. No leash involved. She was content to follow. But not into the garage and thence outdoors. It’s nasty outside. She gets it that I love her, but it’s much much more comfortable to pee and poop inside and let your human friends clean up after you.

As I said up top. Impasse. Scotties aren’t stupid.

Unintended consequences. We thought — er, I thought — we were getting a dog for Raebert. That was not quite right. He IS an only dog. He thought WE were dying when three died in a row. He doesn’t need to like the Scottie. He just needs to know that WE are not planning on dying anytime soon. Repopulating the pack is all he needs.

Welcome to deerhound life. Still a Scottish lord. He’s happier, but he has little to no interest in his new friend.

Fortunately, Muffie’s also Scottish. She had even less interest in him.

How has a tribe like this lasted for two thousand years?

Easy Answer: Sheer cussedness.

Right Answer: I’m the pack leader. They do what I say, as long as my wife agrees. So there.