The Incomparable Psmith
Psmith is gone. For several years, Raebert has been a momma’s boy. Maybe three to four times smarter than Psmith. Smarter, actually, than any dog either of us has had. Scary problem solver, intuitive, even telepathic, as if he understands every word you say, unless he doesn’t want to hear. Don’t question it. If you haven’t lived it, you have no idea what it’s like. (Between us we’ve had maybe 40 dogs, many of them geniuses on the dog scale.) The whole time, though, Raebert’s been an idiot-savant, a baby who always connived to get his own way. But suddenly he’s showing the right stuff, assuming the position of pack leader. A glamorous but not homogeneous pack consisting of a Scotty, a pug, a new greyhound, a feral cat, and a brawling orange cat. From their first introduction to the household, they have all loved and catered to him and he paid them no mind. At all. Not since the greyhound Molly died.
Now, finally, he’s getting it. Last night, for the first time ever, he asked to descend to the dog room and hold court over his minions. Saw him in the dark, looking regal on the couch, and I cursed myself for not having anything more than my iAbstractaPhone. But at least I had the flash on.
Psmith was a lord. Raebert’s something else. But they all love him.
We’re as pleased as punch.