Scout has never been much for walks or going out or adventure. My older dog, she’s a bit of a homebody. She’d rather crumple the couch cushion and bark at anyone who comes through the front door. That’s her prerogative, I suppose. It’s good for her to walk, though, and she ought to do it, even if she’d rather not. 

But I hate to force anyone to do something they’d rather not, and there are certainly mornings I’d rather not go on the walk myself. Who am I to force her, really? 

But how can I measure her desire to stay in? I can’t ask her, I can’t have her explain the depth of her desire to laze about at home, I can’t even encourage her.

With dogs my only vocabulary is the command, and that’s a bit sad. I’d rather have a bit of back and forth with this creature I love, but I cannot really have it. I do my best by half-heartedly asking if she’d like to come on a walk, by leaving the door open and by saying her name softly. 

I figure if she doesn’t even lift her head from the pillow to look, that’s good enough an indication that she’d prefer to stick this one out. 

Being a parent is a fascinating thing. Roby can’t talk, she can’t put up much resistence by way of logic, she can only express her distaste for something with tears, and that’s fine. I want what’s best for her and I don’t want her to be upset. She gets her way the overwhelming majority of the time. I’m quite curious to see what happens when she can put her foot down on a subject about which I feel quite certain. 

In the film The Iron Claw, the father is clearly some sort of abusive, but he doesn’t start out that way. He starts out tough and sure. He makes of himself an immovable object for his kids. He makes the decisions, he positions them for what he percieves to be greatness. Thus orchestrated they cannot resent one another, because it was never up to them, it was up to their father. 

I’m not sure what to make of all that. Slavoj Zizek said some things about a Good Dad and a Bad Dad, but I’m not as smart as him, and I’m not a wrestler, either.