Meet Floyd

So, abruptly, I've become a dog person.

This is Floyd. He's a boxer. He's a bit of a spazz, but on the whole a good buddy to have around in Durham. Likes long walks and cardboard and meeting new people. And he's picking up on "fetch."

He has a witching hour, around eight o'clock at night. I've noticed, because what do I have better to do than notice Floyd's behavioral patterns -- and also it's hard to miss a 48-lb. boxer tearing back and forth across the apartment floor.

So here's the bizarre thing that makes this a story.

Tonight, the witching hour hits. Floyd is on the loose and digging his nails into the carpet and banging around fit to trouble the neighbors. He sits when I ask him to, and he even stays, but we're only up to ten seconds on that trick. At my wits' end, I call, "Floyd!"

He looks at me.

"Come here!"

He follows me to the bathroom. Pokes his head in the door. I make sure he sees me picking up the toothbrush, applying the toothpaste, yes: brushing. My. Teeth. All this is done with raised eyebrows and a very serious expression.

The dog is now curled up on the bed. Silent as the grave.

A little early, but he'll never know.