May 2, 2007

White Dog was an over wound spring when Steve arrived home tonight. She raced around and around the coffee table. She grabbed and tossed and shook ball in a personal soccer game across the living room. Holding Weasel in her mouth, she bounded from sofa to chair like a deranged ping-pong ball. Steve just stood in the middle of the whirlwind and waited. After ten frenetic minutes White Dog skidded to a stop at his feet and threw herself belly up awaiting a greeting pat.