Living with Georgie is always having company—even when you didn’t ask for it. Not the spooky, lurking-in-the-shadows kind of company, but a small, fluffy dog with trust issues who seems convinced the world might fall apart if he’s not glued to your side. A little dramatic? Absolutely. He’s got the emotional range of a Broadway actor and the loyalty of a shadow.
Working from home? He’s there, staring at you like your typing is part of a high-stakes operation. Sleeping? He’s curled up under the covers, usually halfway across your pillow, snoring like he pays rent. Watching TV? Please. He’s seen more episodes of The Crown than I have, and I’m starting to think he’s got opinions on politics.
Even the bathroom is not sacred. I used to close the door. Not anymore. Now I just accept it: we make eye contact, it’s awkward for exactly six seconds, and then you carry on like it’s the most normal thing in the world to have an audience while brushing your teeth or doing… other business.
Now, Georgie’s favorite snack is something you’d expect a secret agent dog to receive from the CIA’s gift basket: Of all places, he’s hooked on those little fillets you find at Marshall’s or TJ Maxx. I know—it’s odd. Not the pet aisle at the grocery store, not some fancy boutique. Nope. Discount retail. The same place you buy discounted luggage and ceramic flamingos.
And once he gets a bone, it’s not instant love. Oh no. He circles it like a suspicious TSA agent at the airport, sniffs it, growls at it, barks at it—basically accuses it of being a threat to national security—until eventually, his inner wolf kicks in and he annihilates it like it owed him money.
As for his food, I don’t bother with the kibble anymore. These days, Georgie eats better than most people on dating apps. Chicken, beef, turkey, a bit of rice, and some greens to keep him regular. It’s practically a Michelin-starred tasting menu. And it works. Because then he does this thing where he transforms into a furry missile. He zooms up the stairs, down the hallway, through every room in the house, skids across the hardwood like he’s on buttered socks, and barrels into the kitchen like a dog-shaped torpedo. The house becomes the Indy 500, and he’s leading the pack at 100 MPH without brakes.
Occasionally, he’ll find his favorite toy—a half-destroyed thing that may have once been a duck—and he’ll drop it in front of you with the subtlety of a bowling ball falling off a table. Thud. And you will play fetch. Because once you make eye contact—tongue lolling, eyes wide, ears at full alert—it’s game on. Resistance is futile.
As a guard dog, Georgie is fierce. If someone so much as thinks about walking past the house, he’s at the window barking like it’s DEFCON 1. But the moment the door actually opens and a human appears? Instant tail wag. Suddenly, he’s the Walmart greeter of guard dogs.
Thunderstorms, though—those are not his thing. A few rumbles and he’s shaking like a Dodge Neon on gravel. But stick him under a blanket or scoop him up like a baby, and he calms down. Dignity? Long gone. But he’s safe. Fireworks? Even worse. The 4th of July might as well be a war zone for him. Though, thankfully, the neighbors seem to have run out of explosives lately. Probably too expensive. Thanks, inflation.
In the backyard, there was this one squirrel. Just one—a little punk with an attitude. The kind that made you think he ran the whole neighborhood. He’d sit up on the fence, twitching his tail and chirping like he was talking smack, just out of reach. And Georgie? Oh, he took the bait every time. For years, it was the same routine—Georgie would charge after him, and that squirrel would dart along the top of the fence like a circus act, cool as anything, while Georgie barked like mad down below, running back and forth like it was his full-time job. Until one day… the squirrel just vanished. Maybe he moved to the suburbs. Maybe he found a girl. Maybe he got a scholarship to acorn college. Who knows? And oddly enough, Georgie stopped chasing squirrels too, as if their rivalry was some sacred pact. He still chases bunnies, though. Never catches them—they’re too quick—but he gives them a good barking and a stern lecture.
When he was younger, back in our apartment days, we took a walk around a manmade pond. All was well until he spotted a group of ducks. He barked, wagged his tail, got nose-deep into the whole duck scene. Then he saw a goose. Now, Georgie, being optimistic and possibly a bit thick, thought: Big duck! Must be extra fun! So he pranced over. And the goose, with the eyes of Satan himself, went absolutely mental. I picked Georgie up and took the hit like a dad shielding his kid at a Little League brawl. Beak to the chest. Flapping wings of fury. I think I still have the emotional scars. We never went near that pond again. That goose is probably still there, guarding her turf like a mall cop with a grudge.
These days, Georgie walks with his best friend. They’ve been friends since they were puppies, which is adorable—except when his friend gets moody and growls like an angry gym teacher who’s had one too many bad Mondays. Georgie, ever the peacemaker, just whines like, “Come on, friend, let’s not fall out over this.” And off they trot again. Two dogs, one friendship, and enough bark-based drama to fill a season of Days of Our Lives.
So yes, Georgie is a bit clingy, sweet, and very possibly the reincarnation of a retired Marine with a taste for action. But he’s, my dog. And that, as they say, makes him perfect.
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