It's an umbrella, you idiot

The thing about having dogs is that they really are your children.

If my dogs were actual little boys, Mr. Mop would be the popular and athletic one that is either (a) popular with all the other kids or (b) forcibly popular with all the other kids.  He would be the one who is super smart, but doesn't really care about applying himself.  And he would give me heck about eating his vegetables or trying anything new.  Brooklyn would be the shy, geeky boy in the corner who tries his hardest to fit in with his big brother and friends, but is just too darn scrawny.  Unfortunately, he would not be the brainy geek.  My poor little muffin is just not as clever as Mop, but he really does make up for it in his easy and sweet temperament.

It's great that the sun is finally shining and we can spend hours together playing outside.  I love being able to let them off their leash and watch them have a ball.  I just wish one of them knew how to actually catch a ball.  We went the other day to play fetch. And by fetch I mean:  I throw ball, Mop chases it, carries it halfway to me, and then runs to bite Brooklyn's head leaving me to retrieve ball.  Brooklyn has no interest in the ball.  He spent the whole time barking at a newspaper that was sticking out of a bush.  

Brooklyn has a fear issue, which is good when you are eight pounds.  Really, if you are teeny tiny you should fear most of the world.  He has no fear of crows or pigeons though, which is worrying.  I am terrified that someday a crow is going to fight back.  He is afraid, however, of umbrellas.  Which is just super when you live in Rainy City.  Today we met an umbrella sticking out of the ground to which he sat down forcing me to drag him along the sidewalk.  Later we met a man carrying an umbrella, and again Brooklyn sat down and then skirted as far away as possible from the man.  

He has no fear of drugged out crack whores though, which is just great (we come across them often in my neighborhood).  I mean they will be walking (or staggering) around the sidewalk, yelling at God or whoever it is their meth-addled brain sees, and my little Yorkie will run to them wagging his tail as I force him back on his leash - making me look like a paranoid citizen (which I suppose I am).

I can't tell you the amount of times these words come out of my mouth in a day:

'stop eating his head'

'don't bite his bum'

'don't pee on his head'

'get out from under there'

'stop licking it'

Boys will be boys.