We live in a dog house. That’s a fact; not an exaggeration. Our couches are covered because Daisy likes to sleep on them. Labs might look like they have a smooth coat, but they shed big time. She’s managed to convince us that she’s a three meal a day dog. Same basic amount, but she likes an afternoon snack to tide her over until dinner.

And now for the latest addition in the continuing saga of the Pampered Princess in a Yellow Lab Suit: Daisy slipped on a bit of water that had been spilled on the tile. She’s now afraid to walk on lengthly stretches of tile. We have a good amount of tile on our first floor. That tile is now littered with scatter rugs so Daisy feels secure. And primarily, so that she stops standing in the dining room doorway crying that she can’t make it across the dreaded tile to her food bowl.

Sam has gotten into the act by sprawling out on the rug in the middle of the kitchen. Stepping over him as I attempt to move from sink to stove has now become routine.

We had a dog trainer once when Daisy was very young. He didn’t last long. Daisy didn’t like the fact that he thought she was a dog. He believed that people should precede a dog out the door; that animals didn’t belong on furniture, and that you should make a dog wait by a food bowl until you gave expressed permission for the dog to eat.

I think of him occasionally as Daisy snores on the couch.