My dog, Goblin, has often been labeled a “little person.” Perhaps this is because of her personable personality, or because she likes to prop herself up on her back legs when she first meets someone. I have written before in this journal about my conviction that she is actually a shape-shifting human sent to spy on my every move, which is why I wouldn’t undress in front of her for years.

With so much evidence (largely imaginary, granted) of her higher brain function, it is always startling when she acts so . . . doggy.

Case in point: over the weekend, as Rob and I walked her off-leash in the park, she started eating another dog’s poop off the pavement. We screamed at her to stop, but it was too late. A few minutes later, she surprised a nighttime squirrel (a.k.a. rat) and managed to lick it before it scampered off.

Horrified beyond words, we brought her home and attempted to improvise some way of washing her mouth out with Listerine. We also made her sleep in her crate so she couldn’t lick us unawares in the night.

They really don’t cover this sort of thing in the dog manuals.