Unless he’s exhausted from a weekend at the kennel, or physically in another geographic location, Lomax is at my heels every waking moment. Whether he’s walking, running, pacing, circling, playing, sitting, lying down, wiggling, wagging, rolling, leaning, snorting, whatever — I look down, he’s right there. Rarely, if ever, more than a couple of feet away.
Until I turn on the stove and get out the pots and pans, that is. See, he’s got this thing about smoke. And it doesn’t matter what I’m cooking (you’d think bacon might convince him, right?), he deems the immediate area too dangerous and finds his new “happy place” in the hallway.
Notice he still wants to know where I am, and what I’m doing. He’s ever-vigilant in that way. And I’m convinced that if an actual fire were to start right there in the kitchen, effectively preventing me from making an unassisted escape, Lomax would be the first one to call 9-1-1 from a neighbor’s house.