good dog.

Einstein has a penchant for going through the trash. He is a lifelong, unreformed stealer of snacks. He will bark at anything up to and including the sound of himself farting. In the first week after we adopted him, he ate half our bed and part of our couch. And then pooped directly into an air vent.

But.


He will also lie still for a solid 45 minutes while a sniffly, feverish toddler cuddles him for comfort.

He will catch toes in the face and untold quantities of snot in the fur without complaint.

He will ignore the chattering of delicious squirrels right outside the window, the meowing of the highly chaseable cat, and the freshly-filled bowl of kibble.

Because his boy needs him and that is all he needs to know. And that makes him a good dog, no matter how many times I have called him otherwise while sweeping stinky spilled trash up off the kitchen floor.

Einstein was a rescue and came from the kind of circumstances that normally raise red flags about potential aggression. The dog he was rescued with did not survive the ordeal. "It's surprising," his foster mom told me when I first met him, "that he stayed so sweet."

But I am not a bit surprised.