Our little capitalist

Under the table, the noisy chicken at his side.

Angus has claimed under the dining room table as his space. This is bittersweet for me, because that was Riley's space, too, when he was alive. (Riley also claimed under the kitchen table.)

I sit at the dining room table a lot--it's where my laptop is, and where I write--and Angus often lies right at my feet. Sometimes on my feet. It's quite adorable, when he's not trying to bite my toes off.

Lately he has taken to storing his favorite toys under there. Or maybe he's not storing them so much as stockpiling. Every night I pick up all of the toys from all over the living room and dining room and front hallway and I put them in the Woof! toybox in the corner.

Both dogs know that box is for them, and every morning they raid it. By the end of the day, there's usually a rope tug, a roll of brown paper (mostly chewed), a couple of elk antlers, a tennis ball, and at least one puffy toy under the table.

Silly boy. It's not like Rosie can't find them there.

"Nice try, little guy."