The tip, just the tip, of a wet, black, dog nose. A snout peeks through, golden and whiskery.

Then all of a sudden, head-body-tail-legs EXCITEMENT comes barreling out to greet me. I reach out a hand to stroke his thick, golden ruff, but there is my dog, jumping-leaping-bounding flying, so overcome with excitement he can barely contain it. He leaps, from four legs to two, two to four, four-two-four-two-four. He turns away from me for just a second, snatching a toy and then crouching down, tail wagging furiously, looking at me in that I-want-to-play sort of look.

“Samson, give,” I say, “Give and I’ll throw it!”. He reluctantly drops the squeaky toy and I toss it far into the next room.

Samson skitters, falling into a playful gallop that I can only describe as a romp. He soars through the air, almost catlike in his pouncing. He slips and skids, crashing into a table but thankfully not breaking anything. I can hear the squeaks of the toy fox as he rambunctiously chomps it. I call to him to distract him from the toy. “Samper! Hey Samper!” He looks at me, the toy dropping from his mouth. I grab it, and Samson springs up, dancing around me. I fling the toy again, and the romp continues. He dashes across the house, but is unable to stop before bashing into my leg. “Oh, Samson. What am I going to do with you?”

Ω