constant companion

The other day my son asked if I'm nice to our dog Woody even when he's not there to hear.

Am I nice?

Nice to the dog who must rank among the stinkiest on the planet? The one who sheds with production heretofore unknown to humankind? Who licks so loudly, so lickingishly, that I'd prefer to hear fingernails scratch across a chalkboard? Nice to the dog who hogs my husband's affection? The one who accompanied us on our honeymoon thereby limiting our choices of destination? Who noses into the bathroom when I'd prefer privacy? Am I nice to this pup who, despite daily, innumerable reminders to "Get out of the kitchen!" still believes that underfoot is the best place to be?

This same fellow who greets me after a long day like we're reuniting after years apart? Who appears to love nothing better than sharing the front step with me while I sip coffee in the sun? The one who says, "how are you?" as clearly as any person? Who beats me at tag every single time? The dog who is beloved, treasured by his man and his boy?

Yes. I am. Nice. Hurumph!