I have to be good. It's my job. But today there are smells that overwhelm my senses. I lie comfortable and warm, near the action in the kitchen, and I eye-ball all movement as I try to anticipate when it's time to eat. My stomach growls ferocious and loud. I feel drool in my mouth. But I have to be good. It's my job. I used to be bad until I learned. Learned that not all people are cruel, and to trust them once again. Now, I'm important. And loved too. So, I try to be good ... .

A tid-bit falls near and I inch forward. I can't resist and flick it with my tongue. No one notices and it disappears. I love it when there are lots of people and tons of food. My eyes follow my people. My ears tune in to all their chatter. And I am acutely aware of each casserole dish, each plate of dessert, and I know the main course is in the warm box they call an oven.

But I hold my ground, trying to go unnoticed. Trying to be close, and ready. My stomach growls again, and louder this time, it starts to annoy. And I need to sneak outside ... time to make yellow snow.

"Hi'ya Butter! Bein' a good boy?" My favorite child tugs my ear, her way of saying "I love you, Butterball." I wag my tail and stand. I need to go outdoors. She knows me so well, and I know her. She touches me, holding on, and I walk, leading ... careful and sure, weaving through legs and furniture, to the door, and my bladder screams for relief.

We go super slow down the steps, her hand on my special collar, then she is familiar with the terrain and we race to the edge of the snow filled yard; and I have to have a moment. My child laughs as I outrun her and disappear. She waits for me and I don't go far. Amber needs my eyes to guide her back safely, and the snow chills us, but warms our hearts as we wrestle and play together. The smell of the house soon draws us back to our family, and we shake the ice and snow off at the stoop, all the while the laughter and voices inside tell me that the thing in the oven will soon be ready.

"Come on, Amber, get your hands washed ... we're almost ready to eat! Put Butterball in the laundry room for me so I can get THIS Butterball ready!"

"Aww, Momma, can't he stay in here with us? He's such a good boy." My girl child hugs me close, and my tail flags fast and furious. It moves the air around us like a hand-fan in a summer church. Too close, the big bird sits on the counter and its smell intoxicates and lures. And I stay down ... away from what smells so tempting. I want to be good, it's my job. But my stomach growls again. This is torture, but I have to be a good dog. I know I will be rewarded soon though, and my family gathers, all safe and sound in our house ... our home. I stay just beneath the section of counter that holds the cooked fowl; the other Butterball. And I guard it with every sniff of my nose. I lie perfectly still, and the feast is so close, and yet so very far ... .

I'm a happy dog~~a bad dog, gone good. I sweep the floor with the plume of my tail~~and wait. After all, it's just part of my job ... .