George didn’t like it at the animal shelter. For one thing, meals were not served on the “help yourself, the bin is open” basis. He didn’t like the whining and barking of all of the younger dogs. He also didn’t like the shit smell. He lay on his side, huffing quietly, his large belly creating a challenging landscape for any small creature that might have been viewing him.
When the volunteers came to walk dogs, he didn’t get up unless they offered him a Milkbone. Then he would drag himself to a sitting position with an enormous grunt. He followed cooperatively as they led him out into the play yard, but he didn’t feel like chasing any ball or catching a Frisbee. If anyone threw something his way, he watched matter-of-factly while it hit the ground, and then looked up at the volunteer, as if to ask, “Have you had enough, then?”
When it was time to go back in, he wasn’t too thrilled about that, either, but he followed. He knew that he would get another Milkbone when he got back in. He wasn’t stupid.
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