What happens next?
- Your dogs leap all over you and smother you with kisses.
- Don't know; never been away from home that long.
- You are Margot.
Van-Ly cocked her head, squinted and wagged her tale. I scratched her for awhile, but she must not have liked the feeling of handfuls of fur coming out with each stroke. (Hey, it wasn't I who didn't brush her.) So she left, too. I'm of the opinion that she'd have wandered over to anyone.
Remind me, someone, that I like Chows because:
- They are house broken from stock;
- They don't chew your socks;
- They don't chew the furniture;
- They don't eat a lot;
- They don't shed as much as you might think;
- They don't bark unless on door-bell duty;
- They're independent and don't need amusement;
- You used to like
- They're the cutest little things on earth;
- They're loyal.
On that last point, how can you tell?