The tick-tick-tick-tick-tick sound of a short-legged dog walking with purpose along the hardwood floor of the hall gave me advance notice of what was about to come.

Next came this whimpering, crying “but-I-really-have-to-go” sound as he stared at me from near my feet. He slowly backed toward the front door in hopes I would rise from my comfortable seat, stop watching Alaskan State Troopers and take him out.

It was 3 a.m. I couldn’t understand why Colby the Jack Russell, a male under 50 in human years, needed to use the bathroom so many times during the night.

I slipped into my Eddie Bauer slides (more manly than saying my plaid slippers), grabbed the retractable leash and headed toward the front door.

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