"Goooood boy, Ghost."

Ghost isn't called that because he's so obtrusive and in-your-face. He's more independent than the average dog, and also considerably smarter. Calling him smarter than Little Bear would be like calling a bulldozer heavier than a feather pillow, but never mind.

Anyway...Three times a week I go off to shovel shit, as early in the morning as possible so I can catch some cool. When I first started doing this it was winter, and I generally brought the boys with me and left them in the Jeep. But then it got too hot to do that, and also LB ate the gearshift knob which lost him a substantial portion of his Jeep privileges. So before I go a-shitshoveling, they go into Gitmo.

They both know this. LB can be bought off with a Treat under any circumstances, so he prances happily into Gitmo. Ghost...disappears. Oh, he likes Treats too. But just because he can be bought doesn't mean he's a cheap whore. He figures he's a big boy, and will just...well, what he figures is that I'll forget the whole thing and let him come along in the Jeep.

Once in a while, I admit, I let him get away with that sort of thing, which makes me a bad uncle. But usually I've got my own list of off-property chores and just can't be worrying about him while I do them. So to get both dogs into Gitmo I call them both, lock up LB, then go do something else. After a semi-respectful interval to encourage me to forget the whole "Gitmo" thing, Ghost comes out from whatever he's hiding under and wants to hang out. At which point I say, "Gitmo!"

Busted.

He sighs heavily, trudges to the Gitmo fence, and accepts his Treat through the bars.

Every. Damned. Time.