Problem Machine


Usually it’s a tennis ball: Sometimes (not often), still recognizable as such. She digs it out from among the tall weeds and brings it to me, and I throw it, and she runs out and grabs it and brings it back, and so forth, over and over again, and for some reason this is basically the only thing in the world she seems to care about at all. Her name is Willow, my mom’s dog: I take her out to the park twice a week because otherwise she would explode like a poorly maintained nuclear reactor. She’s a black lab border collie mix, so I guess fetching is just in her genes.

Why do we like to do the things we like to do?

You know, in the endless debate between nature and nurture I’ve really always been more of a nurture kind of guy, but dogs make that kind…

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