Samson Stops To Smell The Roses

(or whatever flowers they are)

Well, we’ve had Samson for four months now. He’s barely a year and a half, so he’s still in his puppy phase. He’s bigger than we’d planned on, ever a Big Galoof, whose aggressive tailwagging tumped over a glass of red wine on the first and only day that we partook of red wine in years.

If you read his intro post, you know that we had initially named him Rajesh. It suited him for a couple of days. Then one Sunday, sitting in church, listening to the pastor speak of Samson, his amazing strength, and how he held up pillars the way Samson stands against our dining room columns each time we cook, we looked at each other and nodded. Samson it was.

And as for Roxie, she is still being put through her paces. He wears her out daily with his incessant urge to play. He will bark at her, poke her, bite her leg, nip her ear, stand above her on her dogbed, and even sit smackdab on her torso to get her to engage.

She does her best to comply. But she’s middle-aged now. I get it. I know my blog says I don’t, but mercy, do I get it.