Down Dog

So, here's the evidence, all the proof I need that a certain Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage insists on participating in my physical therapy exercises. I don't remember requesting a furry workout buddy. I wonder if my insurance covers that. Probably not. My daily routine goes like this: I lie down, he hovers over me and starts in with the lickies and the kisses. And sometimes, well, his breath isn't, how you say, minty fresh. No matter how many times I command him in my most authoritative voice, "Stop, Mommy loves you, move over, Cookie Bear, get up, Sweet Patootie," doe he listen? Let me think about that. No. He does not. This lack of cooperation also explains why my cheap yoga mat smells very-very doggy. He picks up his special scent and it's Down Dog for days. I know, I know. There's no winning this particular battle. Just between us, I wouldn't have it any other way.