I know Bubba (the Bassett - possibly Bassett/Beagle) can't ignore the call of nature. I am, in fact, really grateful that he does bark at me to walk him (even at 3:45am), instead of the alternative (which I'm still working on with Cooter the puppy).

It's cloudy and stuffy, the one lamp's light just casting an orange pall, rather than illumination. Bubba's on the bungee leash, Cooter on the cheapie chain leash. One wonders what will happen when Cooter gets older, and matches Bubba pound for pound, because they're usually going in opposite directions, with me in the middle. Right now, Cooter goes where Bubba goes.

We are planning to go our usual way - up the driveway to the road, down the road to the corner (where the light ends) and back. Bubba usually wants to do more, but that's why he's on a leash! So, when we got up to the road, it had never been there before, I guess it looked like a monster to Bubba - big, dark, threatening. He startes running, stretching the leash to the limits, barking his most threatening bark. And yes, that means me and Cooter are in tow. He was ready to attack whatever it was.

"Bubba, it's a trash can!" I'm yelling - being ignored. Yes, a trash can. the big, wheeled type used by cities, designed to be grabbed by a claw on the trash truck. The old guy on the corner must have just contracted with the waste company who handles Guthrie's trash pickup, it's the first time I've seen it.
"Rogue, SHUT UP!" Rogue is the black-and-tan Dachshund who barks because her head rattles, continues to bark after I've gotten Bubba to realize the trash can isn't going to attack. Although I do lift the lid a little and make growling sounds, but Bubba didn't bite on it. He peed on it a couple of times to show his conquest.

I drag the dogs home (almost literally), and fall back into bed. Two hours later, Bubba decides he needs to potty again. It's 6:00am.

**SIGH**