Beta Dog

I have finally realized that Kit doesn’t see me as Alpha Dog. The fact that it took me two weeks to come to this realization is all the more evidence that it's true. Oh, sure, he likes me fine as Beta—I give good treats and belly scratches, and I let him up on the bed—but I’m not the boss of him. It’s quite obvious, too, now that I’ve seen the light. The horses have been grazing in the yard the last two days—they’re allowed to, so that’s no problem, although I tried to usher them to the long grass and they wouldn’t go . . . who knows—and Kit finds them to be irritating when they get too close to the house. They are particularly irritating, and need to be shepherded, when they are trying to get rid of one of these awful, Jurassic-age (not really) flying monsters that land on their rumps, out of reach of the tails, and dig in a big syringe to deposit eggs. Since tail switching doesn’t dislodge the insectine skewers, bucking and galloping is sometimes necessary. This drives Kit wild, and he races after them, snarling and yapping and leaping at their noses. I yell ferociously at him (and I do have a ferocious yell, as many can attest), and he pauses, looks pointedly at me—you stay in your place and be quiet, Beta—and continues on his merry way. The only good thing about this situation is that the horses couldn’t care less about him. They ignore his leapings and snatchings completely, proving that, no matter how noisy and belligerent, he’s not the boss of them.