I don’t know why I can’t seem to have a normal dog. I am sixty years old, and you’d think by this point in my life, I would have figured out what constitutes a normal dog and be able to find one. Obviously, that is not the case. Let’s review. There was Spot, the mutt, who wouldn’t stop killing my neighbor’s roosters. Joe, the bird dog, who had a glove and sock fetish and would take either or both from the clothes line or Garey’s truck or from beside you in the garden as soon as your back was turned. He was fast, and it was no use to chase him into the pasture, because he would roll th