Codi.

So last night my dog slinked up and sat down by me all shakey and panty (is panty a word? maybe not, but it should be and I think it's descriptive enough that you get the picture).

He wouldn't look up, he couldn't sit still and was generally distracted and agitated. In fact, his jittery demeanor was so severe, I deduced that he had developed some degenerative nerve condition and was, if you'll parton the expression, on his last leg. I picked him up and petted him and he eventually calmed down and went to sleep.

Then, this morning he was chipper as a mockingbird. All happy and bouncy and engaged in life, ready to walk. Ready to guard the windows to keep out the wild birds. Ready to chase the ball to be sure it gets put away properly. Ready to chew that bone into tiny pieces so its not an eyesore in the living room.

Well, he was ready for all that until . . . I started to walk up to the loft area.

First he wouldn't come at all.

I called him and he finally slinked (again with the slinking) and reluctantly climbed the stairs looking in every direction except at me. He was shaking just like last night. It was obvious that his miraculous recovery was short-lived, and the nerve condition returned.

Well maybe.

I say maybe, because as soon as he reached the top of the stairs, he darted and lept over shoes and boxes, unafflicted by any debilitating condition, and landed deeeeeep in the closet. So deep into the recesses of that hinterland (go ahead, look it up), I could see only the glow of beady eyes in the dark and hear nervous panting from the farthest corner.

Then, as I stepped barefooted onto the carpet on the elevated level, I discovered the common denominator that was behind his nervousness.

A cold, damp puddle.

Yep, just what you think.

The night before, during his nocturnal wanderings to hang up his smoking jacket and make sure his cigar was properly snuffed out, he had "lifted his leg" in the loft.

Knowing a little about him, I immediately reconstructed his self-talk as he thought through the process the night before.

"This is my house."

"I must mark it to protect it."

"It IS for HIS own good."

"If I asked HIM, he'd just say 'NO.'"

"HE's not looking anyway, so HE won't see."

"If no one sees it, it didn't happen."

That thought process was followed by the muffled sound of just enough territory-marking liquid hitting the carpet and a gentle-mandog's ever so refined yet manly, "AHHH."

Unfortunately, this morning, he remembered. I saw. So he darted.

Clearly, the little puddle, the little spot that no one saw in the making was the reason for his “degenerative nerve condition.”

Equally clear from his undiminished ability to dart to safety is the fact that physically, he’s just fine.

Finally clear from the series of events, he does have a conscience.

Baaad Dog.