So, one night I was in my divorce-pending, downtown loft apartment ("let him move to a dern apartment, I'm staying here!") reading a John Lennon biography and listening to the Ojos Locos crowd close down the bar, when Codi (remember the man-dog) sallied up beside my rocking chair and plopped down as if he owned the place (thank you very much). 

 

I glanced innocently in his direction and he suddenly began shaking and panting, and then, he stood up, lowered his shoulders, dropped his head and slunk away to the other side of loft.  His eyes were cloudy and he couldn’t sit still. I watched him pacing, panting and shaking for a minute and became convinced that he was deathly ill, so I put down my book, picked him up and petted him repeating the world famous mantra for sick puppies, "peas-and-carrots, and peas-and-carrots and peas-and-carrots, good-doggy, good-doggy, good-doggy, good-doggy." 

 

Eventually, the ever-soothing, repetitive and substanceless low monotone calmed him down, and he went to sleep, but I was sure he had some degenerative nerve condition or who knows what, and I fell asleep mentally prepared to take him to the vet first thing the next day.  
 

But, the next morning, he was as chipper as a mockingbird.

 

No shaking.

 

No panting.

 

No pacing.

 

No slinking.

 

He was happy.

 

Bouncy.

 

Entertaining.

 

That is, he was until. . . I walked toward the steps leading to the elevated loft area.

 

First he wouldn’t follow me. 

 

Then, when I called him, he darted his eyes around the room looking for a way of escape. 

 

When I "looked hard at him," he slinked (slunk?) over to me, panting and shaking, shoulders drooping, looking in every way as sick as a dog again and obviously hoping for the sympathy and peas-and-carrots-good-doggy soothing from the night before (who's training whom?).

 

He finally got within arms-length and eye-rolled up at me like a quizical teenager to see if the ole panty shaky slinky thing was working and must have interpreted my head tilt to mean there was some doubt, because without warning, he dashed up the stairs and darted deeeeeep into the closet with no hint of the panty, shakey slinky thing.  He plowed his way into the back of the closet behind the shoes and boxes and blankets into a dark hiding place so that all I could see of him was his glowing eyes.
 

Ever curious, I climbed the steps to the elevated area and found out why he was so energetic.  At the top of the stairs, my bare feet on carpet squished and I felt a cold, wet puddle.  He had lifted his leg the night before right there on the top step.  "MINE!"  (That's what he always says with conviction as he marks his spot).  

 

Soooo, there was no trip to the vet that day. Physically, he was fine, but without a doubt, man-dog has a conscience, and that was the reason for his "degenerative nerve condition" symptoms.