We’ve created a monster. Okay, technically he already was one but now we’ve just introduced a ‘whole new type of Crazy into the equation. And not a surprise to anyone, it’s annoying as hell.

I often write about (read: annoyingly so) how I love autumn and especially the change of power between the seasons, summer relinquishing it’s grip to a more peaceful fall. Unfortunately this year we have something in our lives that is threatening to upset this sacrosanct period of time: Jonas.

Now that the daytime weather is under 100°F, The Wife™ and I can resume playing fetch with His Almightiness, without fear that he’ll drop over dead due to exhaustion. And while the thought of such has appealing angles, it’s an envelope we haven’t pushed because that would be wrong. Well, that and I would have thusly a criminal record, which is not cool. And by not cool I mean not worth it. So ultimately we played sparingly over the summer to preserve the Aliveness of the dog.

Much to our chagrin, however, Jonas is now attempting to make up for lost time. Playing Ball is one of his most favorite activities, right up there with Destroying and Pillaging. So now that we’ve slightly increased our involvement, he’s stepped it up to. His entire existence revolves around getting us out into the backyard with his scheming and plotting. Six in the morning? Of course we should. What? You can’t see me waiting for you in the backyard? No problem, I’ll just ram my face into the back door until you notice me waiting. Oh, did we just finish a 30-minute session? Perhaps by throwing the ball myself, repeatedly, against the glass pane, you’ll get the hint. HINT. HINT. HINT. And so it goes, all day, every day. Weekends home with him are a true exercise in patience.

So this morning, as I prepared my coffee and lunch to head off to work, there he stood in the backyard with his eyes peering through the dark, staring at the doorknob. Waiting. Wagging his tail. HELLO? PLAY BALL?! WHY NOT?

Poor little guy. I’m sure he’ll be standing in his crate when I get home though, revving up to let ‘er rip once again for another six hours.