Obviously this dog is love-starved:
Cowboy has never met a stranger. I can’t say the same. I still hesitate before talking to people I don’t know. Cowboy has no such concerns. He simply assumes everyone is worth meeting.
Meanwhile, I’m not sure they want to meet me. They ask, “How old is he?” “What’s his name?” “Is he always this friendly?” I’m happy to answer, but there’s always that moment where I wonder: Do I keep talking, or is my role in this interaction officially over?
One of the unexpected gifts of owning an outrageously friendly dog is that he has made me more visible. Left to my own devices, I might smile politely and keep walking. Cowboy has other plans. He believes every stranger is simply a friend who hasn’t admired his fluffy behind yet.
You’d think he’s love-starved. That’s my standard joke whenever he throws himself at strangers as though he’s found another family. People gush while I stand there holding the leash, wondering if I’m about to be replaced.
The other day, he let two children ooh and ahh over him. Then he cuddled up to a kindly gentleman, looking up at the guy as if wanting to be invited home.
Later, we passed a ranch house close to the street—the front door was screened—and heard women talking and laughing. Cowboy made a full stop to stare at the door.
I heard someone from inside say, “What a fine dog you are! I see you there.”
That was his cue. He launched himself across lawn, me jogging after, as all three women spilled onto the porch.
It was a love fest. “What’s your name?” they cooed. “Look at that floofy butt!” they said as they ran their hands through his fur. “Aren’t you the sweetest!” “Look at how he makes eye contact!”
And who am I? Just the slightly shy writer attached to the other end of the leash. My role is to answer questions. Nobody asks me how long it took to train him not to jump on people. They just admire the finished dog. I suppose that’s true of a lot of things in life.
But sometimes I feel like his transportation assistant.
He doesn’t approve of all dogs, however
Another walk wasn’t nearly as successful. As we passed through the neighborhood to the park, we approached a woman planting flowers in her front. She looked up, gasped and shouted, “Oh my god! No!”
Then I saw why. A tri-color corgi came racing down the sidewalk at us like a barking missile. Off leash.
“He’s not friendly!” I yelled. He can be, but not when a barking dog is running full tilt at him. Cowboy naturally defended himself against the furious snapper that got right in his face.
The gardener yelled at me, “Well, he is,” about her dog, and I thought, Who the F are you kidding? This was not friendly behavior.
What a commotion. Lots of barking and snarling with the gardener screaming, “No! No!” Her dog took suddenly took off down the sidewalk, either because he’d met his match or because his owner’s hysterics freaked him out.
The Great Carnitas Escape
We found lots more excitement that day at the Heritage Festival in the park, and not all good. First, we visited with Daddy, who serves on the festival committee. That much was good. Cowboy even got a little ride on the golf cart.
Then I ordered carnitas from a taco truck. Something about the truck, maybe a vibration, a noise, made Cowboy uneasy. Ears back, he tried to pull me away. Since my order wouldn’t be ready for fifteen minutes, I walked him over to watch a ceremony at the historical encampment. Little did I know the ceremony involved firing six muskets. That did not improve Cowboy’s mood.
I quickly felt responsible for everyone’s perception of him. A few minutes earlier he’d been the charming corgi accepting admiration from strangers. Now he was anxious, and I wanted everyone around us to know, This isn’t who he is. He’s scared.
We retreated to the taco truck where I searched for a quiet place to wait. Cowboy looked like he’d had enough park time, pacing and panting. Finally, they called my name, I grabbed the carnitas, and we headed home.
Actually, “headed” isn’t quite right. Cowboy ran the entire half-mile home. I know because I ran it, too.
Social lessons from a dog
So, yes, Cowboy has never met a stranger he didn’t love.
Plus he’s better at social media than I am. His Instagram account, written in “his” voice, has twice as many followers as mine. This seems fair. He is cuter, more approachable, and never second-guesses whether someone actually wants to talk to him. He has no interest in pretending to be anything other than exactly who he is: a goofy little guy who believes every person he meets has been waiting all day to see him.
I, on the other hand, spend a lot of time wondering what strangers think—of him, of us, and the awkward little moments.
If you have a dog who thinks every stranger exists solely to admire them, I’d love to hear about it in the comments. Bonus points if they’ve ever convinced complete strangers to leave their house just to say hello.
Thanks for visiting! I’m Linda K. Sienkiewicz, an author, poet, artist, and occasional corgi assistant. I write about creativity, writing, everyday adventures, and the strange moments that make up a life. My corgi Cowboy sometimes helps—mostly by providing comic relief and supervising everything.