My dog, DJ, is the most annoying guy in the world. So, at 13, the hyperkinetic twenty-pound wiry ball of terrier decides he wants to change his routine to "poop-on-demand." No more 8 AM pooping on Potemkin's patio or the 7 PM Lincoln log-drop in Papapoupass's petunia bed. Them days is over.

Instead, Mr. DJ prefers pooping when "he's inspired," be it when I'm embedded on my sagging couch, elbow deep into a family-sized bag of Doritos during a Stanley Cup final with 2 minutes left in a tie game, or I'm snoozing with two outs in the ninth in a no-hitter, or before Final Jeopardy when the category is Dogs?

Yes indeed, those are some of the times that DJ will bug, badger, and bother me to walk him. It never fails.

Then there's the 5 AM wake-up walk for a tinkle, the 11:30 PM bite on my butt to take him for a trot, or the crying-in-the-rain, just crying-in-the-rain 6-mile walk in the mosquito-infested woods.

I have tried ignoring all these canine requests but when I did, I'd slip in a warm kitchen puddle or trip over a strategically dropped log in the dark. DJ has learned how to get his way.

As for me, I've mellowed with age. I stopped chiding him to "hold it in," and instead, grudgingly go along for the ride. I rationalize that at age 13, DJ has earned the right to a little more freedom—although I certainly have not. Most dog trainers would blame me for this behavior and they're right: I allowed this to happen.

And if I did: So what? I never really thought of myself as my dog's master, but rather more like his college roommate.  He constantly annoys me, yet we've shared the best times of our lives together, although nothing in particular comes to mind. It's enough for me that I have a witness to my humble existence. Sure, it would've been nice if he could talk instead of bark, but that's a dog for you. And my annoying little guy make my life that much richer.

Be well.