A Small Story:
Friend was working double shift, could I come over and walk her beloved and doted-on Ridgeback Lucy at hour eight?
Of course I could.
"Okay," I said, "Why?"
"I think she knows your voice," she said cryptically and drove off.
Lucy weight, at most, 20 pounds less than I do.
I grabbed her leash from the basket and waved in it what I thought was a tempting manner and said, "Walkies!" Lucy sighed. I stepped towards her.
I reminded myself they were bred to kill things with far more defensive tools than I had.
I texted her mother.
"She refuses to leave your bedroom door," I texted, added a few emojis so I didn't appear pathetic.
"She's just being a brat," her mother texted back, "Take one of her toys from the basket and shake it. She'll come play with you. Try the lobster."
I looked in the toy basket. There was a weathered lobster.
Lucy sighed deeply, got up, stretched her powerful legs, ambled towards me with the negligent ease of Omar sending the drug dealers scurrying, carefully removed the lobster from my hand, and went back to the same spot.
We both awaited my next move.
I did what any human - the apex of critical thought in the animal world - would do; I tattled to her mother.
The answer flashed back, "Then don't worry about it. If she had to go out, she would have let you."
Thus relieved of my task, I carefully put the leash back and prepared to leave.
I should have held up the leash and asked her to walk me.