Independently Speaking By Brent Olson
The views expressed are those of the individual author and not necessarily those of DTN, its management or employees.
Little Dog Olson might be needing a bath. (Photo courtesy of Brent Olson)
Bedtime
I remember bedtimes. When our kids were babies, I just thought, “Okay, I’m never going to get a night’s sleep the rest of my life” and I was more or less OK with that. When they were a little older, the evening would reach a point when I’d say, “OK, time for bed,” and there would be baths, books, and giggles. When they were teenagers, if they kept the noise down in their room and got on the school bus on time the next day, I tried not to think of what else might be going on.
Those were the days.
We don’t have little kids anymore. Even our grandchildren are old enough to put themselves to bed.
But we do have a little dog. And bedtime with the little dog is a pain. I’ve never been part of little dog bedtime before. I’ve been in charge of the big dog, which mainly meant keeping the water dish full, buying a bag of dog food every now and then, and cleaning up the corpses of any coyotes, wolves, or tigers that tried to breach the perimeter.
But now I’m getting trained in on the little dog routine, and it’s kind of a bother.
First of all, you have to let the dog out. The alternative is those little dog diapers some people get, but that’s a road the dog and I will never go down. She goes out the first time about 9:00 p.m., and then again about 10:30 p.m. I used to balk at the 10:30 trip, but the alternative to skipping 10:30 is getting up at 3:30 a.m. So, out she goes at 10:30. When she comes back in, she gets a treat. Philosophically, I have nothing against giving treats. I like treats myself and, personally, I don’t feel like I get nearly enough of them. Some people might say, “if I don’t get treats, nobody gets treats.” But I’m better than that, so, treats for the dog.
The problem is, we have to play a treat game. I’ve found that if I just toss her a treat, she’ll dodge sideways, look at the treat on the ground, sniff disdainfully and then run and tell my wife that I’m starving her. Instead, what I need to do is wave the treat in the air, the little dog crouches, I fling the treat and she launches herself in pursuit. She tracks it down, gums it a little, and then drops it and looks at me expectantly. I have to run — or as close to a run as I can achieve — to the treat, pick it up, pretend to eat it, then fling it back the other way. It helps if I growl a little. The dog runs after it, picks it up on the fly, then races past me to show her treasure to my wife.
Just for the sake of clarity, my wife has never pretended to eat the treat or growl; but I like to do the best job possible, and I’m willing to go the extra mile.
It’s not what I want to do. What I want to do is show her a bag of the cheapest dog food available and say, “Eat it or starve.”
But I’ve noticed that we live in an imperfect world, and what I want to do seldom factors into the routine.
Did I forget to write about bath time?
Copyright 2026 Brent Olson