irresistable desire to be on the dining room table. Every time I forget to push my chair in under it when I get up, I return to find him there. He knocks things off, and has broken two coffee cups so far. I can't get too mad at him, since his boldness probably stems from more acceptance in the household. As he grows older, he's better behaved. As he behaves better, I like him more. The more I like him, the more affectionate he is, and the more affectionate is, the more I like him. And so it goes. I'm glad that things have taken this turn with us. I am, after all, all he has. And if he deserves to live (as many have argued against), he deserves to be loved. It's been a long struggle, and for a long time I had to be satisfied that I was making it possible for him to survive. It was about all I could do. It wasn't enough, and I was all too aware of that. He had all the problems dogs can have. He barked constantly, he bit everyone who came near him or he could chase down. He yanked and pulled on the leash, he chased cars, he escaped constantly and wouldn't come back. He went berserk at the sight of any other dog, lunging, snarling and yanking. Whenever his attempts to get at another dog were thwarted, he turned on Lytton or Patrick. When I tried to break the fight up, he bit me. Twice the police came at the request of people he had bitten, and had someone else reported him, he would have had to be euthanized. Thankfully the other legions of people he bit didn't report it.
Now he is winding down. He hasn't bitten anyone in recent memory. He's calmer, less excitable. He craves affection. It's good to see him feeling confident enough to actually ask for attention, placing his paw on my arm or leg. He likes to sit beside me on the couch, and sleep against me at night. I feel myself softening. He looks cute to me now. He's a good boy after all.