The dog is loving on me.
This is suspect. Highly suspect. While I like him (a lot) and he likes me, usually we're not cuddly-buddies. He's not usually sitting with his head on my knee, looking at me with soulful brown eyes and whumping his tail against the tiles whenever I turn my head that way.
I understand that he gets lonely down here by himself at night. I do. But given the Spitting Tiger, Dog-Heart-Eater Dragon act the cat puts on when he sneaks upstairs, it might be safer for him to remain on the first floor. (Really. Chumba was pissed. And that's 30+ lbs of frenzied angry yaller cat coming out of nowhere to hiss and pound Jasper with flying paws o' fury.)
He doesn't have to go out. We (he and I) just made the rounds.
Shall I eat an acorn? Whassat? Was that a noise? Should I stand here for hours like a stone and growl softly, freaking you out? Me: Dumbass, that's the wheelbarrow. Oh! Okay. Let's circle and circle and circle and circle and look! Another crunchy acorn! Maybe I should pee here. No! Here! Wait for it...wait for it....psyche! I was never going to pee there! That joke never gets old, does it?
He's not hungry or thirsty or needing a treat* (he did have those acorns, after all!)
He just wants cuddles and a hug before I go upstairs.
Sometimes, that's all we need.
*Poor dog, what a terrible life. I should take pictures of him at three am, when he's sacked out, happily snoring and spreading hair on the EXPRESSLY FORBIDDEN couch, all legs in the air.