I'm not exactly a tofu eating, hackey sacking, Prius driving hippie so it comes as no small surprise to me that I have a Frisbee dog. I bought one in a narcoleptic trip to the big pet store to buy him some new toys. He having already eaten most of his others in various orgies of puppy chewing. He saw one and turned those big brown eyes on me with his best "Pleaseohpleaseohplease!" look. Now look at us. He's got me playing suburban yuppie dog owner to satisfy his Border Collie fantasies. I feel so cheap.
"Hey pal, it took some doing to get this off the driveway. How about you just throw it for me and no one finds something special in his boot tomorrow morning"
Look at that tail. That is a happy dog. The stinker.
But can he actually catch it? Let's see.
Ooh. Missed it by that much!
"Stupid, ham handed non Frisbee thrower. I bet I'd have caught it if Momma was throwing."
Ok, one more time.
Success!! "Hey Momma, look at me. Look at me Momma. Momma? Stop talking to Grandma and watch meeeee!"
"Aw, she missed the whole thing. I bet she really wanted a sheepdog."
So, he's a Frisbee dog. But I'm not worried. He still barks at hippies and refuses to let any touch him so I'm pretty sure he won't start listening to Dead albums and burning incense any time soon. Plus, he's as liable to eat them as play catch with 'em so there's that. Still, a father worries.
Hey Angus, wanna play hackey sack? No? Good Boy!