Olive seems to be turning into the amazing 50-foot colossal Weim. The kitchen counters no longer interest her. Why bother when you are tall enough to stick your head into the kitchen sink and lick the dirty dishes? Yes, her tongue actually reaches the bottom of the sink. Sitting at the kitchen table, looking at Olive from behind, it appears that there is a very tall brown-grey person (with long ears and very skinny legs) standing at the kitchen sink doing the dishes. I think, “What is Ghandi doing in my kitchen?” The only time Olive’s head pops up as fast as a champagne cork being released is when a) she sees my neighbor’s car going down the driveway or b) she hears a broken record going “NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, OFF, OFF, OFF, OFF!” Sometimes, she gets down a little too casually, like a 5 year-old being told to ‘PUT DOWN THAT LOLLIPOP NOW!” and complying very reluctantly.

This morning, after being reprimanded for “sink licking,” she promptly races into the dining room as if a roasted turkey is calling to her and places her paws strategically on the sofa table so she can admire herself in the oversized gold-framed mirror. I kid you not. She stares at her reflection for about six seconds and then satisfied that the answer to “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest one of all? is…OLIVE, she jumps down. Is this the result of so many people fawning over Olive, telling her she’s so beautiful? Or is it just the Weim’s natural confidence and healthy self-esteem? Or maybe there was a juicy-looking bug resting on the frame of the mirror.

It has become quite clear to me that Olive enters every room looking for opportunities to establish her dominance and be “Queen of The Mountain.” She sizes up her opportunities like a 5-star military strategist, instantly identifying objects she can stand on to become taller than me. It is like an endless game of “King of The Mountain.” I swear I can hear her under he breath saying, “Nah, Nah, Nah, Nah, Nah.” In my office, she stands on top of my old titanium briefcase like Mary Lou Retton balancing herself on a narrow wooden beam, elevating her head about 6 inches above mine. She stares longingly at the lampshade and waits for me to turn my head so she can begin delicately exploring it with her teeth.

It is funny though to walk in to the living room and see my graceful pooch perched on top of her 48-inch crate, looking absolutely non-plussed. “WHAT’S THE PROBLEM?” she seems to be saying? ‘GO FETCH MY BONE. IT’S UNDERNEATH THE COUCH. THEN, MAYBE I’LL GET DOWN OFF MY CRATE.” As directed, I search for Olive’s bone. This necessitates my dropping to all fours (just like her) with my ass pointed to Mars, stretching my arm the depth of the couch like a mechanical claw until my hand reaches the drool-glazed prize.