Dear Mr. Random Worker who is Presumably Part of the Effort to Prepare the Foreclosed House Next Door to be Put Back on the Market: Yes, that giant hackles-up white roaring thing IS my dog. So is the fuzzy black and white machine gun-barking thing and the black and brindle woo-wooing thing. Let's just keep that in the back of our minds. While I don't truly think you have any ill intent, I am home alone today and you are working alone completely unsupervised, and I watch a lot of Dateline sooooo... you know, paranoid thoughts sneak in here and there. And it suits me that they at least look and sound intimidating to you, even though none of them really are.
Dear Dogs: It really is ok, Mr. Random Worker who is Presumably Part of the Effort to Prepare the Foreclosed House Next Door to be Put Back on the Market is allowed to be working in the yard next door (I think). But in case it wasn't clear, I lurve you, you good dogs. Squash, I especially love your transformation back into a gigantic marshmallowy doofus as soon as I tell you "it's ok," even though I never really purposefully tried to teach you that.