Travels with my buddy (who barks)

We were camping in Australia=92s Simpson Desert. Just dog Rusty and me, sizing each other up, finding new surprises. They say dogs are creatures of habit. I say sometimes they are and other times not - just as humans. Here is a case where habit won. At home, the last excitement of the day happens in the kitchen. I squat on the floor, Rusty at the other end. I flick a little dry morsel across. He jumps at it and squeals, then chews mightily as if it were a bone. He inflates the show and plays Big Time. So do I by naming each morsel with a grave: Number One=85Number Two=85Number Three. After that it=92s bedtime. Out in the desert, the car bonnet became the kitchen floor. The morsel shoots through space. Rusty jumps and catches his trophy. Then he sits and grins, ready for Number Two and Three. One day, muddle-headed, I added a nameless Four. Rusty didn=92t jump. His eyes followed that mathematical aberration through the air, then looked at me. He didn=92t shake his head, but I knew what he was thinking. That morsel remained beyond accepted norms. He didn=92t bother. But you can=92t typecast dogs. At home Rusty has made three places where he sleeps and changes them at will. I only have one bed. As habit goes: I am more of a dog than Rusty is. Klaus and Rusty