People say Rottweilers are loyal, brave, and majestic. Mine? He’s named Wombat and spends 63% of his day side-eyeing me like I owe him money. He’s not a dog—he’s a full-time emotional support judge. I didn’t choose the name “Wombat.” He told it to me telepathically the first time he knocked over my coffee and stared into my soul. “Wombat,” he said. “Spread the word.”
Walking Wombat is an experience. People cross the street, not because he’s scary, but because he struts like a celebrity being chased by paparazzi. He once barked at a squirrel, missed, then pretended it was on purpose. He’s basically a furry sitcom character with teeth, and I love him more than I love most of my human relatives.
