First off, we didn't abandon our pets. A kindly high-priced woman came to the house daily, fed our dog and cat, played with the former, petted the latter, and, per our instructions, kept them from inhabiting the same space at the same time for fear of complete destruction of our furniture. Exactly as things are when we're here.
Yet when we returned, you'd think we had departed on our trip yelling, "So long, suckers!" Each pet responded to our homecoming as caricatures of their basic personalities.
"Ready?" my wife asked.
"As I'll ever be," I replied.
She turned the back doorknob.
An overpowering force crashed through the opened space and zoomed around the kitchen like pinballing lightning. It was as though a meteor had been hovering there, panting like an animal, just waiting for the opportunity to explode all of its pent-up energy on our house.
What was this fearsome power that roared through our peaceful abode?
Bond, James Bond. Our dog.
I no longer remember why we named him that. I think we thought it was funny. What's his name? we imagined people asking as they petted him. We saw ourselves pausing for dramatic effect before replying: The name is Bond, James Bond. Yuk yuk yuk yuk yuk. And it was funny. At first. Now, it's: What's his name? Bond, James Bond. Ha.
Bond is a golden retriever. He has a trim body and a handsome face with big, brown eyes that show three emotions: excited, sad, and put upon. But that's about where the similarity to the British secret agent ends.