Duncan has no qualms. He is an unabashed window peeper. Each time we venture down The Run Dunc prefers to gallop through the bushes and trees that grow along the edges of the apartments, stopping more often than I care to admit, to stare straight into the homes and lives of the people who reside within. It happens even when we're walking on-leash. He'll pause to peek through the blinds at another dog, or a cat who's perched on the sill, or even just to take a gander at folks eating their breakfasts or dinners. On more than one occasion he's caught someone emerging from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around their body, singing softly to themselves while they dry their hair or pick out their clothes. I tend to stand off to the side, my back turned, my arm wrenched at an awkward angle in the hopes that they'll recognize my dog as the pervert and not me.
This afternoon he paused in front of The Witch's Lair, raised his hackles and growled a low, deep growl, the kind I don't hear very often from him. I'd been walking a bit ahead, whistling, as I'm known to do, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the incredible spring sky. When I noticed he wasn't at my side I turned back and saw him looking as though he was about to pounce through the window and attack whatever it was on the other side. I hurried back to him and laughed when I saw what had caught his attention.
Hanging on a chair in the window was the ugliest afghan I'd ever seen, a purple and orange thing, made of thick, fuzzy yarn that looked like it had been skinned from some sort of creature conjured by the imagination of HR Giger. It was not a pretty thing and looked too thin to offer much in the way of warmth, but was instead meant as some sort of decoration. Either that or a quick throw to toss over a dead body. One never knows when dealing with The Witch.
I called to Roo softly in hopes of avoiding attracting the attention of the wretched woman who owns the thing, but he would not listen. So after snapping a quick picture for my April Photo-of-the-Day Challenge, I leaned in, leashed him up and pulled him away. He kept looking back over his shoulder, though, and growling, then back up at me as though shocked I wouldn't let him attack and kill it.
It wasn't until we arrived at The Glen and I removed his leash that he put it out of his mind. I'd been stressing my photo all day, looking for things that started with the letter "A" and hardly noticed when he led me to an aspen tree, plopped down in front of it and waited for me to figure out what he was trying to tell me. It was almost as though he refused to let me use the afghan and wanted something prettier instead. So I snapped a picture to appease him and led him across the street to the park for the rest of our walk.
As usual, Duncan knows best.