I hate to complain, but

The worst thing about spring? Turning into a doggie doorman.

All four dash out the door as if they're making a break for it. Then they wander around the backyard, sniffing every blade of grass as if it's a new and exciting discovery. Okay, it may have been a few months since the grass was actually green - but they've all seen it before.

"Okay kids, I'm going to be late for work. Go home." I'm a good enough dog trainer to have brought reinforcements - the doggie cookies are in my pocket. I wave them around. Golly, whose greed outweighs her interest in the great outdoors, follows me to the door. She goes in.

Roc figures out that Golly isn't around and comes dashing up, expectantly. He gets a cookie, he goes in.

Ceilidh is a challenge. She finds sticks and carries them around (cute) and plays keep-away (not cute). She's finally learning that we do, in fact, mean business when we say "go home." It really doesn't mean that if you look really cute we'll cave and play fetch for a while. Really. She goes in.

Dax sits in any patch of sunshine she can find. Looking at me with that French Bulldog face that means "Me? Were you speaking to me? So sorry. I don't quite understand what it is you want." Dax eventually goes in.

Of course I could make my own life easier and snap leashes on them. But then what excuse could I use for being late to work?