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When I’m feeling determined, I take a two-mile walk around Lake Lynn after dinner to give Frodo some exercise that I need more than he does and that he enjoys more than I do.  Rarely do I make it more than a hundred yards in any direction with this dog before someone asks me about him.  He is a magnet to women and children.

Yesterday a young woman running around the lake stopped in her tracks when she passed us.  Pulling the Ipod buds out of her ears, she asked, “Is that an Irish Terrier?”  Frodo, of course, is the very emblem of the breed, as pure as the barley in Guinness Stout.

“I thought so,” she said.  “We had one growing up.  She was crazy.”

Yes, the pathology is well known to me.  Frodo is certifiable.  A Limerick Looney.  A Wexford Wackadoodle.

“When did she outgrow it?”  I asked, hopefully.  Frodo is not even two years old—still a teenager in dog years.  That’s what I kept telling myself after he ate a $300 wicker living room chair two hours after I brought it home from the store.

The woman gave me a knowing, empathetic smile.  “She didn’t.”

Of course not.  Only normal people have normal dogs.