While sitting next to me on the couch watching television, Fleegle asks, “You said I was one of the sporting breed. What’s a sporting breed?”

“There are four groups of sporting breeds, grouped by how they hunt. You’re in the retrieving group along with poodles, spaniels, goldens and a few others.”

“So a sporting dog is a dog that hunts?”

I look at Fleegle, sprawled on the cushion next to me. The closet he’s come to hunting is wearing his orange safety vest while on walks in the forest so he’s not mistaken for game, that and his sprint from the patio door to the bird feeder after the squirrels having a lunch of sunflower seeds. “Yes, loosely defined, you’re a sporting breed.”

“Does that make you a sporting person?”

“No, hunting isn’t my thing.”

“Not even when hunting for the missing remote?”

“That doesn’t count.”

He looks at the television a moment. “So dogs are bred for purpose and grouped by that purpose?”

“Yes, there are sporting breeds, herding breeds, companion breeds like pugs, just to name a few.”

“Are people grouped in the same way? Like those who hunt, those who work, and those who watch television?”

“No, but you probably thinks so.”

“There are those who eat doughnuts and those who don’t. I love doughnuts, and you belong to one of the doughnut breeds, you’re a glazed cinnamon twist.” He rolls onto his back, exposing his pink belly for a rub. “Are you sure I’m a sporting breed? I feel more like a pug, bred for the couch and the warmth of a person’s lap. Rub my belly, please.”

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