Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rogue standing near the door and stamping like an anxious horse. Her tail whips through the air in a yellow blur. I refuse to look up from my laptop screen. If I make eye contact, she'll put on her best, "poor me" expression then jerk her head toward the door. She's a Lab retriever, not a pointer, but she has no problem pointing me in the direction of a walk.

"You don't want to go out there," I lie. "It's freezing." The truth is that I'm the one who doesn't want to go out there, and it's not so much the freezing' that worries me. Rather, it's the fact that the melted snow on the sidewalks has frozen, which means I wouldn't be going for a walk; I'd be going ice-skating.

Rogue is named after a female comic book heroine gifted with super strength, and that dog lives up to her name in every way possible. She's certainly a rogue- larcenous, conniving, and remorseless when it comes to pilfering food. Like her namesake, she begs the question of how something so small and pretty can be so physically powerful. However, her personality often reminds me of another Marvel comics character, the gentle and kind Jean Grey. Like Jean, my Rogue is a source of strength for all those who love her, a loyal and courageous friend with a heart of gold. However, when presented with another dog, my loving Lab brings to mind the Dark Phoenix saga, in which Jean becomes possessed by a violent, destructive being capable of obliterating entire solar systems in one angry tantrum. Gone is the caring spirit, vanquished by a bloodlust I will never understand. Were I to be holding the leash at the moment my Rogue becomes consumed by her own destructive alter ego, I would undoubtedly fall and be pulled helplessly along the ice as she raced toward her intended victim. She's not getting a walk today.

I've learned that there are other ways to vent the torrent of puppy energy that flows from all Labs. I sit or stand at the top of the staircase and toss a toy or plastic bottle down. Sometimes it stops on the landing, sometimes it tumbles down the short flight of steps that lead to the family room. Occasionally, Rogue catches up with it halfway down. This erratic behavior makes the bottle or toy a worthy adversary, and Rogue attacks it with enthusiasm, apprehending the wayward plaything and dutifully returning it to my custody. The game quickly tires her, and she lets me know she has had enough by charging past the toy and running

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