My wife and I have discovered yet another fascinating trait about Toby the Puppy.

He is a discerning television watcher.

Here’s what I mean.

Toby likes to play “fetch” while we’re watching TV in the evening. We toss the toy, the puppy fetches it from across the room and brings it back. He’ll do this repeatedly. Then he lies down, usually on his mother’s lap.

We watch some more TV quietly while Toby relaxes for a bit, catching his breath.

Then it happens. The moment — the instant — the TV goes to commercial, Toby jumps to the floor, grabs his fetch toy and wants us to toss it some more.

Then we resume our game. It goes on and on and on.

Until the next time he takes a breather. Then the commercial.

And off we go — again!

Dog ownership is a bit more complicated than cat ownership.

You mommies and daddies of puppies know of which I speak.

Toby the Puppy went to the doctor this morning. He suddenly had lost his appetite. He was still full of his usual spunk and affection. His disposition was as sunny — and goofy — as always.

He just wasn’t eating. He also was spitting up a little bit. It was clear. Nothing foreboding in whatever it was he was coughing up.

With our kitties, we might not have panicked. Well, we didn’t actually panic last night and this morning. But we felt strangely compelled to take him to the doctor’s office this morning. We didn’t have an appointment, so we had to wait for the veterinarian to “work him in” between surgeries and other appointments.

We got to the doc’s office when it opened. The doc showed up a few minutes later. A few minutes after that, they called for Toby.

The vet tech asked: What do you want to do? I asked: What are the options? Blood work, she said, or we could just “treat him symptomatically.”

Let’s go with the blood work and take it from there.

Twenty minutes later, we got the results. He’s fine, the doctor said. A little dehydrated. He’s just got some kind of bug.

He got a shot for the nausea and a shot of fluid that would be absorbed into his system to hydrate him.

I went to work this afternoon and then returned home.

“Tell Daddy you’re feeling better,” my wife instructed Toby as I walked into the house.

He jumped all over me. Yes, he’s better.

So help me, this puppy is like caring for a baby all over again.

Well … almost.

It’s official.

Toby the Puppy has found a new sleeping place. He has abandoned his mother and me for comfort in the dark of the night.

We acquired Toby nearly two years ago. He has been bunking with us almost that entire time.

Until just recently.

He now scampers into his kennel when it’s bed time. He curls up and goes to sleep. Lights out for the puppy.

Here’s how it goes.

When it’s time to turn in, we send him into the back yard to take care of his personal business. He does what he’s supposed to do.

Then he comes to the back door. We let him in.

And then he scoots immediately into his kennel. We keep the door open. Thus, Toby needs only to settle in for the night. When he joined the family, we sought to “train” him to sleep in the kennel. No can do. He wanted out of there. He whimpered. We surrendered and let him sleep with us.

Here’s my wife’s theory on the puppy’s change of sleeping habit: He knows he’s loved.

We are unaware of the entire life he had before he joined us in September 2014. All we know is that he was one of several pooches in that house. He wasn’t getting the attention, perhaps, that he felt he needed — or deserved; he had to compete with the other animals in the house for the attention of their human “parents.”

Well, Toby the Puppy has no such need to compete in this house.

He’s the one. He knows it. He is comfortable.

Yep. He’s the top dog.

It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference how you lose a pet that becomes a member of the family.

If it’s quick, unexpected and, well, shocking, that’s tough to handle.

If it’s something you expect and are waiting for the inevitable, that stinks, too.

Today we said goodbye to our 14-year-old kitty, Mittens. We knew it was coming. She had developed a tumor in her left cheek about three months ago. The doctor took a tissue sample and sent it out to be tested. It came back malignant. She has a carcinoma, the doc said. We gave her some antibiotics and some pain meds.

She did well for several weeks after the diagnosis. But the doctor warned us: There’s no permanent cure available short of surgery, radiation and chemo therapy. At Mittens’ age, with the risk of organ failure as she came out of the anesthesia, we decided to forgo the heavy-duty treatment.

Well, she stopped eating late this past week. It’s not that she didn’t want to eat. She just couldn’t. The tumor had broken the skin inside her mouth. It had become infected. She couldn’t chew.

Today was the day we dreaded.

My wife reminded me that “this is the price we pay” for owning pets with which we fall in love. It happened with Mittens’ brother, Socks, who died quietly and suddenly in November 2014. Believe me, that one hurt, too.

Today, our hearts are broken once again.

My mother used to joke about those who dismissed cats, people who couldn’t see the personality that these critters possess. Mom knew better. My wife and I knew better, too.

We’ve had a number of cats during our 44-plus years together. They’ve all occupied special places in our hearts. Mittens was no exception.

She was a relentless bird hunter and managed to help us de-mouse our home when he had a mild infestation of the rodents a few years back.

She also was sweet, despite being ultra-shy around people she didn’t know. With her “mother” and me? She was full of love and was unafraid to demonstrate it.

When Socks died, Mittens seemed to know intuitively we were hurting and she became even more demonstrative with her affection. I can’t prove that she felt our pain … to borrow a phrase. I just knew it.

In recent months, we had decided to take her traveling with us in our fifth wheel (see picture). We learned to our pleasant surprise that she traveled quite well.

She rode up front in the kennel in our truck and when we parked and set up our campsite, she would find her favorite places to settle inside the RV. No sweat, man.

Yep, we are mourning today.

Then again, we still have Toby the Puppy to make us laugh. I suspect we’ll be laughing a little harder at the way he carries on.