Breed Standards

Sister said something really insulting to me today.  She said that there are times that I am a disgrace to my breed.

Needless to say, I was shocked (and a little bit hurt...I might have to chew up another pair of her shoes later today).  How could I be a disgrace to my breed when I can...

• effortlessly strike a show dog quality pose (especially impressive when I face into a gentle breeze).
• execute a whole host of tricks from adorable ("say your prayers" in which I put my head down on my paws) to humorous ("BANG!" in which I drop to the ground and play dead) to agility driven ("eights" in which I do figure eights between someone's legs).
• make someone laugh with my zany antics and fun loving attitude.
• comfort someone who is having a bad day by offering them my belly to rub.
• stun someone with my devilishly handsome good looks (sparkling brown eyes, shimmering gold coat, and dimples--actual dimples--when I smile).

Sister couldn't help but agree that, in many, ways I am a perfect example of my breed, however, she continued to insist that her previous statement was still valid.  And to prove its validity, she showed me the following picture:

Okay, fine, I admit it--all the dimples, tricks, and poses in the world wouldn't be able to negate the fact that I had a giant string of drool wrapped around my snout.  So much for class.

Ping-Pong

Welcome to my first post of the new year.  Hopefully 2015 will be filled with lots of belly rubs, squeaky toys galore, a limited number of funny looking outfits to wear, and a boatload of yummy treats.  And speaking of yummy treats, I'd like to give a shout out to Ralphie's mom who gave me some seriously delicious homemade cookies (my family was so impressed with how good they smelled that I'm afraid I might have to keep a careful watch over them to make sure they don't take to sampling).

And now, on to my story.

New Year's Eve ended with a bang in my house.  Just hours before the big shiny tennis ball dropped in Times Square marking the start of 2015, I was invited into the basement Land of No to partake in my family's New Year's Eve tradition:  a rousing game of ping-pong. 

Truth be told, I wasn't very interested in the whole ping-pong game experience when I first climbed down the stairs that evening.  After all, I suddenly had full access to a rarely explored Land of No and needed to devote all my time and energy investigating every nook and cranny.  But, after checking out all the storage boxes filled with toys, house wares, and papers, after barking at a counter top on which a supply of squeaky bones were stored, and after being unceremoniously tossed out of the laundry room for trying to steal some dirty socks, I was finally able to devote my full attention to the game.

First, I dedicated myself to learning the rules of the game.  I did this by resting my slobbery chin on the playing table and watching while Pa and Sister batted a tiny ball back and forth to each other using paddles.  Try as I might, I must admit that I didn't really get the point of the game.  It seemed to me to be a modified version of playing fetch which I don't get the point of either (people trying to put as much distance between themselves and a ball only to expect it to be returned to them--if you wanted the ball that bad, why did you throw/bat it away?).

Bored with my court side view, I decided to try my hand at the game itself.  But which team should I join--Ma's, Pa's, or Sister's (they were taking turns playing one-on-one)?  I circled the court a couple of times and decided that the best team for me was all teams.  As a result, I spent the next couple of rounds playing doubles with all players--being careful to stand directly between the player and the court.  And let me tell you, my teammates were always very pleased with my assistance.

It was a missed return that introduced me to another thrilling aspect of the game of ping-pong.  There I was, helping my teammate kick butt, when the small white ball went whizzing past my head.   Now, as I mentioned earlier, I'm not a fan of playing fetch, but this was an opportunity I couldn't pass up.  Skidding on the tile floor and slowed down by the back and forth hip checking between myself and my teammate (who apparently had the same idea I had), I made a bee line for the escaped ball and scooped it up in my mouth.  I was just about to bite down through the relatively thin plastic, when my entire family pounced on me and began to pry open my mouth.  I was no match for them.  I relinquished the slippery slobbery (and intact) ball into Pa's hand.  Over the course of the evening, I got hold of the ball a few more times, but, sadly, I was never given enough time to thoroughly destroy, I mean, investigate it.

When the game was over, the ball and the paddles were put away (I tried to grab the paddle out of Sister's hand, but apparently she can read my mind and moved it away before I got the chance), I was escorted back upstairs, and the baby gate blocking me from the basement was returned to its spot.

The Land of No was once more the Land of No. 

Happy New Year

Wishing all my friends a very happy new year!

Have I mentioned lately how much I hate dressing up?

 

Christmas 2014 Summary

Christmas 2014

I love Christmas!   Why wouldn't I?  It's the one day of the year that I get to spend every single waking hour eating, shredding wrapping paper, or playing with new toys.  And this year's Christmas celebration was one for the books; one of the best.  Why?  Because I made out like a bandit this year.  Here's some of the fun stuff I got:

• 2 squeaky tennis balls from Pa.
• A replacement Rudy the Reindeer from Sister (my former Rudy is missing three of his legs, both antlers, half his skull (including a nostril, an eye, and an ear), and his tail).
• A bag of cookies from Mecki, Bastille, and their mom.

  

  Rocky, Bullwinkle, and Me

• A set of Rocky and Bullwinkle plush toys from Pa's friend Jim and his dog Dixie.
• A floppy snowman toy from Tink, ZeeZee, and their mom
• The book "Ask Anna" from Ralphie and his mom (Sister and I read it before bedtime).
• A few packets of special flavoring for my food from Ma.
• A new bed from Pa (which I'm really not a big fan of--when will people finally accept the fact that my rightful place is on the couch?).

And the only fatalities (at least as of right now) from my list of Christmas gifts are a handful of cookies (which are obviously in my belly), one packet of special flavoring (again, in my belly), and the floppy snowman which I happily filleted the very first night I had him.

But the fun didn't end with presents.  I found numerous ways of entertaining myself throughout Christmas Day (a necessity brought about by the fact that my family forbid me to shred any of my other toys so soon after receiving them).  So instead, I...

• helped unwrap presents (I believe my teeth may have accidentally gotten a bit too close for comfort to some people's fingers.  To that I say:  I'm sorry).
• shredded discarded wrapping paper (I was helping--the more finely shredded the wrapping paper is the more of it can be cram into a single garbage bag.  To that I say:  you're welcome).
• carried off presents that didn't belong to me (which lead to numerous joyful romps throughout the house as my family chased after me to retrieve their packages).
• managed to get close enough to the snack food table to lick a few shrimp (which ended up backfiring on me because, rather than give me the "tainted" goods, Pa ate the shrimp I slobbered on.  To that I say:  not cool, man, not cool).

My Face Says It All

There was, however, one low point this Christmas.  Sister received a goat.  Sure, it wasn't a real goat, but I think it still warrants a certain level of concern on my part.  What if this is a "gateway goat"?  What if Ma and Pa are merely testing Sister to see if she cares for this one before getting her a real one?  If that's the case, there is a horrifying possibility of waking up on the morning of Sister's birthday and coming face to face with a real-live-head-butting-sideways-prancing goat.  The horror!

A Christmas Eve Song

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all my loyal fans.  Please enjoy this year's Christmas carol set to the tune of "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer."  *<[:{)

Santa, my name is Rigby
I'm a very handsome guy
I know you're checking your list
And I gotta say "I tried."

Next year I won't chase bunnies
I'll cut down on the random howls
Squirrels won't bother me none
I'll even wipe my drooly jowls.

'Cause you know it's really hard
Being good all year
Ripping things is so much fun
Swear I'm sorry when I'm done.

Santa, please don't pass my house
Just because I made mistakes
Make it a Merry Christmas
Send me toys and juicy steaks!

The Nightmare Before Christmas

There are many reasons to love the Christmas season; cookies to eat, wrapping paper to shred, light-up decorative reindeer to bark at, and the time honored yuletide tradition of bringing a giant tree into the house.

In years past, I've looked forward to the days when a giant tree would take up residency in my living room.  I can't tell you the number of hours I've spent lying underneath it, gnawing on the paper dove ornaments I had just plucked from its boughs, and dreaming of the fun I could have if a squirrel suddenly jumped out from within its branches (hey, the tree had been living outside, a squirrel could very well have taken up residency).

This year, however, is different.  I'm now a bit wary of having a tree in the house.  Why?  Because this year, I witnessed a Christmas tragedy.

It happened in the wee hours of Monday morning (and when I say the wee hours of the morning I mean it...it was 3:30AM!).  There I was, snoozing in the bedroom, dreaming of plush toys, Santa Claus, and chasing bunnies though the snow, when all of a sudden I heard a loud crash.  Sleepily, I opened my eyes and saw Ma go rushing by me into the hallway.  A minute later, Pa hurried pass.  Groggy, but not wanting to miss a moment of a potentially exciting event, I got up and followed after them only to bump into Sister who was coming down the stairs from her own room.  We gathered outside the living room door.

There, in the middle of the room, prone upon a blanket of shattered glass, fake snow, sap laden water, and pine needles was the previously upright and decorated Christmas tree.  And underneath it all was my pillow.

The tree had toppled over.

The first thing that came to mind was of how I had been, not six hours earlier, snoozing on the very same pillow that was now crushed under the tree.  With that realization, my life flashed before my eyes.  I saw myself as a sweet little puppy, gnawing on Sister's hands, as a awkward teen, jumping up on Ma's back and grabbing hold of the hood of her coat, and finally as a devilishly handsome two year old jumping out of Pa's car window.  Ahh, what a miserable little puppy I was (but boy was it fun).

With a wag of my tail, I emerged from my trance only to discover that I had been unceremoniously blockaded from the room and that Pa, Ma, and Sister had already begun cleaning up the mess.  It was only after all the glass had been swept, water mopped up, paper doves safely put away in a basket (out of my reach I might add), and the tree righted that I was finally allowed back into the living room.

Pick Pocketing

My faithful readers know that I have many hobbies.  I rip things, I shred things, I gnaw on things, and I eat things.  And in order to accomplish the aforementioned hobbies, I have to participate in another favorite hobby of mine:  stealing things.

Now, there are many ways of stealing the items I plan on ripping, shredding, gnawing, and eating.  I can pick the item up when someone unknowingly drops it on the floor, casually pull the item out of someone's hand when they are distracted, stretch and crane my neck and pull the item off the table or counter, or jump up on the table, chair, counter, or bed and blatantly steal it.  But the most entertaining way of obtaining my heart's desires is by pick pocketing.

Ma is the best person to pick pocket from because she has a habit of leaving her pocketbook open and unattended at snout height.  All I have to do is casually walk up to it, stick my snout in, and go shopping.  Couldn't be easier!  And what a treasure trove her pocketbook is:  leathery wallets (tastes and smells like rawhide chew toys), fluffy tissues (used ones are best), pens (love the crunching sound they make when I gnaw on them), and, my personal favorite, eye glass cases.  Why do I love stealing eye glass cases so much?  Well...

1. Being hollow, they have a satisfying amount of give when I flex my jaw muscles.
2. Being made of a plastic material, they have a satisfying crunch when I finally puncture the case with my teeth.
3. Being the housing structure for fragile and expensive glasses, there is a satisfying level of panic issued from my family when they see I have them clenched firmly in my jaw.

There are times, however, when Ma forgets how much I enjoy pick pocketing and neglects to leave her bag open for me to browse through.  Lucky for me, I'm a clever dog.  If I can't pilfer through the bag, I'll just grab the whole kit and caboodle and carry it off instead.  I call it pick pocketing to the extreme!