The Puppy Files: Taste Tester

Welcome to yet another edition of The Puppy Files, a series in which I travel down memory lane to when I was an itty bitty little puppy with large gnashing teeth and a bad attitude.

As I've said before, I was a complete terror when I was a puppy.  In fact, to this day, I'm still utterly amazed that my family put up with me for the fifteen months it took for me to become a "civilized" Golden Retriever.  Truth be told, I was kind of concerned back then as well; concerned that one day my family would simply give up on me and my shenanigans.  Of course, I wasn't concerned enough to change my ways, but I was definitely a little concerned.  It was from this infinitesimal amount of concern that I became a bit of a suspicious eater.

With the exception of the kibble in my dinner bowl (which I'd happily scoff down if Jack the Ripper himself gave it to me), whenever someone gave me a treat I would quickly grab it in my mouth (sometimes catching hold of a few fingers in the process) and then, rather than chew the treat (or, more likely, swallow it whole) right on the spot, I would scurry into the living room and unceremoniously spit it out onto the floor.  Then the inspection would begin.  Suspiciously, I would sniff the treat all over making sure it was a) food (which, let's be honest, covered pretty much any item I could fit in my mouth from bits of cheese to tennis shoes--still does, technically) and b) not tainted.

Now, I don't want people to think that my family would actually do something to my food; they wouldn't.  Despite all of the trouble I caused, I knew that they all loved me and at least some of my fun loving antics (specifically those that didn't involve my unnaturally large pearly white teeth wrapped around their wrists).  Still, for a pup as troublesome as I was, it didn't hurt to be at least a little bit cautious.

Anyway, having determined that the treat in question was not only edible but delicious, I would quickly scoop it up again in my mouth and start chewing (or, as I said earlier, swallow it whole).  After swallowing the last crumb, I would scurry back to the room where I initially received the treat (usually the kitchen) and beg for more.  Most of the time my begging was for naught--I would be told to "get lost" because I had already been given all the treats that I was going to get (I know, so rude).  On rare occasions, however, I'd be offered another little tidbit and do you know what I'd do?  I'd grab it in my mouth, scurry back into the living room, spit it out onto the floor, thoroughly investigate it, and then, only after determining without a shadow of a doubt that it was indeed edible, I'd eat it.

And the process would begin again.

Happy St. Patrick's Day

Bow Ties Are Cool!

Happy St. Patrick's Day

to all my friends!

Taking the Fun Out of Snow

Sometimes, Pa and Sister can be really mean.  Sure, they're awfully nice most of the time (Pa shares his cereal with me each morning (the flakes and the dried fruit) and Sister doesn't mind me sleeping on her bed), but they're also really quick to point out and mock me when...well, let's just say...when I'm not having the best of days.

Take, for instance, this photo:

It is a picture from last weekend of the trails I left in my wake after running through the snow that had accumulated in my backyard out east (I hadn't been out there in nearly two months so there was a solid one and a half feet of undisturbed snow blanketing everything).  Now, some might say, "wow, Rigby must have had a good time playing in the snow," and they would be one hundred percent correct.  Who wouldn't, after all, enjoy guffawing through fluffy white snow and gnawing on an icicle that had been snapped off the side of the house especially for you (thanks Pa)?  But did Pa and Sister focus on the fun I had when they saw these paw prints?  No, not at all.  Instead, they focused on the two round flat spots located half way through the trails.  Those "crater like holes" in the snow, Pa and Sister were quick to point out repeatedly, were the spots where I face planted.

Yes, I admit it, I stumbled when I was running through the snow (actually, I sunk in a melted spot and fell forward), and yes, I face planted when I did so.  But is that any reason for Pa and Sister to mock me repeatedly?  I think not.

Highly Suspicious

Last Friday, Sister took a day off from work.  Now that, in and of itself, is not especially exciting or noteworthy--Sister has taken other days off in the past (though not nearly as often as I would like--I'd like her to stay home every day to rub my belly).  What is noteworthy, however, is that I think Sister lied to me about why she took the day off.

You see, Sister told me Friday morning that she was going to the opening day of the Hicks Nursery Flower show to take pictures.  This seemed perfectly reasonable to me.  Sister's gone to the show every year for the last three years and I've often found her lying on the ground at home trying to take pictures of flowers that sprouted up in the middle of the lawn (I say "trying" because I usually come along and sit on said flowers before Sister can actually snap the pictures--ahh, good fun).  Anyway, camera in one hand and shovel in the other (eight inches of snow had fallen the night before), I watched as Sister skidded to her car, got in, and drove off.

A couple of hours later Sister returned.  I greeted her in my usual fashion (walking around her in circles with a toy clenched firmly in my mouth), but all of a sudden I got a whiff of something.  I dropped my toy and started sniffing all over trying to locate the source of the smell.  After a moment of investigating, I figured out where the smell was coming from--it was coming from Sister.  But what was it?  I started making snorting sounds as I sniffed up and down Sister's arms and legs.  Then, all of a sudden, I realized what the smell was and my tail started wagging in excited circles.  Sister smelled like my bff Mecki and his little brother Bastille (whom I still haven't actually met, but I recognize his smell from the first time Sister met him).

But why did Sister smell like Mecki and Bastille?  She had told me that she was going to the flower show not work (where Mecki and Bastille sometimes visit) and if she had gone to Mecki and Bastille's house she would have brought me along with her (like when Sister, Joan, and I went to Mecki's house for a barbecue).  What gives? I thought.

Proof of Sister's Whereabouts?

Sister immediately started trying to explain (she spoke very quickly--a sure sign of guilt).  She swore that she really did go to the flower show and showed me pictures to prove it.  She also explained that Mecki and Bastille's mom went with her and that Sister was in charge of driving the two of them to the show.  But that doesn't explain why you smell like Mecki and Bastille, I thought.  Sister, as though sensing my thought, quickly added that she said a quick "hello" to my bff and his brother when she stopped by to pick up their mom--that it was the polite thing to do.

So, do I believe Sister?  I don't know, but I am kind of disappointed that I didn't get to visit my bff and his brother (though, truth be told, after reading Mecki's blog I'm a bit concerned about meeting any pup who's been described as a "vampire piranha").  Sister tried to make me feel better by saying that Dog Days at Old Westbury Gardens (AKA my estate) is coming up next month and that I'd probably get to play with Mecki (and maybe Bastille) then, but I'm still kind of bummed that Sister got to visit them and I did not.

Making the Bed

The Face of a Helpful Dog

I'm a very busy dog.  I have squirrels to chase out my yard, crumbs to snuff up, things to shed on, and people walking by my house to bark furiously at.  And then there are the naps...mustn't forget all the naps I must squeeze into an already busy day.  But regardless of my busy schedule, I always make time to help with one specific chore:  making the bed.

There's just something about the entire process.  As soon as I notice someone stripping the bed of its sheets or rearranging the covers so that they are nice and neat, I just have to get involved.

First, I saunter nonchalantly into the room.  I eye the bed.  I eye the person making the bed.  I eye the bed again.  Then I rest my chin on the edge of the mattress.  Next, I pretend to listen as the person making the bed informs me that I am not, under any circumstances, allowed to jump up on the bed.  I wag my tail when he or she finally stops talking, my chin still resting on the edge of the mattress.  Then, in the middle of the phrase "no, no, no," I leap up onto the bed.

Time is now of the essence.  I must make it to the middle of the bed and throw myself down, preferably with my belly up to the sky (I'm unmovable dead weight when I'm lying on my back), before the person trying to make the bed grabs hold of my collar and guides me off with a gentle heave-ho.  And if I make it to this point-to the middle of the bed with my belly up to the sky-then the fun really begins.

Comfy Cozy

It starts with exasperated pretend crying by the person trying to make the bed which usually results in everyone else in the household gathering around to see what all the hubbub is about.  Noting my helpfulness, everyone circles around me and starts rubbing my ears, scratching my tummy, and commenting on the fact that I'm such a troublesome and rotten dog (we all know these statements are totally false).  Eventually, someone (usually Sister) tries to make me look foolish by tucking me in under the covers, but I don't care because it's actually very cozy.

After much belly rubbing and carrying on, the person who had previously been trying to make the bed declares that he or she has had enough of my shenanigans and proceeds to try to figure out a way to remove me from the bed.  Pa's technique is to slide me over to the side of the bed and guide me off by my collar.  Ma and Sister resort to bribery in the form of a cookie.  Three guesses which technique I prefer.

Anyway, just because I've been booted off the bed doesn't mean that I'm done helping.  The bed still needs to be made after all!  Having consumed my cookie (or sulked briefly in another room), I quickly circle back to the bedroom and, with a flying leap (accompanied once again by "no, no, no"), I jump back onto the bed and assume belly up to the sky position.

Resting Comfortably

By this time (and all subsequent times thereafter), the patience of the person trying to make the bed is beginning to wane, but I don't care because I think this entire exchange is beyond fun.  In fact, I've been known to continue helping long after the bed maker has given up and stalked off angrily.

My Aunt B

Aunt B and I have had a very special relationship ever since I first came to live with my family.

It started with her rushing over to meet me when my family brought me home (I knew we were going to get on famously when she started gushing about how cute I was).  As 'Nanny B' she would check in on me during the day when my family was at work and taught me how to roll over on command.  She even rushed to my aid (and Sister's as well) when I tore off my first toenail at six months old (not only did she drive me to the vet, she also helped clean up the blood that had splattered all over the floor and walls).

Of course, over the years, we've had some disagreements.  You see, she and I have very different thoughts regarding drool.  She doesn't want me to drag my sopping wet chin across her nice clean pant legs; leaving "slug trails" in my wake.  I, on the other paw, see "slug trails" as a sign of affection (but I would like the record to show that I did make some attempt at reaching her half way by giving her a homemade "Sham-Drool" one Christmas and I swear, when I spent the rest of the day trying to steal it back, I was only doing so so that I could wipe my mouth and not because I wanted to rip off each individually glued on "Sham-Drool" letter that Sister had so carefully cut out of felt and glued on).  But despite our differences in opinion, Aunt B and I get along great.  So great, in fact, that a couple of days ago, when she and Sister were out shopping, Aunt B bought me a new toy--a bright orange monkey named George.

George and Me

I love my monkey toy.  I love him so much that he and I have pretty much been inseparable over the last two days (I even managed to sneak him outside this morning though Pa eventually took him away because he didn't want George to get all wet in the snow).  And speaking of getting wet, George is extremely absorbent; he's already seeped up three times his weight in drool (hey, that's what happens when you carry a toy around in your mouth all day).  Even more surprising, however, is that, despite having to be reminded repeatedly not to gnaw off his ears or tail, George is still in one piece and has not required a trip to the dreaded toy hospital.

So thank you Aunt B for buying me this awesome toy and hopefully it will still be in one piece the next time you come over (though I can't guarantee it)!

Photographic Proof

Sister and I have had this argument before.  She insists that I'm a bed hog and I think she just doesn't want to share with her sweet little baby brother.  In the past, there has never been a way to definitively prove which one of us was telling the truth (though we all know that I am beyond trustworthy and Sister has shifty eyes); it's always been a he said she said situation.  Last night, however, that changed.  I now have photographic evidence that proves, without a doubt, that I am in no way a bed hog.  Consider the following image:

This was taken at 12:30am when Sister decided that it was time for bed (I had already been snoozing for a good hour having claimed my spot early in the evening).  As the picture clearly shows, there is a good eleven or twelve inches of mattress on either side of me--more than enough room for Sister to squeeze in.  And please note that she also has access to the blankets in both sides, so she can't complain about being cold!

But she did complain (and not about being cold...her complaint was about the lack of room) and do you know what she did?  She moved me out of her way!  First, however, she had to wait until I rolled back onto my side (I learned early on that if I'm on my back no one can lift or move me--and believe me I've use this to my benefit many a time).  Once I had finally flipped over, she started shimmying me over toward one side of the bed, first by moving my front half a few inches, then my back half, and then my front half again (yeah, it's as undignified as it sounds).  Sometimes I sleep right through this process, but on this particular night I got up, jumped off the bed, and stalked off to find another place to sleep.

So tell me, who is being selfish here?