Angel Rigby

"Don't blink.  Don't even blink.  Blink and you're dead.  They are fast.  Faster than you can believe.  Don't turn your back.  Don't look away.  And don't blink.  Good luck."  -Doctor Who, Blink.

My family has christened me with a brand new nickname.  I am now known as a Weeping Angel.

For those of you who are not Doctor Who fans (a new favorite show of mine--I'm particularly fond of the little robot dog named K-9), allow me to explain what Weeping Angels are.  Weeping Angels are an alien species that resemble human sized stone statues with wings.  They remain stationary when being watched, however, as soon as they are no longer being observed, they come alive and, aided by their remarkable speed (they can cover great distances in the time it takes to blink), attack. 

Now here's is how I fit in.

When I'm given a toy (as I was yesterday evening by Pa) and someone monitors me closely, the toy has a pretty good chance of surviving at least my initial spurt of play energy.  However, if I'm left on my own--if someone turns their back on me for even one second--I immediate find a weak spot (an appendage or a seam) and start ripping the toy apart.  Just as the Weeping Angels attack in a blink of an eye, so do I.

So, a word of advice to my family:  "Don't blink."

...And the Little One Said "Roll Over! Roll Over"

I'm a very determined pup.  If there is something I want then I will do everything in my power to get it.  When I see a crumb of food left on a tray table, I will stretch and crane my neck as far as I can to scoff it up (or bark hysterically at it until someone breaks down and hands it to me).  If I know that one of my toys is locked in the doll hospital (AKA front closet) waiting to be sewn up, I will try to steal it at every opportunity I get (or bark hysterically at it until someone breaks down and sews it for me).  And when I'm tired of sleeping on the cold hard floor and want to sleep on Ma and Pa's bed even though I'm not allowed to, well, let's just say that I have no problem resorting to some mischievous tactics.

It was a quarter to seven on Saturday morning and I had just awoken after having spent the entire night sleeping on my pillow in Ma and Pa's room.  With a yawn and a stretch, I got up off of my pillow and surveyed the room.  Ma and Pa were both asleep on the nice comfortable bed and didn't appear to be moving any time soon which was a problem because, despite the fact that my pillow is actually quite comfy, I really wanted to bask in the extreme comfort of the bed.

Now, as I've noted before, I'm technically not allowed on the furniture in my house (the only exception is Sister's bed).  That doesn't mean, however, that I will obey that rule.  You see, in the late morning, after everyone has gone to work, I've been known to climb up on Ma and Pa's bed and stare out the window until I eventually fall asleep.  I've also been known to crawl up onto the couch for a late evening nap.

So anyway, I really wanted to snooze on the bed, but I knew that there were two major obstacles standing in my way.  First was that Pa wouldn't approve of me jumping up on the bed.   The second was that since Ma and Pa were already up there, there really wasn't much room left for me.  Standing in the middle of the room, I started to think and quickly came up with a way of solving my dilemma.

First, I started yodeling in a loud voice accented with the occasional high pitched bark.  Next, I began dragging my snout along the floor.  Finally, I started throwing my butt up against the wall.

Eventually, Pa woke up.  Assuming that I was howling and carrying on because I wanted to go out, Pa dragged himself out of bed and, after informing me that he'd take me out as soon as he got dressed, he left the room.

With the click of the bathroom door, I knew that it was time to take action.  I scurried across the room and, with one giant leap, jumped up onto the bed.  Knowing full well that I only had a few seconds to secure my spot, I quickly threw myself down onto the mattress and curled up into a tight little ball.  I closed my eyes.

A moment later, Pa emerged from the bathroom and discovered me sleeping in his spot on the bed.  Needless to say, he was not particularly happy (I'm curious about what annoyed him more, that I was sleeping on the bed or that I had woken him up early to steal his spot).  Either way, I got the old heave-ho off the bed.

Stuck

Generally, Sister is very nice to me.  She always rubs my belly when I offer it to her, she always allows me to sleep on her bed (on cold nights, she's even been known to throw a blanket over me), she's a bit of a messy eater so there is always a chance of food dropping on the floor when she's having a snack, and she has a tendency of forgetting to put her shoes away and everyone knows how much I enjoy chewing on shoes.  Sometimes, however, Sister's Dr. Jekyll is replaced, temporarily, with a Mr. Hyde which is exactly what happened a couple of days ago.

Ma, Pa, Sister, and I were hanging out in the living room watching the baseball game.  It was Ma's turn to massage my neck that evening, so I parked myself at her feet (I literally sat on her feet) and gave her my sad eyes look to signal that she had a job to do (I also made sure to face Sister who was sitting across the room from me--one never knows when she might start eating so one should always keep an eye on her to ensure that any stray crumbs eventually make their way into my, I mean, one's stomach).  Anyway, I was savoring my neck rub when all of a sudden I became aware of a tickle on my chest.  Now I easily could have scratched the itch with my back leg, but to do so would have required me to shift in my spot and run the risk of moving out of range of my neck scratch.  No, I had to come up with another solution.

And I did.

While Ma continued to absentmindedly rub my neck, I put my chin to my chest and discovered that I could reach the itchy spot with what is known in my house as my raspberry picking teeth--my incisors.  So I started gnawing away at the spot, insanely proud of myself for having managed to figure out how to get a neck scratch and take care of that pesky itch all at the same time.  Within a few seconds, the itch was gone.

And that's when everything went bad.  You see, when I went to lift my head from my chest I discovered that I was unable to; my canine tooth was stuck in a drool encrusted curl of fur on my chest.

To say I was embarrassed would be an understatement, but I decided that my best course of action would be to not draw attention to myself and calmly handle the problem on my own.  Sadly, it didn't work like that.  You see, Sister had noticed what happened and, well, let's just say her response was less than helpful.

What was her response you ask?  She started laughing hysterically at me.

So there I was, a devilishly handsome pup with a major problem and a less than sensitive Sister.  Eventually Ma came to my rescue and detached my tooth from my fur.  She also yelled at Sister saying that she was very mean, but I don't think it did any good because Sister was still laughing so hard that she didn't hear a word Ma said.

The Great Pretzel Explosion

It is a habit of mine to gravitate toward whoever happens to be eating food. I do this to ensure the occurrence of at least one of the following three scenarios:

1. The person eating might take pity on me, the poor starving dog at his feet, and let me have a taste (don’t judge…there’s a chance that I wouldn’t have eaten for a full two hours prior to this).
2. I might be called into action as the official taste tester (obviously to protect the humans—make sure their food-stuff hasn’t gone bad). 
3. The person eating might suffer from a deliciously named bout of “butter fingers.”

And do you know what the greatest thing about all these scenarios is? They generally all result in me getting something to eat. What a wonderful coincidence! Anyway, my favorite of these three scenarios is the third because it generally allows for the biggest payload for me. Think about it, the first two are controlled donations to my stomach. The third? Well, anything goes.

Which is exactly what happened a few days ago.

Ma was in the kitchen packing the lunch she was going to take to work. I was sitting in the threshold between the kitchen and the dining room—just inches away from the “something absorbent” (the rug) that everyone always begs me to sit on due to my excessive drooling—keeping watch over the transfer of food. She had already put her sandwich in her lunch bag as well as the apple that we both knew she would never get around to eating and would eventually bring home with her at the end of the day (which is why I check her lunch bag whenever I get the chance—you never know what might be left over from lunchtime). Anyway, next came the bag of pretzels. Ma went to the cupboard, retrieved a brand new bag of pretzels, and opened it. Reaching in, she grabbed one and flipped it to me. I missed it (catching is not my forte), but gobbled it up on the rebound. Then I watched as Ma walked across the kitchen to the drawer that houses the little zip-locked baggies she was going to pack her snack in.

Days later, I still dream about what happened next.

As Ma pulled open the drawer with one hand, the full bag of pretzels in the other started slipping from her grasp. Ma juggled the bag—back and forth—between both hands until it finally got away from her completely. Suddenly, the skies opened up and it started raining pretzels in the kitchen.

Wasting no time, I quickly jumped up and scurried toward the scene, scooping up stray pretzels as I went. Ma, meanwhile, dropped to the floor intent on gathering and guarding the epicenter of the spill. While this was a noble effort in theory, it was, in actuality, pretty near impossible to carry out; I am way too skilled at pushing my way into situations for one person to both guard a stockpile of food now long past the five second rule and hold me off. Two people might have succeeded, but Pa was already at work and Sister was useless as she was currently doubled over with laughter having witnessed the pandemonium.

Eventually, Ma succeeded in gathering up some of the pretzels (to add insult to injury, she threw these pretzels out) and I succeeded in eating a fair portion of the original spill. Sister, meanwhile, complained that her stomach hurt from laughing.

It’s been days since the “Great Pretzel Explosion,” but proof of its occurrence is still evident throughout the house. Every once in a while I come across a stray pretzel—under a chair, in a corner, by the bathroom door. Pa even found a stash in the drawer Ma was opening during the explosion. Personally, I’m looking forward to someone moving the refrigerator to vacuum underneath it. I predict there will be quite the stash there.

Picking Pieces Off The Fence

I require (and I think deserve) a lot of attention. And when I say a lot of attention, what I really mean is that I deserve all the attention in the world. And when I don’t get all the attention in the world I have no choice but to go out of my way to achieve what is rightfully mine. A perfect example of this premise occurred last weekend.

Ma, Pa, and I were spending the weekend out east (Sister was in a bad mood and decided to stay home—I thought I was really going to miss her, but then I realized that I would not have to share the backseat of the car with her on the drive out so I got over it) and Saturday afternoon’s project, it was decided, would included Ma and Pa picking and trashing mushrooms that had sprouted up in the grass over the course of the previous week. I joined them outside in the backyard during this project.

Now, I’ve never ever been even remotely interested in mushrooms, so for the life of me I couldn’t fathom why Ma and Pa were so dedicated to the completion of this task. Perhaps, I thought, they were concerned that I might try to eat one one day. Ha! Highly unlikely. Why would I bother eating a mushroom from the backyard when there are far more stinky things to eat outside (i.e. half eaten fish dropped by seagulls) and far more tasty things to eat inside (i.e. cheese, apples, tomatoes, and steak)? Humans--I just don’t get them.

Anyway, regardless of my thoughts on the matter, there were two things I knew for certain that afternoon:

1. If Ma and Pa were searching for mushrooms, then they were not paying me the attention I deserved.
2. If Ma and Pa were not paying me the attention I deserved, then I would be forced to draw their attention the only way I knew how…by causing trouble.

I quickly scanned the backyard. At first I felt a bit discouraged; there didn’t seem to be many options. The neighbor dogs were not out so I couldn't rile them up, there really wasn’t much of a garden so I couldn’t dig in the mud, Ma had clipped all the overgrown weeds growing along the fences so I couldn’t graze on them, and the neighbor kids hadn’t thrown any of their toys over the fence so I couldn’t gnaw on them. But then, just when I was about to give up and simply bark at imaginary people passing by the house, a six inch long broken piece of picket fence caught my eye.

But I couldn’t simply run over to the fence. No sir. You see, as much as I craved attention, I wanted it on my terms and I certainly didn’t want to draw attention to myself before I retrieved my prize. So I strolled over to the broken piece of fence as nonchalantly as possible (if I were able to whistle—impossible due to my drooly jowls—I would have done so while I sauntered over to my prize). After an excruciatingly long period of time, I reached the fence, scooped up the broken piece, and, no longer trying to remain under the radar, galloped off across the yard.

My enthusiastic retreat with my prize did exactly what I expected it would: it drew Ma and Pa’s attention. First Ma tried to retrieve my prize from me which resulted in a rousing game of keep away. Then Pa stepped in. Pa doesn't like playing keep away so I reluctantly had to give up my prize when he told me to “drop it.” I was really kind of bummed about losing my piece of fence, but at least I drew everyone's attention.

Two Letters

Dear Ralphie's Mom,

Ralphie Stew

I just wanted to take a minute to thank you for the yummy stew you sent me.  I got a spoonful of it yesterday when Sister came home from class and a couple of scoops mixed in with both my breakfast and dinner today.  And do you know what?  Ralphie's right.  The orange stuff is particularly tasty.  Oh!  And I mustn't forget the chicken!  How did you know that chicken (along with quail, duck, and turkey) is my favorite type of poultry?

My First Taste

Which leads me to the question:  Are you free to cater all my meals?  You see, after sampling your stew, I came to the realization that the catering crew that I currently employ (mainly Ma, Pa, and Sister) are severely lacking in their collective cooking skills.  Don't get me wrong, the kibble they serve me is tasty and I certainly wouldn't turn my snout up at it, but it isn't chicken.  And I realize and appreciate that Ma, Pa, and Sister do try to spice up my meals with pureed pumpkin and something they call "gravy" but, once again, what they're serving me isn't chicken.

So anyway, the offer stands.  I'll be waiting for your response by my dinner bowl.

Love always,
Rigby

Ralphie Tested & Ralphie Approved

Dear Ralphie,

My compliments on your excellent choice of sponsorship.  Your "Ralphie Tested...Ralphie Approved Stew" was delicious!

Your leaning buddy,
Rigby.

Interlopers Run Amok

It's hard for me to admit this out loud, but I feel that I must.  I've recently failed miserably at a job that I hold very near and dear to my heart.  The job:  Head of Security.  My feelings on the topic:  I'm not happy about it.

Interloper Number 1:  
The laps in security started a couple of weeks ago when I noticed that there was an influx of squirrels passing though my yard on their way to the bird feeder and peach tree in the neighbor's yard.  As I've explained in the past, the squirrels and I have a bit of an understanding.  I'm willing to tolerate their trespassing (I hurry them along by chasing after them) provided that they drop their half eaten peaches on my side of the fence (consider it a toll of sorts).  Later, after scrounging through the bushes in search of these peaches, I trade them for a cookie from Pa, Ma, or Sister.  Anyway, long story short, the squirrel paw traffic has increased, but the number of dropped peaches hasn't.

Interloper Number 2:

Henry, When He Was Small

About a week ago, I came to the realization that Henry, the stupid little bunny who usually lives in the yard next door (I bark at him daily), had decided to start nibbling the grass in my yard.  But regardless of how alarming and disturbing the concept of Henry suddenly taking up residence in my back yard is, it is nothing compared to one additional fact.  Henry is no longer a "stupid little bunny."  He is now a "stupid massively large bunny."  I kid you not, he is huge!  He's even starting to rival in size most of the small dogs I know.  Mercifully, as of right now, he's obviously still frightened of me (he still runs away when he sees me), but I fear that his brazen trespassing and obvious steroid use (how else can one account for his sudden and massive increase in size) could signify that the tables might change if something isn't done soon to rectify the situation.

Interloper Number 3:
Last weekend, Pa went into the garage to retrieve his car washing bucket and was surprised to find that a baby lizard had taken up residence in the bottom of the bright orange bin.  He was shocked because he had no idea how the lizard got into the bucket.  I was shocked because of how far onto my property the lizard had managed to travel despite the hours I've put into chasing his like away.

Interloper Number 4:  
And finally, last week, I received a final blow to my pride.  I discovered that there was a raccoon living in my backyard tree.  I was flabbergasted.  How could a raccoon (or heaven forbid, a family of raccoons) take up residence in my tree?  Now, I've never actually seen the raccoon; I've only smelled him.  Even so, when I get a whiff of him, I don't hesitate to put my front paws up on the tree as high as I can reach and bark hysterically into the darkness.  In fact, the very first night I smelled him, I started barking so ferociously up the tree that the neighbors in back came out to see what was going on.  Pa tried for a good long time to convince me to come in (as did Sister), but I wouldn't have it.  I was too intent on barking at that raccoon.  Eventually, Sister got my leash and Pa walked me back inside the house, but I didn't forget.  Every night since, when I've gone out for my last business trip, I've made a mad dash for that tree (unless Pa thinks ahead and takes me out on my leash).

So there you have it, my great failure.  But I'm not admitting defeat.  Vigilance.  That's what's in order right now.  Vigilance and resourcefulness.  I'm hopeful that, with a combination of stepped up perimeter patrols and barking fits, I'll be able to shore up my borders within the next couple of days, push all the interlopers out, and regain my integrity as Head of Security.

Wish me luck!