Rigby vs. Snow

The last time I posted, I told the story of how I had fully embraced the huge amount of snow in my backyard.  I related how I attacked a rose bush that had the nerve of peeking out from under the snow, how I did my business wherever I saw fit, and how I decapitate and disemboweled Sister's snowman.  In other words, if this were a competition, the score would be Rigby 3, Snow 0.

Well, apparently the snow was annoyed at my ability to take advantage of it and decided to spend the next week fighting back.  Here's what happened:

Mourning Doves:
A day or so after the storm, when the snow was still very deep, I found myself in the unfortunate position of being beached in the middle of the backyard.  At first, I wasn't too concerned.  I knew that if I simply took a minute or two I'd easily be able to break through the snowdrift and be on my way.  In the meantime, all I had to do was strike a pose and pretend that I wasn't stuck so as to fool Ma who was also outside with me.  I didn't, however, take into account the flock of mourning doves that were hanging out in the tree above me.  Well, apparently my presence annoyed the doves and they started flapping their wings and jumping from branch to branch in protest.  I found this sudden movement quite menacing because a) I have chased a good number of doves off of my property in the past and I was concerned that they might be ganging up on me to seek revenge and b) I was stuck in a snowdrift.  Luckily, the birds did not appear to have any interest in attacking me and merely flew off to another tree.  However, my cover was blown; Ma had seen the pure terror in my eyes.  No amount of posing was going to cover that up.

Squirrel:
A day or so after the dove incident, I found myself hanging out in the backyard with Pa.  Because of my earlier experience, I was much more careful about making sure that I didn't find myself in yet another uncomfortable position.  In other words, I steered clear of the middle of the yard where the snow was the deepest.  So anyway, there I was sniffing around when all of a sudden I saw it:  a squirrel brazenly sitting on the fence in the back corner of the yard.  With a heavy heart and a sense of failing in my duty as "Head of Security," I came to the conclusion that there was no way for me to chase after the squirrel.  If I did, I'd only find myself stuck in another snowdrift (and I'd never be able to deal with a squirrel seeing me in such an embarrassing position).  So I did the only other thing I could: I inched my way as close to the dangerous snowdrift as possible then started barking hysterically.  The squirrel didn't flee as quickly as he would have had I chased him down, but he did get the message and meandered off. 

Avalanche:
A day later I was peacefully snoozing in the kitchen (if you're going to sleep on the floor, you might as well do so in the room where the refrigerator lives) when all of a sudden, I was awoken by a loud thud.  Alarmed, I jumped up barking, convinced that the squirrels and doves had teamed up and were using a battering ram to knock in my door.  Sister, startled not by the thud (she didn't hear it) but from my hysterical barking, quickly rushed into the kitchen and looked out the side door.  She then turned back to me and laughed.  The snow that had built up on the side awning had melted just enough to allow for the whole pile to slide off and land on the pavement.

So the official score by the end of the week was Rigby 3, Snow 3.  Obviously, I needed to break the tie.  So what did I do?  I mounted a second attacked on the melted remains of Sister's snowman.

Ah...payback!

Snow Day

Walking Through The Snow

It snowed this weekend—a lot. In my neck of the woods, the total snowfall amounted to almost two feet which was great because I love snow and, in my view, the more the better. Of course, I am always concerned about my more vertically challenged friends like Mecki and his little brother Bastille in storms like this, but their Mom posted some videos of them playing in a shoveled out spot in the yard, so they seem to be doing okay.

I think perhaps the reason I enjoy snow so much is because it allows me the opportunity to unleash my wild and crazy side. Take this recent storm. When Ma and I went outside first thing yesterday morning after the blizzard was over I:

• bunny hopped around the backyard in circles at top speed (bunny hopping is the only way to get through such deep snow efficiently)
• located and ripped out a rosebush branch that dared to peek out from underneath the snow 
• did my business wherever I pleased. 

But hidden just behind these happy moments of frolicking through the snow and doing business wherever I saw fit, dark forces were brewing.

Balancing Snow On My Snout

Later that very afternoon, Sister and I went outside to play in the snow. After chasing me around for a little bit, Sister and I went our separate ways; I found a nice stick to chew on and Sister decided to build a snowman. Sister spent a lot of time sculpting the snow while I, having finished with my stick fairly early on, watched patiently from afar. Once the three layers of her snowman were built, Sister retrieved a scarf, a carrot, and a couple of walnuts (she didn’t have any coal) that she had brought out with her earlier and had left on the patio table. She wrapped the scarf around the snowman’s neck, but never got the opportunity to insert the eyes and nose.

You see, that’s when I pounced!

What's That Over There?

Sister's Snowman

Like a bat out of hell, I charged the snowman and, propelling myself upward by launching myself off of its bottom sphere, plowed straight into its head. The snowman’s head popped off on impact and dropped to the ground in one piece (Sister is obviously very skilled at making snowman heads). Wasting no time, I pounced on the head and immediately started pummeling it with my paws and breaking it into pieces with my mouth. Oblivious to Sister’s screams and riding high from the fun of beheading the snow creature, I then turned around and threw myself at the snowman’s torso. Digging like a fiend (my loyal readers know how much I enjoy “dig, dig, digging” on the mountains of snow my family build for me when clearing the driveway), I tore apart the snowman’s chest, leaving behind a gaping hole in my wake. Satisfied that the snowman was indeed dead, I ran down the driveway to bark at someone who had the gall of walking by my house. Sister remained behind, mourning her decapitated and disemboweled friend.

Covered In Snow

The remains of Sister’s snowman still stands in the middle of the backyard and, while I’m looking forward to going back outside to finish him off, I can’t help but wonder one thing: Whatever happened to that carrot Sister was going to use as a nose?

A Burger for Doing Nothing

My "I'm Annoyed" Look

There are days that I'm convinced that my family just doesn't appreciate me.  They overlook all of my accomplishments and skills and spend their time oohing and ahhing over some strange dog doing sub-par work (and who, obviously, is not nearly as handsome as yours truly).  The latest example of this phenomenon occurred last Sunday.

Pa, Ma, and Sister were eating lunch at the local diner (I was sadly not invited because the Department of Health has declared that non-service dogs are not permitted in establishments that serve food).  Across the street, in the bed of a parked pick-up truck, was an unleashed German Shepherd waiting for his family (also in the diner) to finish eating.  Everyone in the diner noticed this dog and expressed countless compliments about how he was waiting patiently for his family, how nice he was sitting, how cute he looked with his chin resting on the side panel of the truck, and how he wasn't "jumping out of no car" (no need to specify whose family said that last one).  But it wasn't just compliments.  A number of people (including my Sister) suggested that the German Shepherd's family should buy him a burger as a reward for being such a good boy.

For what?!  For sitting perfectly still in the back of a truck?!  Any dog can do that!  Heck, even a cat could do that!  But all the humans were impressed by the dog that sat stock still for thirty minutes!  And then they suggested that he receive a burger for his "hard work"?!  Ugh!

And what about me?  I actually do a ton of stuff but do I get offered a burger?  Do I get a burger for alerting the world of someone walking by my house or closing a car door?  Do I get a burger for retrieving the dish towel even though no one needs it at the moment?  Do I get a burger for politely wiping my chin on the couch after eating?  Do I get a burger for so expertly training my family to see to my every need?  Do I get a burger for doing a perfect tuck and roll out of a partially open car window at 30 miles per hour?  Do I get a burger for helping to sort the laundry, for shredding wrapping paper, digging holes, gutting toys, and chasing squirrels out of my yard?

No, I do not.

But a German Shepherd sits still for thirty minutes and he becomes the envy of the entire world!

It just isn't fair.

Merry Christmas!

According to the song (which is occasionally sung at ear piercing levels in my house) and warnings issued by my family, Santa Claus is not only watching constantly, but he's also labeling handsome pups such as me as either naughty or nice.  Nice pups get loads of toys to rip the stuffing out of and bones to chew on (the obvious goal).  Bad pups receive a lump of coal in their stockings (which, frankly, doesn't sound all that bad to me).

Now, it is well known that I have a bit of track record of being mischievous.  But mischievousness, in my eyes, is not necessarily synonymous with naughtiness.  I'd be lying, however, if I said I wasn't, going into Christmas, concerned that perhaps my fun loving antics might be misconstrued as naughtiness by the big man wearing red.

Well, it turns out my concern was unjustified.  Despite all my mischievousness this year, I apparently ended up on every one's extremely good list because I really cleaned up this December 25th.  Between Santa, Ma, Pa, Sister, Aunt B, Faye (Tink & ZeeZee), Karin (Mecki & Bastille), and Jim (Pa's friend from work who is the human dad to Dixie whom I've heard stories about but have yet to meet in person), I got:

Octopus, Reindeer, & Raccoon

• a bag of treats (yet to be opened)
• a new antler (chewed on)
• an orange squeaky ball (plucked, ripped, and thrown away)
• a giant octopus (awaiting surgery for a ripped tentacle)
• a football (still whole...great for greeting people with)
• a plush raccoon (ripped, gutted, and awaiting surgery)
• a flat plush squeaker dog (waiting to be chewed on)
• a Christmas Mini-Mecki (also waiting to be chewed on)
• a giant plush reindeer with tennis ball feet (tennis balls ripped off body and partial lobotomy?--check!).  

Christmas Mini-Meck

But despite all the toys and all the tasty food I grubbed (the less said the better), this Christmas wasn't all good.

In the wee hours of Christmas morning (while Santa was making his rounds), I was felled by an unhappy belly.  Ever helpful, Ma heard my pitiful cries at the door and got up to let me out while the rest of the household slept.  Once I was feeling better, Ma let me back in the house but, in the process, accidentally slammed the side door.  Ma and I both thought that the sound would have woken up Pa, but we were both pleasantly surprised to discover that he had slept right through the noise.

Still emotionally troubled by my earlier experience (I hate feeling sick), I grabbed my new football toy that Ma had given me earlier in the evening and curled up on my pillow.  Sadly, I gave it a squeeze, but, because it was squeaker-less, it didn't make a sound.

So, in review, Pa slept through me crying to go out, Ma getting up, Ma accidentally slamming the side door, and Ma and I wandering back into the bedroom.  I then squeaked a squeaker-less toy.  To quote Charles Dickens (from a story that is very appropriate given the time of year) "this must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate."

Like a shot, Pa jumped up, turned to me, and told me that it was too late to play with my toys and that I should go to sleep.  He took my football from me, scratched my head, and then fell back asleep.  With a sign, I too went to bed.

Later in the morning, after all the presents were open (and some of the paper shredded), Ma related this story to both Sister and Pa (Pa was unaware of what happened before I squeaked my squeaker-less toy) and everyone had a good laugh.  More importantly, however, I got my football back.

Sing Along With Rigby

Merry Christmas to all my fans.  Please enjoy this year's Christmas carol set to the tune of "Silent Night." *<[:{)

Rigby the Black Nosed Rein-Dog!

Drooly boy, slobbery boy.
Waiting for Christmas day.
Picking ornaments off of the tree.
Sniffing through presents that might be for me.
Trolling for cookies to eat,
Trolling for cookies to eat!

Furry boy, troublesome boy.
Cannot wait for Santa Claus.
Asking for a plush toy to tear.
Tennis balls and a bone and a spare.
Lots of cookies to eat,
Lots of cookies to eat!

Barky boy, handsome boy.
Christmas joy to all my friends.
Hope you get toys, bones, and treats galore.
Shred lots of paper and one thing more.
Numerous cookies to eat,
Numerous cookies to eat!

Merry Christmas!

The Couch

My loyal readers know that there is a rule in my house that states that I'm not allowed on the furniture.  My loyal readers also know that there has, traditionally, only been a halfhearted enforcement of said rule.  In short, Ma and Sister let me hang out on the furniture and Pa, well, he strongly disapproves.

Lately, however, the epic struggle between me being comfortable on the nice soft couch or uncomfortable on the cold hard floor seems to be shifting further and further in my favor.  You see, Ma has officially designated part of the couch as being mine.  Now you might ask: How do you know that that particular spot on the couch is yours?  Well, it's really quite simple.  One day, after vacuuming all the fur off of the couch (amassed from the times I spent sleeping on it when no one was looking), Ma took an old bed sheet, draped it over the seat, back, and arm rest, then gave me the "up, up, up" command while patting the spot with her hand.

And that was all I needed.  I jumped up onto the couch, curled up into a tight little ball, and took a nap.

Now I spend most evenings snoozing on the couch.  Sometimes, because Ma is so close (her spot is down the other end of the couch--that's right, I'm kind enough to share with her), I let her rub my belly.  Belly rub or not, my spot is heavenly (or it would be if someone would just turn off the lights and stop taking pictures so I can get a good night's sleep)!

The Doggy Bag

Humans have a knack of giving odd (and sometimes troubling) names to items.

Take for instance, hot dogs.  Why would anyone decide to name a delicious sausage shaped food item after one of my race?  I mean, Sister has assured me that hot dogs are not made from dogs (I can't tell you how relived I was when I heard this especially since I find hot dogs quite tasty) but then why call them that?  Why not "hot cats" or "hot squirrels" instead?  It makes just about as much sense!

And then there are doggy bags.  Now, I've been fooled by this title before.  Humans return from a restaurant with a little bag that smells absolutely delicious and instead of giving it to "the doggy" they stuff it in the refrigerator and eat it all themselves the following day at lunch.  It's just not fair!  I mean, they could easily call it a "human bag" or "leftover bag."  I wouldn't have a problem with that (though I would probably follow after the person begging for the nice smelling food they're transporting).  But no, the humans call it a doggy bag and then they refuse to share it with the dog.

That is, most of the time they don't share their doggy bag with the dog.

On Friday night, Ma came home from dinner with one of those so-called "doggy bags."  Always available for a quick snack (hey, it had been all of ten minutes since I ate my dinner), I followed her around dutifully, but ultimately resigned myself to being denied the contents of the bag once she placed it in the refrigerator.

Boy was I mistaken!

Twenty four hours later, when it was once again supper time, Ma retrieved the little bag from the refrigerator, extracted some of its contents, cut the contents into bite-sized pieces, nuked them in the microwave until they were warm, then added the bits to my bowl of kibble.  Overcome with excitement, I beat Ma to my designated supper area (a small elevated table on which my bowl is placed that Ma says prevents me from having acid reflux--I just enjoy the fact that I don't have to reach all the way down to the floor to eat), watched her put my bowl down, then I scooped up a large mouthful of its contents.

Steak!  Ma had given me steak!

Needless to say, I licked my bowl clean (well, I always do that, but this time I did it with great gusto).

And do you know what?  My next four suppers had cut up steak in them also!

Finally, the entire contents of a doggy bag went to the dog.