A Play Date At Ralphie's

Look at me!

I'm a wreck!  I'm a mess!  I'm a shadow of my former self!  And why?  Because I'm exhausted from last Saturday.  Allow me to explain.

On Saturday morning, Sister surprised me by asking Ralphie's mom if he was available for a play date and, as luck would have it, he was.  I don't need to tell my loyal readers how happy I was to hear this.  I haven't seen my pal Ralphie for nearly two years now!  He and I always have fun when we get together...we take turns leaning on people, we check out the now defunct pizza tree, and we make dog angels in the snow.  So anyway, an hour later, Ma, Sister, and I set out to Ralphie's house (and yes, I pretty much dragged Sister the whole two blocks).  Little did I know that there was an even bigger surprise waiting for me at Ralphie's house.

Twins (Archie On The Left)

I was greeted at Ralphie's front gate by a dog that was not Ralphie.  Turns out, the nine year old Golden Retriever that was barking at me from inside the gate was Archie, Ralphie's house guest.  Right away, I came to the conclusion that Archie was cool.  First of all, he's a Golden.  Second, he bears a striking resemblance to yours truly.  Yeah, I found out later that he's a bit of a people hog (he kept inserting himself between me and the humans who were obviously all hanging around to exclusively pet me), but I was okay with it because, ultimately, there were enough humans to go around.  

L to R:  Me, Ralphie, & Archie

So anyway, Archie and I ran around the front yard for a while which was an awful lot of fun.  Then Ralphie's mom went inside to get Ralphie.  That's when the fun really started.  Ralphie, Archie, and I took turns getting drinks from the water bowl (I kept sticking my foot in the bowl...why? why not!?), trampling the lone crocus growing in Ralphie's front yard, and begging for attention.

L to R:  Archie, Me, Ralphie

After an hour, Ma and Sister told me that it was time to go home.  I hated to go, but I had to admit that I was kind of tired (and yes, Sister was quick to point out that I was the youngest in the pack and the first to tucker out).  I said goodbye to everyone (Ralphie took an extra turn saying goodbye to Sister) and walked home (all the while wishing that we drove the two blocks rather than walked).

Totally exhausted from my play date, I decided that I'd devote the rest of the day to napping.  Unfortunately, Ma didn't get the memo.  No, she decided that that Saturday afternoon was the perfect time to give me a bath.  Truth be told, I knew that a bath was eventually coming my way--my family had been threatening me with one since January--but I didn't think they'd take advantage of my worn out state to tackle me, clean my ears, and hose me down in the driveway (they didn't even have the decency to take me to the doggy spa!).

Needless to say, I was quite annoyed by this and decided to voice my displeasure the only way I knew how:

Is There A Zoologist In The House?

It was Saturday afternoon and I was spending the weekend out east with Ma and Pa.  Because I knew that there was a nice coating of icy snow on the grass for me to rub my snout in, I jumped at the opportunity to go outside when Ma made the suggestion that I join her outside.

After I finished rubbing my snout in the icy snow, I decided to check out what Ma was doing.  You see, Ma requires a certain level of supervision when she's outside in the yard.  She's always raking up leaves or digging holes which means that there are always garden tools or plants that need to be carried away by yours truly.  So I surveyed the yard and located Ma.  She was raking up leaves that had gathered in the basement doorway.  Wasting no time, I scurried over to her side and started snuffling my way through the pile of leaves she had already collected.

Truth be told, I was searching the pile of leaves for a nice stick to chew on.  Never did I ever expect to find what I found and when I did, I did the only thing I could:  I picked it up in my mouth.

I had found a small, furry, and very much deceased creature.

Now, I've heard Pa, Ma, and Sister argue about it before:  What is the difference between a field mouse, a mole, and a vole?  Well, I certainly didn't know, but I did know that I had one of them in my mouth (there was, after all, no zoologist present at the time of death).  I also knew that whatever it was it didn't taste particularly good.  But even though it didn't taste good didn't mean that I would simply walk away from it.  No, I had to get Ma's attention so she could take it away from me (that's one of the top three purposes of the human race, isn't it?  To buy soft comfy furniture for me to sleep on, open the food tin so I can eat my supper, and take disgusting things out of my mouth).

I've learned over the years that my family is most suspicious of me when I'm quiet--that that's when they come looking for me expecting me to be up to no good.  So I, with the mouse/mole/vole still in my mouth, wandered about ten feet away from Ma and lay down in the grass.  I spit the mouse/mole/vole out on the grass in front of me.  Then I waited.

Ma was uncharacteristically oblivious to my quietness, but I was patient.  I lay there quietly with the late mouse/mole/vole before me trying not to look at it for fear of losing my most recent meal.  Ma, meanwhile, raked away.

Eventually, after what felt like forever, Ma noticed that I was acting weird.  I wasn't nosing through her leaf piles any more.  I wasn't snuffling through the bushes.  Something was amiss.

Ma turned to me and I immediately gave her my "yeah, I've got something.  Aren't you gonna come and take it away from me already?" look.  That message she got loud and clear.  Quickly, she advanced on me.

Now, just as I wasn't going to leave the mouse/mole/vole behind just because it didn't taste good, I certainly wasn't going to give up the mouse/mole/vole to Ma without at least putting up a little fight.  As Ma approached me, I summed up my strength, wished I was able to pinch my nose, and picked up the mouse/mole/vole.

Ma started shouting "drop it" and reached for my collar to prevent me from running off.  Ever the obedient dog (and more than happy to get rid of my icky tasting prize), I immediately spit out the mouse/mole/vole.

Ma obviously wasn't expecting me to have found a small, furry, and very much deceased creature either.

Standing between me and the mouse/mole/vole, Ma started frantically motioning to Pa (who was inside the house watching the events unfold), desperate to get his attention so that he could collect the recently departed animal and dispose of him before I snatched him up again.  Pa eventually came and collected the mouse/mole/vole and while he and Ma once again debated the difference between mice, moles, and voles, I considered my next step.

I decided to circle back to where I had initially found the mouse/mole/vole in hopes that I would find something just as exciting (though hopefully a whole lot tastier).  For fifteen minutes Ma watched as I circled from the spot the mouse/mole/vole had departed this world, to the pile of leaves I had plucked him from, to the spot that Ma and Pa had taken him away from me, but to no avail.  I never found anything else.

Once all the leaves were picked up, Pa, Ma, and I went inside.  I was exhausted from my adventure and was more than happy to go take a nap, but Ma was obsessing about the fact that I had been carrying around a dead mouse/mole/vole in my mouth.  Hoping to get the nasty taste out of my mouth, Ma gave me a cookie.  Not wishing to insult her, I ate it.  Then Ma brought me my water bowl to wash down any lingering taste.  Obediently, I drank.  But then Ma, taking advantage of my drooly jowls and dead set on erasing all trace of the mouse/mole/vole from my lips, grabbed a wad of paper towels and started wiping my mouth which I really hated.

It's been over twenty four hours since I picked up that mouse/mole/vole and I'm still being harassed about my germy jowls.  I'm thinking that I'm going to have to break my usual rule of not being a kissy dog and give someone in my family a big wet kiss across the nose.  I, for one, can't wait to see that person's face.

Snout Rubbing

It snowed yesterday.  Sure, it wasn't a lot and it did not result in me getting the opportunity to "dig, dig, dig" in a snow bank or disembowel a snowman, but, nevertheless, it did snow.  And do you know what?  I'm okay with it only snowing a little bit.  Sometimes, I think, a little snow is better than a whole lot of snow.

Allow me to explain.

One of my favorite activities (behind eating, begging for food that other people are eating, scrounging for food, and eating items that may or may not be edible) is rubbing my snout.  I love rubbing my snout.  I do it all the time: after I eat (usually on the side of the couch), when I wake up in the middle of the night (usually in Pa and Ma's bedroom while they are sleeping), when I find something good and smelly in the backyard that needs rolling in, and when the moment just feels right. But rolling in an inch or so of icy snow?  That's by far the best of all! 

People might not realize this, but snout rubbing is a very intricate process.  First, I repeatedly plow my head into the ground while keeping my butt high up in the air.  Next, with my head down, I push forward with my back legs until I stretch so far that my back end comes crashing to the ground with a thud (this is especially satisfying at three o'clock in the morning when I crash into Pa's closet door resulting in an even louder thud).  Then I start howling and barking loudly until I get up, shake, and start the process over again.

So anyway, rolling in an inch or so of icy snow is wonderful.  Think about it:  cool snow in your fur and abrasive ice rubbing against the side of your face. What else could a devilishly handsome pup want?  It's like a spa treatment!

But there is a side effect to snout rubbing.  All of my whiskers are now bent and pointing in odd directions.  This doesn't bother me--I think bent whiskers add a certain ruggedness to my appearance--but Ma and Sister think that it cuts into my handsomeness.  They're always lamenting how my whiskers had just turned the same color (when I was a pup, each whisker was white, brown, and gray in color) and now they're all bent and broken.

What do they know?

A Flock of Robins

I've said it before and I'll say it again:  I hate robins!  About a year ago, I shared on this blog the reasons why I hate robins and they were:

1.  They have beady little eyes.
2.  They don't take a hint and return a minute after being chased out of the yard.
3.  They don't fly away when confronted; they just skip (and not fly like proper birds) out of reach.

But as annoying as robins are, I've never seen a group as brazen as I did last weekend.

It was a perfect morning out east.  Having eaten my breakfast and gone outside, I was happily lounging in the dining room while Ma and Pa ate their breakfasts.  As a practice, I always hang out in the dining room during breakfast time in hopes that one day someone's bagel would accidentally slip from their hands and roll off the table.  And as everyone knows, once a bagel (or any food for that matter) hits the ground it's mine.  So anyway, after a half hour of lounging with no runaway bagels, I decided that it was time to seek out a new sunny spot on the floor.

As I crossed the room in search of nice warm spot, I happened to look out the window.  It was then that I saw it: a whole gaggle of robins, at least twenty, brazenly congregating in my backyard. 

I was in shock.  How dare those robins gather in my yard!  I needed to do something.  I needed to take back my yard.  But how?  I considered my options:  

Option One:  Go outside and chase away the flock, all while barking hysterically.
Problem:  I was stuck inside--Ma and Pa would never let me outside knowing that I'd be yelling and screaming my head off as I went (apparently 8AM on a Sunday morning is too early for a barking fit).

Option Two:  Bark out the window.  Sure, it wouldn't be as effective as physically charging the birds, but I was sure that if I used my most ferocious bark I'd get results.
Problem:  The windows were closed and, seeing as it was winter, there was little chance of getting someone to open them for me (and that's before going into the whole "don't open the window because Rigby might jump out it" discussion).

Option Three:  Bark loudly through the closed window.  Obviously, in order to get my voice to penetrate the thick glass and distance between me and the flock, I'd have to really push myself.
Problem:  My family would likely complain of ear pain.

Needless to say, I went with option three.  I would just have to deal with my family later.  And besides, perhaps after the ringing in their ears stopped, my family would realize that the pain they experienced was for the greater good--protection from those beady eyed robins.

So I started barking.  When the birds failed to respond, I barked even louder.  Then I got even louder.

Despite the glass and the distance, my message must have finally gotten through their little tiny bird brains because the flock suddenly lifted off and flew away.  I gave them a few parting barks (the canine equivalent of "and don't come back") then went back to the more pressing matter:  hunting down that sunny spot on the floor.

Baby and Me

Baby

Baby and I used to be cool.

Baby, if you recall, is one of the only two toys that have survived since I was a little puppy (Nuclear Bunny is the other).  When I first got Baby, I immediately started to personalize her to my specifications (as I do with all toys).  First, the squeaker box went (originally, she would bark three times every time I bit down on her), then I ripped off both of her ears, and finally I turned my attention to her upper lip.  After each amputation or mutation, Sister would replace Baby's stuffing and sew her back together (Baby's nose was a victim of the surgery on her upper lip).  Then one day, about five years ago, I came to the conclusion that Baby was finally perfect; I didn't need to do any more personalizing.  From that day forward, I stopped ripping her apart.  In fact, she became one of my go to meet-and-greet toys (she's big enough for people to notice that I'm greeting them at the door with her yet she's small enough to make it impossible for someone to try and grab hold of her thinking that I'm giving her to them).

But then, two weeks ago, something happened.  Suddenly I started ripping at the stitches on Baby's nose.  Three times Baby was taken away from me for emergency surgery and each time I got her back, I picked up exactly where I left off.

What happened between Baby and me?  What made our relationship go sour?  Pa thinks Baby said something to me.  Sister thinks that Baby looked at me funny.  Ma thinks I'm just being my "charming self" (I'm thinking I should be offended by that).

So?  What happened?

I'm not going to say.  This conflict is between Baby and me.

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?