Happy Halloween!

Happy Halloween

to All My Friends!

Enough!  The Horns Have Got To GO!!

A Tale of Two Days in One

I'm a literary dog.  Not only are books tasty (I've gnawed on travel books, shredded the dust cover of Pa's favorite Keith Richards book, and "edited" another book that Pa was reading but not enjoying), but I can also quote from them.  The opening line from Charles Dickens' "A Tale of Two Cities" sums up what my day was like on Sunday.

"It was the best of times..."

Johnny and I Vie For Pa's Attention

Me at Old Westbury Gardens

Sunday was Dog Days at Old Westbury Gardens.  For two glorious hours my family and I wandered around the estate taking pictures, sniffing interesting smells, and bunking noses with a whole pack of strange dogs (well, I bunked noses with the dogs, my family just gave them pats on the head as they passed by).  Speaking of bunking noses with other dogs, I ran into two of my Golden Retriever friends:  Emma Rose and Johnny.  Emma Rose is very refined and is more than happy to bunk noses and move on.  Johnny, on the other paw, is, well, a lot like me.  He loves to roughhouse!  We ran back and forth on our leashes, boxed, and then took turns trying to knock the legs out from under each other (Pa calls this technique submarine-ing). After one boxing match, Johnny flopped down on the grass and started rolling on his back.  I took advantage of the situation and scurried over to Johnny's mom for pets.  Then Johnny got up and ran to my Pa for pets.  Not wanting to miss out on any attention, I then horned in on Pa and Johnny and forced Pa to pet me as well as Johnny (good thing he has two hands).

Into the Woods

I also played a trick on my family.  When we were walking through the Boxwood Gardens, I made a bee line for the reflecting pool.  For one frantic moment, my family actually thought that I was going to jump head first into the smelly water.  I smiled and wagged my tail at the fun.

"...it was the worst of times."

Despite all the fun I had at the Gardens, there was something missing:  my bff Mecki.  You see, my friend Mecki and I have meet up at both the spring and fall Dog Days every year since we first met.  It's always an entertaining event:  Mecki climbs all over me, I whop him on the head with my paw, and we fight over who is going to lead our little pack as we walk through the estate.  But Mecki's mom (who always brings me a special cookie) was on vacation, so I didn't get to meet up with him or his new little brother Bastille (though I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't a tad but concerned about meeting a pup who has been described to me as a "vampire piranha" who is actively spitting out his baby teeth left and right).

After the Bath

Not getting to play with Mecki and meet Bastille was disappointing, but something even worse was about to happen to me.  On the way home from the Gardens, my family stopped off at the doggy spa and I was unceremoniously tossed into a bathtub and scrubbed down with soap and water.  It goes without saying that I was completely devastated by this turn of events.  All the lovely smells I had collected over the past weeks (not to mention those I had collected over the previous few hours at the Gardens) were gone; washed down the drain.  And if that wasn't bad enough, I was so exhausted from gallivanting around the Gardens that I didn't have the strength to put up a fight while Ma and Pa washed me (the way I see it, if I'm going to be wet and unhappy, everyone involved should be wet and unhappy too).

So there you have it, two very different days wrapped up into one.  I had a blast at Old Westbury Gardens and I had a bath and missed out on playing with Mecki and Bastille.  What can I say?  I guess you can't win them all (though Sister did take advantage of my clean state to take some new head shots).

 

Under the Weather

On Tuesday morning I had my scheduled check up with my buddy the vet.  Now, I know that some pups (and humans for that matter) dislike going to the doctor.  Not me.  I love visiting the vet because of all the attention I get.

Consider my normal trip to the vet:  As soon as I walk in the door, I'm greeted by the nice receptionists at the desk; a group of women Pa refers to as my "girlfriends."  They ooh and aah over me, and tell me that I'm the handsomest pup they've ever seen.  Next, I scan the room and size up the people and animals waiting for their appointments.  If the animal is friendly, I bunk noses with him; if the human is friendly I allow him to shower me with attention; and if no one is particularly friendly, I hang out next to the "adopt a cat" crate (I have to be careful though, in the past, some of those cats have tried swatting at my snout).  Anyway, when it's my turn to see the doctor, I rush into the room and jump right up onto the hydro-lift table/scale (heightening has always been a passion of mine).  Then the doctor complements me on my sparkling personality and gleaming white teeth.  Sometimes, he does things I don't like (like clipping my nails, giving me shots, or suggesting that I might want lose a little weight), but that's okay because he makes up for it with praise.  Then, when it's time to go home, I mooch a cookie off my "girlfriends" at the desk.

But despite all the perks of going to the vet, sometimes, there are less than desirable side effects.  Tuesday's trip, which involved me receiving not one but two shots in the butt, proved that point.

First of all, whenever I come home from the vet, I am completely spent; it's exhausting, after all, being so social, handsome, and lovable.  Anyway, as soon as I got home on Tuesday morning, I high-tailed it to my pillow and slept like a log until Sister came home from work at lunch time.  With a good nap under my collar, I wasted no time in immediately taking part in my daily lunchtime ritual of barking hysterically at Sister until she caves and gives me my squeaker-less (I killed the squeaker last Friday) squeaker toy.  An hour later, Sister traded me a cookie for my toy (I'm not allowed to play with my squeaker toy all day long because a) my family wants it to be a special treat that will keep me occupied when silence is needed and b) I'm prone to ripping it apart just for the fun of it), patted me on the head, and returned to work.  I, in turn, returned to my pillow and fell fast asleep.

But while I woke up refreshed in the afternoon, by night time I was no longer feeling well.  I felt sluggish, tired, and my butt hurt.  A sympathetic offering of my squeaker-less squeaking toy and a new fluffy pillow (I shredded the last one) lifted my spirits slightly, but I just wasn't myself.

I began mournfully whining at around 2am.

Now, for those who don't know, I am particularly pitiful when I'm sick, hurt, or not feeling well.  Lucky for me, my family is super sympathetic and all three have spent at least one night over the last five and a half years caring for me when my tummy hurt or something else troubled me.  On this particular evening, Pa offered to sit up with me.  He also gave me half an aspirin so that I'd be comfortable enough to sleep.

First thing Wednesday morning, Ma called the vet.  He told her that I was having a reaction to one of the shots he gave me and that I'd likely feel better by the following morning (and if I didn't, Ma could bring me in and he'd take a look at me).

When Ma left for work after speaking to the vet, Sister took over as my caregiver.  I curled up next to her on my pillow and she rubbed my back while I took a nap.  When I woke up two hours later, she gave me back my squeaker-less squeaker toy and took me outside for some fresh air.  Then we came in and I took another nap.

The next thing I knew it was three hours later and Sister had stopped by the house during her dinner break to check on me.  Feeling a little bit more like myself, I greeted her at the door with Monkey Monk.  After rubbing my back for a couple of minutes, Sister returned to work and I returned to, you guessed it, my nap.

As the evening progressed, I felt more and more like myself.  I even managed to rev up the energy to gut one of my plush toys and grub for ice cream.  Hopefully I'll be back to my normal troublesome self by morning.

When Halloween Comes Early

I never realized it before a couple of days ago, but eastern Long Island appears to be the epicenter of all things scary. Yeah, I’ve been troubled by all the new species of wildlife I’ve encountered here (most notably fish that fall from the sky), but nothing compares with what I’ve most recently encountered.

All day Sunday I watched while the neighbors across the street scurried around their front yard, emptying boxes and putting up lights. Overall, I didn’t think much of their activity, they are always out and about tending their garden, and with the exception of the obligatory bark I shoot them every couple of minutes when they draw my attention, I basically ignore them.

Freddie Kruger

Cemetery King

Apparently, however, I should have paid them more attention during the day because, when darkness fell and I looked out the window, I was greeted by a truly frightening Halloween display complete with Draculas in coffins, Freddie Kruger mannequin, witches with cauldrons, tombstones, cemetery kings, scary creatures clawing their way out of the ground, and, scariest of all, one of those blow up balloon creatures (which are frightening even when they are caricatures of someone as harmless as Santa Claus…watching them inflate from a scary plastic puddle on the ground to a large menacing plastic creature is truly terrifying). And I mustn’t forget the sound effects! Now, whenever I go outside I am surrounded by the sound of mournful wails and blood curdling screams. Let’s just say, this turn of events makes going outside to do my business a less than pleasant experience.

And does it get any less scary by day? Not one bit! In fact, it might even be scarier. Every time I look out my window—you know, the window from which I keep tabs on the squirrel population—I see this…

Scary Witch

Not to be outdone, my family decided to put up their own Halloween decorations. Great! Now every morning, I must defend my household from the scary witch in the window as well as from Dracula across the street! And this morning, I was so preoccupied with the witch that I didn’t even notice when Pa pulled his car into the driveway after returning home from the local deli. Let’s just say, when he walked through the door, I was one hundred percent sure that Freddie was coming in after me (so I barked menacingly).

But the horror didn’t end there.

On Monday afternoon, Ma asked me if I’d like to go outside. Being the obliging dog that I am, I jumped up off my pillow and scurried to the door. Out the door we went and, upon setting foot on the porch, I saw, far off in the distance and all the way across the yard, a squirrel moseying across the grass.

Now, as my loyal readers know, I do not tolerate squirrels meandering across my yard. Lately, however, I’ve had to be extra vigilant. You see, the mole population, after a quiet spring and summer, has returned to my property with a vengeance. Since I’m well aware that no good comes from fighting two fronts simultaneously, I’ve decided that I have to be extra strict with the squirrels to ensure that they do not become too comfortable.

Anyway, down the stairs I ran, barking furiously at the squirrel who was still brazenly gallivanting around my backyard. When I reached the foot of the stairs, however, the threat that the squirrel posed suddenly dissipated. I had come face to face with a far more menacing foe and, after jumping about ten feet into the air, I showed it who was boss with my loudest and most menacing bark yet.

Sure, four plastic Adirondack chairs stacked in two piles might not seem scary, but when you’re not expecting them and they are lurking just out of view, ready to spring out at you when you innocently come down the stairs, well, let’s just say anyone would have had the reaction I had.

After all the Draculas, witches, and chairs I’ve dealt with these last couple of days, I kind of miss the simpler less frightening days of fish falling from the skies.

Dig, Dig, Dig

"I think I see a new place to dig!"

I consider myself to be an expert on all things digging and hole related.  I love digging holes, I love wallowing in holes, and I even love watching people fill in my holes (because that means I get to re-dig them as soon as that person turns his/her back).  And considering I'm generally not allowed to practice my hobby (for some reason my family does not want me digging up the lawn/garden nor do they particularly enjoy me being covered from nose to tail in mud) my workmanship is pretty impressive.  Consider some of my handiwork from the last couple of weeks.

A Cool, Shady Hole

Forsythia:  A couple of weeks ago I dug this hole under the forsythia bush.  I've used this spot before; it's one of my favorites because the sheer size and density of the bush makes it nearly impossible for my family to hook my collar and drag me out from under it.  I dug this particular hole because a) it was fun (the ground was nice and dry so every sweep of my paw caused a dust cloud to form) and b) Sister was distracted and not paying me the proper amount of attention.

Posing With My Hole

Vegetable Garden:  Recently removed from the "Land of No" list, the area that contains the vegetable garden is a treasure trove of entertaining digging mediums including grass, dirt, and the occasional bunny burrow.  A couple of days ago, I chose the cold damp dirt of the vegetable garden itself.  Now, most of the vegetable plants themselves were removed weeks ago, so sadly there weren't any tomatoes or peppers to nibble on, but that didn't hinder my enjoyment.  My nose got muddy, my paws got muddy, and Sister's pants got muddy when I casually rubbed my snout across her knee.

Scratch Marks on the Rug

Rug:  The inside of the house doesn't offer too many opportunities to dig, but being the creative pup that I am, I've managed to find a few spots.  Over the years I've discovered that the wall to wall carpeting in the upstairs hallway and bedrooms practically beg to be dug at.  And dig I do; I dig in the morning, I dig in the afternoon, I dig in the evening, and I even get up and dig in my sleep (this last one really annoys my family).

Digging in the Doggy Pool

There are a couple of places and times that I am actually allowed to dig (or "dig, dig, dig" as my family calls it).  The problem is, however, that these opportunities are few and far between.  I'm allowed to dig in the doggy pool and on the giant snow mountain my family builds me after every winter storm.  So, basically, I'm only allowed to dig on the hottest days of the year and after a significant snowstorm.  Believe me, that's not a lot of opportunities for a little dog who loves to dig as much as I do.

A Barky Boy

My family thinks that I bark way too much and for no good reason.  I beg to differ.  I do not bark that much, but when I do bark, it is always for a perfectly legitimate reason.  Here are some of the instances when I bark (and the reasons why my barking in each scenario is completely justified):

• A dog passes by my house:  I'm simply extending a friendly "hello" to the passerby; to say nothing would be impolite.
• A person walks by my house:  See previous reasoning.
• A squirrel walks by my house:  I'm sounding an alarm to the rest of the block that a suspicious character with four legs and a bushy tail is wandering around the neighborhood.
• Someone slams their car door:

1. It is impolite to slam doors.
2. I call shotgun!

• I want my toy:  Tradition dictates that I get a special treat every night after dinner and to deny me my chewy bone or squeaker toy because I a) am obsessed with ripping it apart, or b) have already ripped it apart the previous night and am unaware that it has been thrown out, is cruel.
• My toy just rolled out of reach:  It is exceedingly upsetting when one of my toys rolls a full foot away from my mouth.
• I want to go out:  Because I haven't yet figured out how to open the door by myself.  And yes, the first time I go out is to do business, but every hour after that is to make sure that the squirrels haven't taken over my yard.
• Good morning!:  It is polite to greet the morning (and the world) by going outside and issuing a hearty "hello" bark, regardless of the time. 
•  Good evening!:  It is equally polite to end the day by going outside and barking a clear, crisp "goodnight" to the world, regardless of the time.
• I see crumbs on the table:  

1. One human's trash is another dog's treasure:  You don't want the crumbs and I haven't eaten a thing in like twenty minutes!  It's a win/win for everyone!
2. Tidiness:  Me vacuuming up your crumbs helps to keep your house neat.  You're welcome.

• I just ate my breakfast/dinner:  I'm howling my complements to the chef.
• There might be something there:  As the Head of Security, I take "see something say something" so seriously that I am almost legally obligated to draw attention to all potential threats (even if those threats prove to be less than threatening or completely non-existent).

Now, I think that my list speaks for itself (that I don't bark too often and that when I do open my mouth it is for a perfectly good reason), but in case some of my loyal readers find themselves siding with my family (it's okay...I'm not insulted...not one little bit), I'd like to mention that, statistically, I spend way more time eating, looking for trouble, and sleeping than I do barking.  But does my family call me a "Sleepy Boy?"  No.  They call me a "Barky Boy."

The Open Gate

For a brief second last weekend, I thought that my family had had enough of my high jinks and mischievous ways. I thought, perhaps, that I had shredded a few too many shirts (but I so love ripping buttons off of dress shirts), woke up a few too many people a few too many times with my 3AM snout rubbing, digging, and yodeling sessions, or had ripped up a few too many pieces of (important) paperwork.

How did I come to this conclusion?  Last Friday night and Saturday morning, while I was checking the perimeters of my backyard out east, I discovered that the side gate had been left wide open.

Being the good boy that I am, I was not tempted by the sweet smell of freedom beckoning me into the wilderness (of course, the knowledge that that very same wilderness contained scary things like deer, beach ball sized chickens, and fish that fall from the sky might have played a part in my decision).  Instead, I merely stuck to my normal routine of sniffing all my trees and pining for the squeaky toy that the dog next door tauntingly leaves right next to the fence.  But despite my calm cool demeanor, the seeds of concern had been firmly planted in my mind.  Was my family tempting me to leave?

When Pa came outside to see what I was up to, he was shocked.  He closed the gate then told me that I was a very good boy for not running away.  Then he told Ma and Sister about what a good boy I was. After some discussion, my family came to the conclusion that the landscapers must have accidentally left the gate open the last time they were there.

I'll admit that I felt better after seeing my family's reaction and hearing their explanation, however, try as I might, I just couldn't shake the concern I felt about whether or not the gate had been left open intentionally.  After mulling the situation over again and again, I decided that the only way I could put my mind at ease was by making a break for it and observing whether or not someone tried to stop me.

But, as I mentioned earlier, eastern Long Island with its rampaging deer, chickens, and fish is not the place for such shenanigans.  I needed to wait until I got home where the only things roaming the neighborhood are pushy bunnies, stupid squirrels, and tail jettisoning lizards.  And that's what I did.  On Sunday, when Ma, Pa, and Sister were emptying out their cars, I seized the opportunity and slipped past the front gate.

I won't lie, the feeling of freedom was exhilarating; so much so that, while I had only intended to roam around the front yard, I found myself becoming overwhelmed and started running around in tight circles, kicking up grass as I went.  I was free!

But despite the distraction of the wind whistling through my fur, I was able to make out the comforting sound of Ma, Pa, and Sister all calling out my name, telling me to come.  Eventually, Sister managed to corral me (she tempted me over to her by opening the car door knowing I can't resist the promise of a car ride), Pa hooked his belt to my collar like a leash, and we all walked calmly back into the yard.

That afternoon, I slept easy knowing that the gate out east had only been left open accidentally and that it was not a sign that my family had had enough of my shredding, ripping, and 3AM snout rubbing, digging, and yodeling sessions.  A few hours later, bright eyed and bushy tailed, I resumed my mischievous ways.