Pa's Faux-Pas

Do you remember how mortified I was when I accidentally bit Pa when a gag reflex sent my canine tooth through his pointer finger? (If you don’t, here’s the post). And then, afterwards, how I followed him around for days groveling with my ears low and tail down? It was traumatic. It was horrific. It was quite possibly the worst day of my entire life (and I’ve had days where I’ve jumped out of moving vehicles and tried moving a house with the side of my face).

Well, I’m over it now. I’m no longer ashamed of what I did and it’s all because Pa did something to me that made my faux-pas seem insignificant.

Pa vacuumed my butt.

Now, I know some pups are offended by the vacuum cleaner; in fact, some are downright scared of it. Not me. Don’t get me wrong, I dislike the fact that vacuums are responsible for removing the dirt, leaves, and sticks that I so carefully drag in with me from my adventures outside. I’m also keenly aware that the vacuum has been responsible for quite a few interrupted naps over the years. But really, when it comes to my feelings about the vacuum, I’m neutral; I don’t really think much about it.

Because of this lack of interest, it’s no surprise that this weekend, while Pa was pushing the vacuum around the house, I simply snoozed away in the kitchen, waiting for the very last minute when I’d have to get up and move to a new local so Pa could vacuum the spot where I was sleeping. When the time came, however, I guess I didn’t move fast enough. I was lying there with my head down watching Pa when, all of a sudden, I saw Pa’s eyes go wide and I felt a sharp tug on my butt.

“I’m so sorry, Squirt!” I heard Pa shout as he turned off the vacuum.

Confused, I got up and looked around. What I saw was shocking. There, hanging from the front of the vacuum, was a one-inch wide chunk of fluffy golden fur. My fluffy golden fur.

Now, unlike Pa who “screamed like a girl” when I accidentally bit him all those years ago, I did not make a peep when that chunk of fur was unceremoniously ripped out. In fact, its removal didn’t even impact my rugged good looks as neither me nor my family can even find the spot that was de-furred so rudely (luckily, I have thick, luxurious fur). But still, the entire event was disturbing. Way more disturbing than me accidentally taking a nibble out of Pa’s finger.

Guilt and PB&Ks

My family often comments how easily I pick up tricks and remember things that I approve of and how stubborn I am when it comes to adapting to the behaviors they favor or remembering things that they think are important. Exasperated by my “selective memory,” they’ve made many a comment such as “he remembers that he saw a cat hiding behind the garage last week and keeps looking for it, yet if you tell him to “sit,” he looks at you like you’re speaking a different language.”

It’s offensive the way they keep bringing it up so frequently, however, they aren’t entirely wrong. I’m an independent pup and I make up my own mind and do what I want. Not to mention, sometimes that “selective memory” is actually part of a clever plot to make my family do exactly what I want them to do. Here’s a recent example.

About a week ago, when I went outside to do my early evening perimeter check after my family finished their dinner, Ma surprised me upon my return with a PB&K (Peanut Butter [stuffed in a] Kong) left on my pillow. It was a great surprise and I happily settled down for an evening of eating peanut butter and gnawing on the rubbery Kong.

The next night, after I went outside and did my perimeter check, I wasted no time in getting back inside the house figuring that another PB&K would be waiting for me. I ran through the kitchen, I skidded through the dining room, I scurried through the living room, and I screeched to a halt in front of my pillow. But there was no PB&K! In utter disbelief, I checked on either side of my pillow—maybe it had rolled off—but I wasn’t wrong; there was no PB&K. I turned and looked to Ma. She and Sister were laughing. “He expected another PB&K to appear on his pillow—how does he remember?” they asked each other.

I was both angry and embarrassed. It was bad enough that they were making fun of me, but to be subjected to such ridicule without the reward of a PB&K was beyond disturbing.

But then, I got an idea. If I managed to make Ma feel guilty about making fun of me, eventually she’d be forced to get me a PB&K.

I turned back to my pillow and, feigning panic, continued looking. I looked all around my pillow and under the couch. I checked where Ma and Sister were sitting (making sure to drag my slobbery chin across their legs in the process). Then I went back to my pillow and stared at it in disbelief. Guilt ridden, and a little grossed out by the slobber dripping down her knee, Ma eventually caved. Into the kitchen she went to make me a PB&K (and to wipe off her leg with a paper towel).

The next evening—night three—arrived and I came into the house much as I did the previous one. Into the living room I rushed and was discouraged to find that, yet again, there was no PB&K waiting for me. I turned on my faux-anxiety and this time Sister caved first.

But rather than get my me PB&K, Sister was mean and decided that she should first have some fun at my expense. She went into the kitchen and brought back into the living room not a PB&K but a cookie. “Cover his eyes,” Sister instructed Ma and then, once my eyes were covered, Sister quickly hid MY COOKIE!!!!

“Find the cookie” Sister instructed as Ma removed her hands from my eyes.

Suddenly, my faux-anxiety morphed into sheer panic. Where was my cookie?! I looked at Ma. I looked at my pillow. I looked at Sister. Then I went back to Ma. Ma and Sister tried coaching me. They kept instructing me to find the cookie and pointed toward my spot on the couch. “No,” I thought frantically, “that’s my spot, not my cookie.” I was inconsolable.

Eventually, Ma reached over to my spot and pulled the cookie from the corner to the middle of the cushion. “Find the cookie” she instructed pointing directly at the Milkbone. By this time, I was completely and totally frantic and did not even notice that the cookie was right there in the open. “Use your nose” Sister instructed which I found less than useful. The laughter issuing from both Ma and Sister was even less so.

Eventually, Ma handed me the cookie. It tasted good, but I knew two things that would taste even better: slinging guilt and a PB&K.

Although I had consumed the cookie, I made sure not to rachet down the anxiety. I continued pacing the room looking for cookies even though I knew there were no others. After a few moments of watching me search the room, the guilt got to be too much for Ma and she stalked off to the kitchen for my PB&K. I had won on both counts. 

So yes, I had to undergo some criticism, but really, in the end, I won out. And all because my family has been so well trained.

Famous

I consider myself a kind of celebrity.  I mean, I've got dashing good looks and people who wait on me paw and tail.  I've been asked to pose for photos with complete strangers and I've shown up at countless virtual meetings Sister has held over the last few months.  And of course, there is this blog and all my loyal readers.

But today, I became even more famous.  Today I became the model for a digital book collection.

That's right, yours truly is a star!

Crazy From The Heat

I am not a fan of summer.

Sure, you’ll occasionally find me lounging on the driveway or on the deck baking in the sun because in small amounts it feels good, but by and large, I like to be cool and being cool means chilling inside with the air conditioner on full blast.

And what happens when there is a multi-day New York heat wave and the air conditioner is not running twenty-four hours a day?

I go crazy from the heat!

Now, my family might argue that it is virtually impossible to differentiate between my crazy from the heat howling/snout rubbing and my normal everyday howling/snout rubbing and to that I say...turn the air conditioner back on!

The Student Has Become the Master

Fifteen weeks.  Sister and I have been working together for fifteen weeks now.  And you know what, it’s not over yet.  Week sixteen starts on Monday.

At first, I was Sister’s Administrative Assistant—showing up for work each morning, making sure that she ate her lunch each day, and negotiating the best deals (no one can say no when I show my ruggedly handsome face during a teleconference).  But recently, our relationship has changed a bit.  Yeah, I still show up in as many meetings and conversations as possible and I’m always at her side at lunch time, but lately, I’ve kind of morphed into the boss of our little two-person team.

Inspecting the Cat5

According to Sister, I’m quite a hard boss to work for.  She takes offense at the fact that I am waiting in the office for her to return from lunch each day (you’re a minute late!) and that I glare angrily at her when she wakes me up to go get a drink of water or a handful of pretzels (did I give you permission to take a break?).

And speaking of break time, Ma says that I’m extremely bossy on that subject.  Breaks hinge entirely on my schedule—when I want to go out and when I want to come back in—and I nosily express my displeasure if my wants aren’t met immediately.

What can I say?  I run a tight ship!

Oh, and because I was starting to feel a little frazzled and overwhelmed by all my responsibilities, I've hired a new employee to keep an eye on Sister.  Meet Mr. Squirrel...

Watching Sister

It's My Birthday!

Guess who turned 11 years old today? 

Yours Truly!

Now for the good, the bad, and the dreadful news. 

• The good news:  Because of social isolation, Sister wasn't able to go out and get me an embarrassing hat to wear which pretty much makes this birthday my best birthday yet. 
  
• The bad news:  Because she couldn't get me a hat and felt that I needed something birthday related to pose next to, all those boxes are merely empty props.
• The dreadful news:  Sister did not let me rip up the wrapping paper when she unwrapped the props.
  

But that's not to say that I'm not getting my fair share of birthday love.  I've gotten tons of pets and belly rubs, I got a new chewy toy, I hear there's another present waiting for me in the basement Land of No, and I'm personally rooting for my very own meatball from my family's dinner tonight (hey, a boy only turns 11 once!).

Playing Dirty for the Right to be Dirty

So it finally happened; I got called into HR.  But not for the reasons I would have expected.  I mean, during my first nine weeks as Administrative Assistant, I have made it a twice daily habit of stealing Sister’s shoes and I have purposely invaded her personal space every chance I've gotten.  But no, I got called into HR because I was muddy and smelly and my ears needed cleaning.

Needless to say, I objected strenuously to the accusations.

But despite my complaints, it was ruled that if I was going to continue acting as full time Administrative Assistant to Sister, part time Administrative Assistant to Ma and Pa, and a member in good standing in my family, a bath was required.

As I felt myself spiral into despair because of the ruling, something suddenly dawned on me: all the doggy spas are closed and it's too cold outside for my family to give me a hose-down in the driveway.  So, if my family was truly serious about giving me a bath, they would have to wash me in the bathtub and I knew that there was no way they'd resort to that.  My mood lightened. I wasn't getting a bath anytime soon.

Then the unseasonably cold and rainy spring turned warm and sunny for a single weekend.  Yours truly got hosed down in the middle of the driveway.

Needless to say, I protested vigorously once it was over.

 
I was angry for a really long time.  Most people don’t realize or appreciate how hard I work at becoming nice and stinky—a Grey Retriever rather than a Golden Retriever.  And then, after reaching peak stinkiness, I am jumped by my family armed with a hose and a bottle of shampoo and suddenly I’m all gold and fluffy and smelling like some kind of flower.  The only consolation I found during this entire experience was the fact that social distancing is the norm and no one outside of my family would see me in my newly de-stinked state. 

And because I was angry, I decided to get revenge.

I ditched work on Tuesday.  I did not join Sister in her makeshift office in the Land of No and I did not hang out with Ma in the dining room where she's been working.  Instead, I split my time between the living room and the hallway sighing, moaning, and snoozing.

Now some might say that it was wrong of me to call out sick when I wasn’t and they would be correct.  My actions and motives were less than noble.  But it turns out that my impromptu day off turned out to be exactly what I needed.  Sure, it didn’t help me eliminate that nasty straight from the spa smell (though I did make sure to roll around in the grass every chance I got), but about halfway through the day I realized that I was participating in a mental health day and that that’s something I needed more than all the smelly things in the world to roll in (though obviously I wouldn’t have turned up my nose at them).  It’s a stressful world we’re living in right now, and I’m not immune to it.

The next day, relaxed, rejuvenated, renewed, and a little muddy from wallowing in the grass, I returned to work eager and raring to go.  I beat Sister to the office in the morning, I hung out with her most of the day, and I even offered to work late (Sister told me payroll wouldn’t allow for overtime).  And best of all, I managed to stick my snout into one of Sister’s video conferences.

And the morals of this story:

1. Keep doing what you love.
2. Don’t be ashamed of taking a mental health day.
3. Make sure there’s always something smelly around the house to roll in just in case you're jumped by a family member armed with a hose and a bottle of shampoo.