Happy Birthday to Me!

Today is my birthday; I am three years old! My family keeps telling me that they didn’t think I’d make it to my third birthday considering what a troublesome and sometimes mean little puppy I was. Obviously I grew out of my mean days...it’s the troublesome years I’m still taking full part in.

Me and my litter mates at 7 weeks

My special day didn’t start out exactly how I would have liked. A tiny little bunny (my family has decided to name it Henry) has, over the last two weeks, been trying to make itself at home in my backyard despite me repeatedly sniffing him out and chasing him away. This morning I discovered Henry lounging in my driveway in full view of the side door where I was sitting enjoying the cool morning breeze (it’s been super hot these last few days so the change in temperature was a welcome relief). I really wanted to go outside and chase that interloper off my property (if I ease up and let bunnies take up residence I can only image what would move in next…zebras or maybe rhinoceroses!), however, Pa wouldn’t let me so I just sat by the door and barked and barked and barked with my most menacing voice (my Sister later told me that I woke her up with all my barking). Despite all that effort, that stupid little rabbit wouldn’t go away. Afraid I would wake up the rest of the neighborhood, Pa closed the side door so that I couldn’t see that bunny any longer. To humor him I stopped barking, but I knew that Henry was still sitting there mocking me—eating my grass and hopping through the flower beds that I like to trample. Thoroughly depressed, I climbed up on Ma and Pa’s bed and stared sadly out the window. Apparently I looked so sad that Ma didn’t have the heart to boot me off the bed. I guess I should look depressed more often!

My day got much better later on though.

The Birthday Boy

At lunch time, Sister took me outside to get a picture of me wearing a ridiculous birthday hat she bought me. It was really kind of embarrassing, but, like the good dog I am, I humored her by letting her take my picture. In the process, however, I got five cookies, slobbered all over her, and destroyed five hats. I count that a win in my book.

Me & my Mini-Mecki

The birthday fun continued when Sister came home from work with a shiny paper gift bag. She said my two best friends in the whole wide world, Mecki and his mom Karin, had sent me birthday presents! First, she took a box out of the bag and showed it to me explaining that it was from Karin. I gave it a big sniff and my tail immediately started going around in circles (that’s how you can tell I’m really excited). It smelled really, really good—a bit like chicken and sweet potato. She opened the box for me (if I had thumbs not only could I open my own cookie boxes whenever I wanted but I would eventually rule the world) and handed me one of the cookies. Oh boy was it tasty and crunchy and did I mention tasty? When I finished the cookie, I begged for more but my Sister said that it would ruin my dinner and that perhaps I could have another later in the evening. I was very sad that I wasn't getting another cookie, but my mood changed when my Sister reminded me that I still had to open Mecki's present. With baited breath, and drool filled jowls, I watched as Sister pulled a long stuffed orange Bobo from the bag. "Mecki thinks it looks like him," my Sister told me, "and he made sure to roll on it so that it smelled like him too!" I must admit, there were definite similarities between Mecki and the toy! I grabbed the toy, made a bee line for the side door (I've found the best place to enjoy a new toy is outside), and, when my Sister opened the door, I ran straight for the backyard. I threw the toy in the air, I pounced on it, I ran around in circles with it, I played tug with it and my Sister, and I rolled on my back with it. I love my Mini-Mecki! Thanks Karin and Mecki!

My birthday didn't end there though! Later, after my humans and I ate our dinners, Sister played Mini-Mecki with me (tug, keep away, and chase) in the living room while Ma and Pa cheered me on. After a while, however, I started getting a little too rough with Mini-Mecki--I have a plucking problem--so Sister took my toy away from me saying we could play with it again tomorrow. I guess Pa didn't want me to feel disappointed on my birthday so he gave me a brand new flavored bone to chew on. That kept me quite busy for two hours.

The day might now be over, but the fun will continue. According to my Sister, I still have other birthday presents coming to me, but the decision was made to hold off giving me them all at once (no one asked my opinion on the matter). I was told I could have another some other day when I needed something to keep me busy. I would have liked to have all my toys at once, but I guess having my birthday spread out over days or maybe weeks isn't too bad either.

Reflecting on the Year

On the eve of my 3rd birthday I thought I'd take a minute to reflect on a few life lessons I've learned this year.

1. Don't Jump Out Of Moving Vehicles.  Yeah, it sounds like common sense now, but back in September I decided that I needed to jump out of the car window while Pa was driving.  Why?  I have no idea.  It just seemed like the right thing to do.  Anyway, I tucked and rolled so I was alright (I ended up rubbing off all the whiskers on one side of my face and sustained a small scratch on my back leg), but I definitely wouldn't recommend anyone else try this stunt.
2. If You're Persistent, Eventually Someone Will Let You Sleep On Their Bed.  A big thank you to my Sister on this one!
3. Lizards Fight Dirty.  Enough said.

Eau de Dog

Yesterday was not a good day.

It all began when Pa grabbed a cookie and called me to come outside.  Right from the start I had a really bad feeling about that cookie, but I just couldn’t help myself and followed him trustingly out of the house.  He sat me down in the shade and pulled out a squirt bottle and a handful of cotton balls.  I could have the cookie, but for a price:  I’d first have to have my ears cleaned.  I was so depressed.  I had just about gotten my ears to the point that I no longer had to pretend that I couldn’t hear my humans when they gave me a command that I didn’t want to follow.  My stomach, however, won out and I sat patiently while Pa cleaned (note to self:  someday I really need to learn how to ignore my stomach and follow my brain—though I have a sneaky feeling that my brain would have taken the cookie also—maybe my brain and stomach are actually one and the same).  After Pa finished cleaning my ears, I rolled around the back yard and screamed using my high pitched bark just to show how angry I was.

After thoroughly alerting the entire neighborhood of my displeasure, I stalked to the side door of the house with the plan of dragging my head along the newly vacuumed living room rug (they squirted smelly liquid into my ear—the least I could do was spread it over their rug).  I didn’t get to go inside though.  As soon as I reached the door, Ma came out and put my chain and leash on me.  “This isn’t good,” I thought.  Then she took my collar off.  “This really isn’t good!”  It was then I noticed it:  a pile of towels and a bottle of shampoo.  I was getting a bath.

All wet

I don’t think I have to elaborate a great deal on how much I hate baths.  I really devote a lot of time building up the perfect mixture of dirt, bug guts, and other assorted smells on my fur and to have it suddenly replaced by a flowery “clean” smell is not only revolting but highly depressing.  Then there is the embarrassment factor.  First, I get washed in the driveway where there is absolutely no privacy.  What if one of those tiny yappy dogs I routinely scare off my property was to pass by the house?  Or if Stumpy the Lizard or that little bunny that’s been living in the flower bed was to suddenly appear?  How can I be menacing if I’m all lathered up?  Second, how can I possibly show my face at the park smelling the way I do now?  All the other dogs will laugh at me.

Poor me

Despite my protests and numerous attempts at making a break for it, Ma, Pa, and Sister managed to give me a thorough cleaning.  Sister kept laughing at me because she said I looked like a lemon meringue pie when I was all lathered up and a drowned rat when I was hosed off.  I get no respect.

After being dried off I was released back into the house.  If my family thought I was annoyed after getting my ears cleaned they were in for a big surprise.  I went crazy: I dragged my body along the living room rug, I slammed up against the hope chest multiple times, and barked like a mad dog with the highest pitched bark I could manage.  I’m sure they’ll think twice about giving me a bath next time.

So Close Yet So Far

Sunday was a traumatic day for me.  Ma, Pa, and Sister decided to go for a really long ride that lasted most of the day.  That wasn't the traumatic part (though I was a bit miffed that they didn't take me...they know how much I enjoy car rides).  To tell you the truth, I kind of look forward to my humans taking these long trips because it means that I have total control of the house while they're gone.  I can sleep on all the comfy surfaces without fear of being caught, I can get a drink of water and drag my drool filled jowls all over the furniture without anyone drying me off with a paper towel, and I can chew up or shred almost anything I can get my teeth on and my actions would be totally justifiable because I was "so distraught at being left alone all day long."  An added bonus is that before they leave the house, I'm given a giant Milkbone cookie for not trying to push my way out the door (I've trained my humans so well).  Well, it was this Milkbone cookie that made Sunday so traumatic for me.

As is the norm, as soon as I heard the cookie box open, I ran to my "bed" (AKA pillow) in Ma and Pa's room and waited for Ma to deliver the goods.  Immediately, I started to break the cookie up into more manageable pieces and contently ate the shards I had spread all over the rug.  It was only after I had finished these crumbs that I noticed that the unthinkable had happened:  a piece of cookie had rolled underneath the dresser.

I dropped to the floor and jammed my snout under the furniture and stretched my tongue out as far as it would go.  Sadly, I came up empty...the cookie was just out of my reach.  My mind started racing.  What was I supposed to do?  The dresser was much too heavy for me to move with the strength of my snout and I knew that I would be in a whole heap of trouble if I chewed or scratched the wood with my teeth or nails (some actions are simply never justifiable).  In time, I came to the sad realization that there was nothing I could possibly do.  Overcome with despair, I collapsed to the floor and fell into a fitful sleep; the thought of that cookie, forever just out of my reach, constantly disturbing my slumber.

After what seemed like years, I was awakened by the sound of a car pulling into the driveway and the side gate opening and closing.  I quickly jumped up and rushed to the side door hoping that if it wasn't my family then perhaps it would be a kindly burglar who would help me with my plight.  It was the family.  I tried to greet them with my usual enthusiasm, but I'm afraid my heart really wasn't in it...I was too consumed with the thought of my delicious, crunchy, and now dust flavored cookie lying abandoned under the dresser.  The only comfort I found was in the thought that at least my family was here to help me.

However, I suddenly found myself with an even bigger problem.  Although I knew that a piece of cookie was under the dresser, I had no real way of informing my people of its whereabouts.  Every time someone walked into the room, I followed them with great enthusiasm and shot mournful glances at the dresser, trying to draw their attention, but alas, no one seemed to notice or comprehend.

Finally, hours later, when Ma was getting ready for bed, I decided on a new tactic.  I lay facing where my cookie sat and let out a long sad whimper.  This got Ma's attention.  "What is it boy?" she asked and I put my head down on the floor and cried again.  "What's up?" she asked as she got down on the floor next to me.  "Almost there!" I thought as I let out one more sad mournful cry while I weakly stared at my cookie.  It was then that she finally got the hint and felt around under the dresser with her hand.  "Oh poor puppy," she said as she withdrew her hand holding the cookie.  I ate it gratefully.

It was the best tasting cookie ever.

Bad to the Bone

Something's gotten into me lately.  I don't know what the cause is--maybe there is a full moon, perhaps I caught spring fever, or it could be I bumped my head on the underside of the kitchen table a few too many times--but whatever the reason, I have not, according to my family, been a very good boy lately.  In fact, over the last two days I have been yelled at at least once a day by every member of the family.

Here's my rap sheet thus far:
1.  I stole the new television remote.
2.  I ripped holes in three newly sewed toys.
3.  I shredded a role of toilet paper (including the cardboard tube).
4.  I tore the bathmat to pieces.
5.  I repeatedly tried to steal things from my sister's room.
6.  I tried to steal a napkin off the table.

Shredded toilet paper.

Now I'm on damage control.  I'm trying to be extra sweet (sharing toys, giving kisses, and allowing my humans to rub my belly) but it's really, really hard.  Getting in trouble, after all, is a lot of fun.

Happy Mother's Day

I love holidays.  Who wouldn’t?  Holidays come with the guarantee that at least one of three things will happen.  Number one, people will come over to pet the dog (can’t beat that!).  Number two, presents wrapped in brightly colored paper will be exchanged (the paper, of course, will be shredded by the dog).  Number three, tasty food will be made and hopefully shared (or stolen) by the dog.  Needless to say, it’s great to be the dog!  Well, yesterday was Mother’s Day and this holiday arrived with two of the three aforementioned promises.

Ma's Mother's Day gift

First, there were presents.  I was really excited about this part of the day because I remembered that Pa had helped me to pick out the perfect gift for Ma: a big stuffed rabbit with long ears, multiple squeakers, and a pink tongue that stuck out.  Adding to the enjoyment of the gift was the addition of the colorful paper Pa had wrapped it in (wrapping gifts isn’t my forte…tissue and wrapping paper gets stuck on my tongue).  As soon as Ma opened the present I quickly snatched it (plus a little wrapping paper) from her hands.  I knew that it was my responsibility to show her how to properly play with this new gift (it’s not like it came with instructions or anything).   I showed her how to shake the toy while running, I showed her how to roll on her back and chew on the squeaker, and finally I showed her how to let other people check out the toy without actually letting them touch it (you look with your eyes not with your hands after all).  After some time, and much consideration, I determined that Ma wasn’t quite ready for the responsibility of playing with such a cool toy so I decided to hold onto it for the rest of the day.

Later, Pa started making dinner.  At first, nothing seemed special; he started the barbeque and took some stuff out of the refrigerator.   Then he took a strange shaped package from the fridge.  It smelled really good and looked really weird.  It kind of looked like a giant hand but it smelled like fish.  Pa told me that it was crab or the fish half of fishsteak (known to the humans as surf ‘n turf).  I followed that crab everywhere:  I lay on the floor by the kitchen counter and glared lovingly up at it, I followed it and Pa to the grill where it cooked and I drooled, and I took my place on the floor next to Ma’s chair when the cooked crab was placed on the table.  And then I waited.  As the minutes passed I became more and more depressed.  How could my humans eat such tasty smelling food and not share it with the cute little dog with big brown eyes—especially after I devoted so much of my time to teaching Ma how to play with that really cool rabbit toy?  “Come on,” I thought, “what’s one little leg?”  Just as I was about to give up all hope, Pa leaned down and gave me a piece of crab.  It was so tasty and that was even without butter!

Ahh…what a holiday!

I Wear Many Hats

People think being a dog is easy; that my life is the life.  They think my day consists of eating, sleeping, and going out.  Boy, are they wrong!  It’s a tough life I tell you; I earn my naps on the living room couch…I mean…floor!  I keep the squirrels from overrunning the yard, I keep the house clean by snuffing up crumbs that fall on the floor, and I remind my humans to put their things away by retrieving (and sometimes destroying) things that are left out.  And that’s just a few of the services I provide.  And my list of jobs is ever expanding.  Yesterday, for instance, I took on a new role:  therapist.

You see, my sister came home from work a little upset yesterday.  Being the kind hearted family dog I am, I sat on her feet, offered her my paw (I like to hold hands), and let her scratch my back even though I had far greater things on my mind (mainly my impending dinner).  While she scratched my back, she told me that she messed up a presentation that she had to do at work.  I looked up at her with sad understanding eyes, my ears back with sympathy, hoping that if I looked empathetic enough she’d end her story there and get my dinner.  To my loyal readers who just gasped at my ploy:  don’t judge…my stomach was rumbling!  Anyway, it didn’t work.  Figuring her description of her day would be a long story and because I was rapidly fading away to nothing due to hunger pains, I took this opportunity to lay down and show my tummy which my sister obligingly rubbed (hey, I might as well be comfortable).  As she scratched my belly, she told me that she was so nervous at her presentation that she found herself barely able to string two sentences together and that what she did manage to say sounded more akin to Pig Latin than English.  Now I don’t know what kind of language pigs speak, but I do know that pigs are delicious—I love bacon and ham!  “I am so hungry,” I thought.  “Is she ever going to stop bellyaching and get me my dinner?”  She then told me that her day had started going bad prior to the presentation; her breakfast of a buttered slice of raisin bread broke apart in mid bite, got stuck in her hair, then fell, butter side down, onto her blouse and stained it.  At this time I made a mental note to later, in the guise of giving her a big wet kiss on the chin, inconspicuously check her hair for crumbs.  

I have to admit that it did sound like my sister had a fairly crappy day, but mine wasn’t all that great either and I didn’t postpone her dinner to tell her about it.  A pillow was left on the living room chair which meant that there wasn’t room for me to sleep on it, I didn’t get to go for a car ride at all today, and now, dinner was late.  So tell me, who had the bad day?

Still, the belly rub was nice and I think I made my sister feel a little bit better because soon she got up and got me my dinner.  When I was finished eating I wiped my slobbery chin all over her leg in appreciation.

Seek and Ye Shall Find

Yum...computer chips!

Nothing beats chewing on television remote controls.  Think about it—you get the crunch of the plastic, the chewiness of the rubber buttons, and the added spice of all the computer chips buried deep inside.  And then there’s the attention chewing on the remote brings.  One second everyone is ignoring the adorable and fun-loving dog and suddenly the focus is all on me again.  I’ve gotten quite good at sniffing out remotes absentmindedly left unprotected on the couch or atop tray tables.  Once I grab a remote I lay down and start gnawing on it as if it’s a bone or an antler—the expanse of the plastic debris field dependent solely on how long it takes my family to notice me.  I’ve even managed to render two remote controls non-functioning!  Impressive isn't it?

Rubber buttons and crunchy plastic.

Still, despite all the fun I have, my family tries to limit my remote munching time.  In fact, if they had their way I think they would deny me any remote time.  How unfair!  My sister in particular is exceedingly protective of her television remote (though I have managed to leave teeth marks on her’s as well) and hides it whenever I'm in her room.  She underestimates me though.  She thinks hiding the remotes under her pillow will fool me.  How wrong she is.  Now, every evening before I go to sleep I burrow under her pillow and grab the remote.  I try to make a break for it—scurry away so I can gnaw away in peace—however, she’s a little too quick for me and somehow manages to wrestle the remote away from me before I get the chance to enjoy my ill-gotten gains.  I’m persistent though.  I’m sure someday I’ll be able to grab the remote and make a break for it before she notices.