Halloween 2013

Trick or Treat!

Happy Halloween to all my two and four legged friends!

I had a very busy day today.  You see, in addition to keeping an eye on Ma and Sister who both took the day off from work (and believe me, keeping them out of trouble is a full time job) I...

• stole and punctured Sister's witch hat.
• shredded a pumpkin place mat.
• raced Sister for a runaway Gobstopper (Sister got to it first, but only because she actually saw where the candy landed--I only heard it bounce).
• barked at all the little ghosts and goblins who came begging at my door for candy but didn't offer me a single belly rub in return (some people can be so rude!).
• spit all over the front storm door while barking at all the little ghosts and goblins who came begging at my door for candy but didn't offer me one single solitary belly rub in return (can you tell I'm insulted?).

But that's not all.  At Sister's insistence, I also posed for a few Halloween pictures (and let me tell you, Sister is lucky I'm such a good sport--I hate dressing up, yet I always humor her just long enough for her to snap a few pictures).  Here are a few of them:

And while I might be good sport, Sister needs to learn the concept of quitting while one's ahead because...well...this happens:

RUN!!!!

That Which Caught My Eye

Staring Intently

What am I staring at so intently?  What am piteously whining at in that high pitched cry that I've been told goes right through my family and that at any decibel seems to drown out whatever program they are watching on television?  Why am I merely seconds away from launching into a frenzied full voice barking session?

Don't worry.  You, my loyal readers, will know shortly.

If you weren't already aware of this, I'm a very observant dog.  I notice when there is a little crumb left from a sandwich in the middle of the tray table (and I bark at it until someone gives it to me).  I notice the big fluffy Christmas bear sitting on the shelf in the living room (and I bark at it until someone takes it away and hides it in another room).  I notice the squirrels using the fence outside my door as a thoroughfare (and I bark at them until someone pulls the shade down).  I notice when the vacuum, stored in a darkened room, seems particularly menacing (and I bark at it until someone moves it from my sight).  I notice the distinctive smell of dog biscuit wafting from someone's pocket (and I bark at them until they give it to me).  And I always notice the ant walking past me while I lounge in the driveway (I snuff him up rather than bark at him).  In short, nothing gets past me (if you ignore all those times my family has managed to sneak into the house and catch me napping on the couch).

So, it was Friday afternoon and Sister was in the living room trying to eat her lunch and watch TV when all of a sudden she heard my patented whimper emanating from the kitchen.  At first, she ignored me.  You see, my family does that a lot; they ignore a fair portion of my whimpers and whines saying that I'm always yapping at something real or, more likely, imaginary (hurtful, I know).  I try not to feel bitter about this treatment, but what can I say?  I'm an excited (and devilishly handsome) dog who lives life to the fullest and wants nothing more than to share each and every one of my experiences with my beloved family.  Is that too much to ask?  Anyway, when Sister didn't respond to my sad little whimper, I kicked it up a notch and let out a sad mournful cry.  Nothing. "Fine," I thought with a sigh (I'm also known for my sighs...I'm quite good at them).  This time, I let out an even louder cry followed by a yip.  This, at least, got Sister's attention.  "I'll let you out in a second, Rigs.  Let me finish my lunch," she called back from the living room.  "Aha!" I thought, "I've almost got her."  You see, I know from experience that as soon as someone acknowledges my actions, I've got them right where I want them--they won't be able to ignore me for much longer.  Taking a deep breath, I let out my longest, loudest whimper followed by a high pitch bark.

That was all it took.  Seconds after barking, Sister left her lunch to investigate what my "beef" was (I'm ashamed to say I did not quickly circle back into the living room to grab whatever was left of Sister's lunch...there's always tomorrow) and, after scanning the room, finally figured it out.

What I Saw

I was staring at a plastic Halloween pumpkin glowing in the afternoon sun.  Sister laughed at me (why is she always laughing?) and told me ignore it; that it wasn't for me and I wasn't allowed to have it even though it kind of looked like a bally-ball.  Life's so unfair sometimes!

Changes

The Birthday Boy!

Happy birthday to my bff Mecki who turned three years old today! I can't wait for your mom to come back to work so she can deliver the presents I got you (I wanted to slobber on them so that you’d know they were from me, but Sister assured me that you’d know because my name was on the card)!

And now, on to my post:

Some changes are good: An empty dinner bowl, for instance, changing into a full dinner bowl or a worn out marrow bone being replaced by a brand new one. Other changes are bad. One can only hope that one comes across more of the former rather than latter.  Lately, however, I have not had much luck in this area. I endured three very disturbing events in one single day a couple of weeks ago, and I’ve only just regained my composure enough to blog about them.

The Rug:

Never underestimate the power of a nice smelling rug. I mean, talk about comfort; there’s the smell of unwashed dog, cookie pieces, not to mention years of dirt that was tracked in on shoes and paws alike. One such rug is the one in Ma and Pa’s room. But that changed a couple of weeks ago when Pa lugged up from the basement a machine that looked, and sounded, a lot like a vacuum cleaner on steroids: it was the rug cleaner. Now, I would be amiss if I did not emphasize that I did my best to protect my rug. I sprawled out in the middle of it and, even when the rug cleaner got a little too close for comfort and I had to abandon my post, I regrouped in a different area and prepared for the next assault. Sadly, however, despite my brave efforts, Pa’s mission was set and eventually I had to admit that I was no match for him and his noisy rug cleaner.

The Couch:

So there I was, lounging in the living room, mourning the loss of my smelly rug, when Ma and Pa walked in armed with an obvious purpose and a couple of hand tools. Shocked beyond belief, I watch as Ma and Pa systematically tore apart the couch and armchair.

Now, that couch and I have had a long history together. I have spent many an hour curled up on it even though Pa had made it perfectly clear that I was not supposed to sleep there (Ma and Sister always pretended not to notice me when I climbed up to take a nap). And on multiple occasions I had managed to physically muscle Ma and Sister out of the armchair so that I could snooze comfortably (which was not an easy task…Ma and Sister really didn’t want to give up their spot to me). Then, there were those fun filled encounters with Pa where I’d jump up on the couch, watch as Pa would get up from his armchair to shoo me off, quickly jump off the couch, and then race Pa back to the chair he just vacated (which was nice and warm…what else could a dog want?).

The Other Rug:

But Ma and Pa’s blood lust was not quenched by the cleaning of the bedroom rug or the destruction of the living room furniture. No, they needed more, and as soon as the couch was at the curb, they returned to roll up the living room rug and drag it out to the curb as well. 

No dog should endure what I have endured. There is a void in my life now. I have no living room rug to drag my snout upon after eating and now no one will allow me to snooze on the new sofa. And the bedroom rug, well, it’s finally starting to smell right again, but once it does, what’s to stop Pa from cleaning it again?

Whining for Buttermilk

Sister has this thing about goats and, frankly, it is starting to alarm me. 

 

Two Goats Posing for a Picture

You see, every time my family and I go out east, and we pass the goat farm on Route 25, Sister calls out “Can we get a goat?” Then, at some point during the trip, she inevitably goes out (sometimes accompanied by Ma and Pa and even Aunt B) to feed the goats bottles, scratch their heads, and take pictures of them under the guise of buying pie (okay she does usually buy pie, but seeing that I get very little of it come dessert time, I say it’s as good as not getting any pie at all). And this week, Ma announced that she saw a sign outside some farm stand saying that they had goats for sale (she made sure to announce this when we were safe at home and refused to tell Sister where the sign was—thanks Ma).

Love the Hair Cut!

Splitting One Bottle Four Ways

But as I said, this desire for a goat is rather alarming to me. It’s not because they look evil as Aunt B says nor is it because Sister read me a news story about an overly friendly black goat named Voldemort that chased a paperboy up a tree in some Utah town. No, what alarms me is that not only does she already have a name for the goat she wants (Buttermilk), but she offers up some alarmingly valid reasons why she should be allowed to have one. I’m kind of afraid that Ma and Pa will eventually give in to her whining (and she is particularly good at whining—she’s had, after all, years of practice). Here are her reasons for getting a goat:

1. Free goats milk and cheese: I like cheese—can’t argue with this one. 
2. Free lawn care: the goat will keep the grass nice and trim.
3. Watch goat: nothing brings fear to potential intruders like a “Beware of Goat” sign.
4. A playmate for me: when I want some little creature to head butt me I go visit my bff Mecki. 
5. A playmate for her: hey, I thought that was my job!
6. A goat and I have a lot in common: Sister refers to the two pictures below to prove her point.

The Goats

Me

So there you have it; the reasoning behind Sister’s yearlong campaign for a goat. Hopefully, Ma and Pa will stay strong and continue to tell her that she can visit the goats, but that she’s not allowed to bring one home (though if I were them I’d periodically check her car’s trunk for a little brown and white floppy eared animal that answers to the name Buttermilk).

A Potential Buttermilk