Happy New Year

Wishing all my friends a very happy new year!

Have I mentioned lately how much I hate dressing up?

 

Christmas 2014 Summary

Christmas 2014

I love Christmas!   Why wouldn't I?  It's the one day of the year that I get to spend every single waking hour eating, shredding wrapping paper, or playing with new toys.  And this year's Christmas celebration was one for the books; one of the best.  Why?  Because I made out like a bandit this year.  Here's some of the fun stuff I got:

• 2 squeaky tennis balls from Pa.
• A replacement Rudy the Reindeer from Sister (my former Rudy is missing three of his legs, both antlers, half his skull (including a nostril, an eye, and an ear), and his tail).
• A bag of cookies from Mecki, Bastille, and their mom.

  

  Rocky, Bullwinkle, and Me

• A set of Rocky and Bullwinkle plush toys from Pa's friend Jim and his dog Dixie.
• A floppy snowman toy from Tink, ZeeZee, and their mom
• The book "Ask Anna" from Ralphie and his mom (Sister and I read it before bedtime).
• A few packets of special flavoring for my food from Ma.
• A new bed from Pa (which I'm really not a big fan of--when will people finally accept the fact that my rightful place is on the couch?).

And the only fatalities (at least as of right now) from my list of Christmas gifts are a handful of cookies (which are obviously in my belly), one packet of special flavoring (again, in my belly), and the floppy snowman which I happily filleted the very first night I had him.

But the fun didn't end with presents.  I found numerous ways of entertaining myself throughout Christmas Day (a necessity brought about by the fact that my family forbid me to shred any of my other toys so soon after receiving them).  So instead, I...

• helped unwrap presents (I believe my teeth may have accidentally gotten a bit too close for comfort to some people's fingers.  To that I say:  I'm sorry).
• shredded discarded wrapping paper (I was helping--the more finely shredded the wrapping paper is the more of it can be cram into a single garbage bag.  To that I say:  you're welcome).
• carried off presents that didn't belong to me (which lead to numerous joyful romps throughout the house as my family chased after me to retrieve their packages).
• managed to get close enough to the snack food table to lick a few shrimp (which ended up backfiring on me because, rather than give me the "tainted" goods, Pa ate the shrimp I slobbered on.  To that I say:  not cool, man, not cool).

My Face Says It All

There was, however, one low point this Christmas.  Sister received a goat.  Sure, it wasn't a real goat, but I think it still warrants a certain level of concern on my part.  What if this is a "gateway goat"?  What if Ma and Pa are merely testing Sister to see if she cares for this one before getting her a real one?  If that's the case, there is a horrifying possibility of waking up on the morning of Sister's birthday and coming face to face with a real-live-head-butting-sideways-prancing goat.  The horror!

A Christmas Eve Song

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all my loyal fans.  Please enjoy this year's Christmas carol set to the tune of "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer."  *<[:{)

Santa, my name is Rigby
I'm a very handsome guy
I know you're checking your list
And I gotta say "I tried."

Next year I won't chase bunnies
I'll cut down on the random howls
Squirrels won't bother me none
I'll even wipe my drooly jowls.

'Cause you know it's really hard
Being good all year
Ripping things is so much fun
Swear I'm sorry when I'm done.

Santa, please don't pass my house
Just because I made mistakes
Make it a Merry Christmas
Send me toys and juicy steaks!

The Nightmare Before Christmas

There are many reasons to love the Christmas season; cookies to eat, wrapping paper to shred, light-up decorative reindeer to bark at, and the time honored yuletide tradition of bringing a giant tree into the house.

In years past, I've looked forward to the days when a giant tree would take up residency in my living room.  I can't tell you the number of hours I've spent lying underneath it, gnawing on the paper dove ornaments I had just plucked from its boughs, and dreaming of the fun I could have if a squirrel suddenly jumped out from within its branches (hey, the tree had been living outside, a squirrel could very well have taken up residency).

This year, however, is different.  I'm now a bit wary of having a tree in the house.  Why?  Because this year, I witnessed a Christmas tragedy.

It happened in the wee hours of Monday morning (and when I say the wee hours of the morning I mean it...it was 3:30AM!).  There I was, snoozing in the bedroom, dreaming of plush toys, Santa Claus, and chasing bunnies though the snow, when all of a sudden I heard a loud crash.  Sleepily, I opened my eyes and saw Ma go rushing by me into the hallway.  A minute later, Pa hurried pass.  Groggy, but not wanting to miss a moment of a potentially exciting event, I got up and followed after them only to bump into Sister who was coming down the stairs from her own room.  We gathered outside the living room door.

There, in the middle of the room, prone upon a blanket of shattered glass, fake snow, sap laden water, and pine needles was the previously upright and decorated Christmas tree.  And underneath it all was my pillow.

The tree had toppled over.

The first thing that came to mind was of how I had been, not six hours earlier, snoozing on the very same pillow that was now crushed under the tree.  With that realization, my life flashed before my eyes.  I saw myself as a sweet little puppy, gnawing on Sister's hands, as a awkward teen, jumping up on Ma's back and grabbing hold of the hood of her coat, and finally as a devilishly handsome two year old jumping out of Pa's car window.  Ahh, what a miserable little puppy I was (but boy was it fun).

With a wag of my tail, I emerged from my trance only to discover that I had been unceremoniously blockaded from the room and that Pa, Ma, and Sister had already begun cleaning up the mess.  It was only after all the glass had been swept, water mopped up, paper doves safely put away in a basket (out of my reach I might add), and the tree righted that I was finally allowed back into the living room.

Pick Pocketing

My faithful readers know that I have many hobbies.  I rip things, I shred things, I gnaw on things, and I eat things.  And in order to accomplish the aforementioned hobbies, I have to participate in another favorite hobby of mine:  stealing things.

Now, there are many ways of stealing the items I plan on ripping, shredding, gnawing, and eating.  I can pick the item up when someone unknowingly drops it on the floor, casually pull the item out of someone's hand when they are distracted, stretch and crane my neck and pull the item off the table or counter, or jump up on the table, chair, counter, or bed and blatantly steal it.  But the most entertaining way of obtaining my heart's desires is by pick pocketing.

Ma is the best person to pick pocket from because she has a habit of leaving her pocketbook open and unattended at snout height.  All I have to do is casually walk up to it, stick my snout in, and go shopping.  Couldn't be easier!  And what a treasure trove her pocketbook is:  leathery wallets (tastes and smells like rawhide chew toys), fluffy tissues (used ones are best), pens (love the crunching sound they make when I gnaw on them), and, my personal favorite, eye glass cases.  Why do I love stealing eye glass cases so much?  Well...

1. Being hollow, they have a satisfying amount of give when I flex my jaw muscles.
2. Being made of a plastic material, they have a satisfying crunch when I finally puncture the case with my teeth.
3. Being the housing structure for fragile and expensive glasses, there is a satisfying level of panic issued from my family when they see I have them clenched firmly in my jaw.

There are times, however, when Ma forgets how much I enjoy pick pocketing and neglects to leave her bag open for me to browse through.  Lucky for me, I'm a clever dog.  If I can't pilfer through the bag, I'll just grab the whole kit and caboodle and carry it off instead.  I call it pick pocketing to the extreme!

Thanksgiving 2014

Before...

Happy Thanksgiving!

(No Pilgrims were harmed in the writing of this post.  Sadly, the same can't be said about their hats.)

...And After

Helping Out

This has been a very busy week in my house. There have been a number of projects undertaken by my family and I, in my ever helpful way, have been snout deep in all of them.

What Painter's Tape?

Painting the Dining Room with Ma:  Every couple of years or so, Ma decides to take on a major house project.  This year, she's painting the dining room.  Before I was born, Ma's had to muddle through her projects alone.  Now, however, she has me, and I'm sure she would be the first to say that her projects have become vastly more interesting and memorable with my assistance.  Here's what I did:

• Slept at the base of the ladder while Ma painted the crown moldings.
• Repeatedly walked under the ladder to make sure it was safe.
• Moved the plastic drop cloths.
• Cleared away the paper towels Ma used to clean up paint drips (and shredded them in the living room).
• Rubbed my tail up against the newly painted walls to check if they were dry.
• Found the missing roll of painter's tape.

Electrical Work with Pa:  I've spoken before of my love of plumbing; how there are few things I enjoy more than crawling under a sink with Pa and snatching his tools when he's not looking.  I'm sad to say that there was no plumbing done this week.  There was, however, electrical work, and I'm sure Pa would be the first to say that he and I are a great team.  Here's what I did:

• Stood in between Pa and the electrical outlet he was trying to replace.
• Left snout marks on the newly polished hanging lamp.

Tidying Up with Sister:   Sister took a couple of days off from work this week to help tidy up the house in anticipation of Thanksgiving and I was more than happy to chip in (after our afternoon naps of course).  I'm sure Sister would be the first to say that she wouldn't have been able to get the house quite so neat if it wasn't for my assistance.  Here's what I did:

• Stole a shirt Sister neglected to put away and tore out its tags.
• Grabbed a dust cloth.
• Took a nap on the rug Sister wanted to vacuum.

Holding Down the Leaves

Raking the Yard with Pa and Sister:  I also proved myself to be a master gardener this week.  Pa and Sister each spent a couple of hours outside raking up the leaves and I was there to help.  I'm sure they would argue over who would be the first to say how they couldn't have collected nearly as many leaves as they did without my guidance.  Here's what I did:

• Took long sticks and chewed them down into smaller sticks.
• Prevented the wind from blowing the newly raked piles of leaves away by laying across them.

No doubt about it, there is no one more helpful than me!

The Puppy Files: Impaired Vision

Welcome to yet another edition of The Puppy Files, a series in which I travel down memory lane to when I was an itty bitty little puppy with large gnashing teeth and a bad attitude.

As my loyal readers know, I am very much in tune with my surroundings; I see and hear things that most wouldn't even notice.  I can spot a forgotten crumb on the table from ten feet away.  I can hear the cheese drawer in the refrigerator open and close from outside in the backyard.  I can see a chicken scurry across a yard three houses down.

But as impressive as my current level of awareness is, it doesn't even come close to the levels I had as a puppy.  When I was a pup, I'd watch airplanes fly by over head, I was soothed by the sound of opera playing in the background, and I was known to watch people on TV walk from one corner of the screen to the other.

Sometimes, however, this highly tuned gift of mine proved to be problematic, and no example proves this point more than what happened one day at lunch time when I was less than a year old.

When I was a little puppy, Ma used to drive all the way home at lunch time to help Sister "handle me."  Ma would get home from work first, feed me my lunch (those were the good old days when I used to get three meals a day), and take me outside.  While outside, Ma would spend the next ten minutes or so chasing me around the backyard and wrestling sticks, rocks, plants, and her arms out from between my razor sharp puppy teeth.  Meanwhile, Sister would come home from work, eat her lunch, and relieve Ma as my favorite chew toy.  Then Ma would get back into her car and returned to work.

On this particular day, Sister must have finished her lunch early because she and Ma got to spend a couple of moments talking in the driveway before Ma had to hurry back to work.  Never wanting to be left out of a party (think of all the arms, hands, and ankles I could chew on) I came charging out from the backyard and skidded to a stop at their feet.  I gave my head a shake then lunged at Sister's hands.  But before I could grab her soft chewy fingers, I was distracted by something suspended in the middle of my vision; it was a large white glob.

I started chasing the glob, running in circles and snapping at it with my teeth.  Ma and Sister were very much alarmed by my behavior.  They already had their doubts, after all, if I was right in the head given the fact that I seemed to have missed out on the gene responsible for what the American Kennel Club defines as my breed's "eager to please attitude" and this latest quirk certainly did not say much for my sanity.  They looked into the sky for any passing birds I might be chasing and checked the ground for any bugs that might be bothering me, but they saw nothing.

Check Out My Eyebrow Whiskers

My circling intensified.  Concerned that maybe I was having seizure or something, Ma scooped me up in her arms.  It was then, in that moment of inactivity (by this age I hated being held so much that Ma only had a few seconds before I'd start squirming and biting to get down), that Ma saw what the problem was.  There, on the end of one of my eyebrow whiskers was a large white fuzzball.

Sister wiped the fuzzball away and Ma put me back down on the ground.  Relieved that my vision was no longer impaired, I looked up at Ma and Sister, and wagged my tail.  Then I lunged at Sister's hand.

Everything was back to normal.

Not A Kissy Dog

I am not a kissy dog.  Sure, I'll check your hands for tasty scraps or enticing smells after you've finished eating.  And yes, I have been known to obsessively lick a person's leg until he/she is totally grossed out.  But give out traditional kisses?  That's just not how I roll.  I'd much prefer to show my affection by allowing someone to rub my butt or scratch my belly, and if I felt particularly affectionate, I'd stick my wet nose in someone's eye (I've discovered that people squeal with appreciation the loudest when I do this while they're sleeping).

That being said, there have been a couple of times in my life that I have presented someone with an actual, genuine, kiss and I've discovered that these super rare signs of affection fall into one of three categories:

Who Wants A Kiss?

A Peck:  I walk up to the recipient and, before he/she knows what's happening, I give him/her one big wet lap across the face.  With the kiss out of my system, I simply continue on my way.

A Nibble:  This category is reserved solely for Sister.  It consists of me giving her two "pecks" on the nose with a quick nibble (using what my family refers to as my raspberry picking teeth AKA my incisors which are the perfect tools for precision picking of ripe fruit) in between.  And if nibbling on Sister's nose wasn't fun enough, I then get to watch her reaction which includes swatting me away with her arms and a hilarious combination of squeals, squeaks, and screams.  And my response?  A smile and a wag of my tail.

A Slosh:  This category is also reserved solely for Sister.  First, I get a big drink of water.  For those of you who don't know, I'm not one to drink water by politely skimming it off the top of the bowl, snout suspended well above the high water mark.  Instead, I drink from the bottom of the bowl up, meaning I stick my entire snout under the surface.  Because of this technique, and coupled with my abundant supply of jowls, when I come up for air I am sopping wet.  Having filling my jowls, I next go looking for Sister, and, when I finally find her, I give her a great big wet kiss across the face releasing the gallons of water I have stored up.  The combination of laughing, gurgling, spitting, and flailing that issues from Sister is priceless.

Insoles and Sneakiness

I never turn down the opportunity to be bad.  Why should I?  Sure, when I'm good and do exactly what my family says, I get treats and attention.  But I've discovered over the years that I get way more attention and way more treats when I do things that I'm not supposed to do.  Consider this: when I steal something I'm not supposed to have, everyone in the house suddenly drops whatever they're doing, chases me down, pounces on me, and begs me to drop my prize.  When I refuse to give up what I have, someone, usually Ma or Sister, shouts "toss it for a cookie?"  Well, for those not in the know, I consider "toss it for a cookie" magic words akin (though way more powerful) than "please" and "thank you."  Upon hearing these words, I quickly drop my prize and run into the kitchen to claim my reward.

But even better than being bad and being caught is being bad and not getting caught.  You see, despite my larger than life personality, I can be surprisingly sneaky.  That sneakiness is particularly handy when I get a hankering for my new favorite past-time:  Ripping the insoles out of Sister's shoes.

Getting the shoes are surprisingly easy.  I wait until Sister is distracted (the best is when she's either on the phone with someone or working on the computer), then I go in for the kill, swiping the shoe (I take one at time) without her even noticing (sometimes, she swears that she doesn't even remember taking them off).  And because Sister is distracted and has no idea that I have her shoe, I usually have plenty of time to disappear into another room and worked my magic on it.  First, I chew on the body of the shoe leaving teeth marks in the leather.  Next, I shred the insole.  For this step, I have two techniques.  Sometimes I tear out a large piece of the insole and then rip it to shreds while other times I shred the insole while it's still attached to the shoe.

Eventually, Sister discovers my mischievousness and takes her shoe back, whimpering over the shredded insole.  She also swears that she's never going to talk to me again, but I'm not worried because I know it is an empty threat.  After about ten minutes of me looking up at her with my big brown eyes and offering my belly for a rub, she eventually melts and gives in to my cuteness.  And really, in the end, she doesn't even seem that bothered by the destruction of the shoe.  Every time I've shredded one, Sister merely collects the pieces, puts them back together like a slobbery jigsaw puzzle, and, once the pieces are dry, goes back to wearing the shoes like they didn't have my teeth marks in them.

Me and My Collection

And now on to my record:  I'm proud to say that, within the last six months, I have managed to run off with and shred the insoles of three pairs of shoes (two rights and one left).

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.