And They Said It Might Not Happen

I'm a very lucky dog.  In fact, my entire life has been filled with me beating the odds in one way or another.  Here are a few examples:

1. Despite being a nasty little puppy with big teeth and a bad attitude, my family stuck with me long enough for me to blossom into the model citizen I am today.
2. Despite attempting, unsuccessfully, to move the house with my face, and despite being told that I might end up with a visible scar from my endeavor, my fur grew in and now you can't even tell that there was ever a wound.
3. Despite being told that my damaged dew claw might not grow back in, it did, albeit painfully crooked, and had to be, along with its toe, surgically removed.

Hey wait, that last one wasn't so lucky!

Anyway, apparently my lucky streak is still going strong.  Observe:

This is what my nose looked like back in April when I 'chipped the paint' (Ralphie's Mom came up with this very appropriate description) and exposed my nose's pink undercoating.  At the time, the vet suggested that there was a chance that that part of my nose would never turn black again (and Pa meanly suggested that the rest of my nose might turn entirely pink in the meantime).  Needless to say, I was traumatized by the entire experience.

But, with Ma's liberal use of bacitracin and the antibiotics Pa got me when he took me to the vet, my nose, two months later, looks like this:

It is practically perfect (please feel free to take a moment to shed some tears of joy)!  Sure, there's a little pink left, a small dent due to a couple of layers of skin still missing, but I'm confident that it will be 100% in a month or so and I'll be back to my normal, devilishly handsome self (as if I ever actually lost my devilishly handsome good looks).

Crazy From the Heat

The hot weather brings out the worst in me.  If I'm not stretched out on the kitchen floor trying to suck the cold out of the tiles while moaning piteously, or sighing loudly in the bedroom hoping that someone will take pity on me and turn on the air conditioner, I'm up and about searching for ways to be troublesome.

Now, seeing that it is nearly the end of June in New York, the temperature outside has been slowly climbing.  Not high enough, I'm sad to say, to guarantee that someone would turn on the air conditioner for me (don't the humans realize that I'm wearing a fur coat?!), but certainly high enough to seek out trouble.  I started causing trouble in earnest last week when for three consecutive mornings I woke Ma and Pa up at 6:30am, 5:30am, and 4:30am to go outside and eat breakfast before returning to bed (for some reason, Ma and Pa did not find this arrangement fun) and nearly destroyed one of Sister's shoes when she wasn't looking.  Both offenses, however, proved to be merely practice for the troublesome situations that I would get myself into yesterday.

What Remains of My Pillow

First, I killed my pillow in Ma and Pa's room.  I ripped off the zipper pulls (and deposited them neatly at the threshold of the room), tore open the zipper track, then proceeded to rip the track from the fabric of the pillow cover.  If Sister hadn't heard the ripping sound (I had actually started killing my pillow prior to her coming home from work, but because I hadn't finished what I was doing, I was forced to continue with her in the house), I would have managed to pull the actual pillow from the pillow case and potentially shred it, but, well, I guess it wasn't meant to be.  Sister yelled at me for breaking my pillow and put it into the "Land of No," but not before I managed to give her a big wet kiss across the face (I'm not a kissy dog, but I've come to realize that a well timed sign of affection usually softens my humans up).

After about five minutes of "I'm not talking to you because you were not a good boy," Sister asked me if I wanted to go outside.  Of course I did!  Sister and I spent about ten minutes checking the perimeters and pulling wild mushrooms out of the lawn (Sister's concerned that I might try to eat the mushrooms, but why would I want to eat them when there is an entire yard full of sticks and grass to chew on?).  Anyway, after a while, Sister decided to take a break from the hunt and sit on the side step.  Usually, I join Sister at the side step, sit on her feet and demand that she scratch my neck until I collapse on the floor and demand a belly rub.  It's our thing.  This time, however, I kept myself busy by snuffing around on the floor which lulled Sister into a false sense of security (which was exactly my plan).

Helping Myself

My troublesome activities were brought to Sister's attention when she heard the distinct sound of my lips smacking.  She looked over to me and realized, with horror, that I was helping myself to a strawberry plant that was sitting alongside the side stoop.  Sister jumped up screeching "No!" and shooed me off, but I had instantaneously developed a taste for strawberries and a little screaming and arm flailing was not about to stop me.  Back to the strawberry plant I went, again and again, carefully pulling off only the ripe fruit with what have now been dubbed my strawberry pickin' teeth (AKA my incisors).  Fed up with my antics and desperate to protect the remaining strawberries, Sister picked up the plant and placed it on top of a garbage can figuring that I'd leave it alone now that it was no longer at eye level.  Well, she was wrong.  I strolled right up to the garbage can, stretched out my neck, and started plucking off the strawberries that hung down the sides of the pot.  More screeching and arm flailing occurred before Sister picked up the plant and carried it toward the backyard (the whole time I was hot on her heals nipping at the strawberries that still hung from the plant's stems).  Once in the backyard, Sister placed the plant dead center on the picnic table; completely out of reach of any neck stretching or lapping tongues.  After a couple of quick calculations, I realized that the strawberry plant would not be out of reach if I jumped up onto the table.  The issue, however, was being left alone with the plant long enough to make my move--an issue which I never managed to overcome.  Every time I went outside, I hotfooted it to the table, but by this time everyone in my family was on to me and would not leave me alone to put my plan into motion.  The next morning (today) the plant was moved to the safety of the outdoor "Land of No."

Next in my troublesome rampage (I was now only four hours in), I stole one of Sister's shoes, stole my travel shirt, ran up and down the stairs like a crazy dog just for the fun of it (a particularly treacherous activity seeing that the living room is not carpeted and I tend to skid into the couch when I transition from the stair to hardwood floors at top speeds), barked hysterically at some person who had the nerve to walk by the house, and then rummaged through Pa's closet.

Completely exhausted by my trouble laced spree, Ma offered me the one thing that would calm me down:  a PB&K also known as a peanut butter and kong (my kong toy stuffed with peanut butter).  After chowing down on all the peanut buttery goodness, I settled down and took a nap.  That nap transitioned smoothly into a restful night sleep which was apparently just what the doctor ordered because I woke up recharged and ready to begin anew today (I shredded the dust cover of Pa's book).

The Puppy Files: My Only Friend

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.

Today's tale is entitled:  My Only Friend.

Me at 5 Months Old

I've said time and time again that I was a troubled puppy: I bit, I jumped, I stole, and was generally miserable to my family (Sister used to coat both her arms in Bitter Apple Spray in an attempt to stop me from grabbing hold of one of them, dropping to the ground, and rolling like an alligator in a death roll--it rarely worked).  Now, because of my misguided ways, I could pretty much guarantee that I'd have at least one, possibly two, family members annoyed at me at any given moment.  I'm ashamed to say that, at the time, this didn't bother me one bit.  I always had a friend waiting in the wings, or, more appropriately, in the backyard.

My friend was a rock.  But not just any rock.  You see, it needed to be the perfect rock--not too big, not too small, rather smooth but just rough enough to get a good grip on it with my teeth.  Once this perfect rock was obtained (I usually found it in Ma's garden...a difficult feat because I was often distracted by Ma yelling at me to get off her pansies and mums), I would grab it in my teeth and go scurrying into the backyard.

Once in the backyard, I either plopped down in the nice cool grass to gnaw on my new friend (I was always very careful not to swallow him) or proudly trotted around while occasionally flinging him up into the air (I got real close to clocking myself upside the head a few times).

I refused to share my rock with anyone.  When someone came into the yard, I'd watch them from a distance, rock clenched firmly in my teeth, afraid that if I got too close to that person he or she might try to take my friend away.  Then again, if that person approached me, I'd either jump up and scurry away from him with the rock in my mouth or roll onto my back in an attempt to distract the interloper with the offer of a belly to rub.

Ma was often witness to my rock obsession and used to joke that if anyone saw me and my rock, they'd think that I was a deprived little puppy.  She said that I looked like a pup who had no nice toys or people to play with and that my only friend was a rock.  This, of course, was completely false.  I had plenty of people to play with (I just couldn't find anyone who appreciated how I played) and tons of toys to rip to shreds.  I just really enjoyed playing with my rock.

As months passed and my bad attitude started to wane, rocks became less important to me.  Still, to this day, if I find a perfect rock in the backyard, I just can't help myself.  I need to pick it up, scurry into the backyard, and prance around with it clenched firmly in my teeth. 

Thanks BFF!

It's not easy to wait for things you want.  When my tummy is rumbling, I want my dinner.  But if it is only 2pm and dinner is at 5pm, I have no choice but to wait which is really annoying.  Now, they say that good things come to those who wait.  The last nine days proved this concept to be true.

My Birthday Card

It all started two Mondays ago (two days after my birthday), when Sister came home from work and blew past me without saying hello.  I won't lie, I was taken aback by her actions; Sister always says hello to me as soon as she comes in the house (though, there have been numerous occasions where she's had to come find me before saying hello because I was sleeping and didn't hear her come in).  Anyway, trying not to let my hurt feelings show, I ramped up the cuteness and followed behind Sister as she made her way through the house to the backroom (a former Land of No).  It was when she stopped alongside the piano that I noticed that she had, held high over her head, a pink gift bag that had the scent of my bff Mecki wafting from it and two toys sticking out.  Mecki had gotten me a birthday present!  Well, it goes without saying that I had to investigate.  I reared up on my hind legs, braced myself on Sister's stomach, and stretched as far as I could toward the smell, but alas, I was unable to reach the bag.  Sister, in an attempt to appease me, reached into the bag and pulled out a card.  She showed it to me, read it out loud, but refused to give it to me (instead she put it on display on the TV table).  Then, with great disappointment, I watched as Sister placed the gift bag just out of my reach on the piano (though my disappointment was temporarily superseded by excitement when she then asked if I wanted my supper).

Four days passed before I saw the birthday bag again.  Now, one might ask why it took so long for me to gain access to the contents of the bag (after all, it was my birthday present), but there were reasons (some good and some not so) for the delay.  On Monday, Sister didn't give me the toys because she wanted Ma and Pa to admire them before I got hold of them (I have a history of being very hard on toys) and Ma wasn't getting out of work until after my bedtime.  On Tuesday, I was suffering from digestive issues and on Wednesday I was much too tired after being up all night the night before.  I wasn't given the toys on Thursday because Sister was in a bad mood and didn't feel like playing (like that's my problem).

It had been such a long time since I last saw the birthday bag that by the time Friday rolled around I had pretty much forgotten all about it (I have a lot on my mind:  food, squirrels, food, lizards, food, people walking by the house, food, etc).  So there I was, hanging out in the backyard with Sister on her lunch break, when all of a sudden Sister jumped up from her seat on the bench and ran into the house.  Although hot on her heals, by the time I made it to the side door, she was inside the house (Sister is, for the record, not faster than me...she just got a better start).  So, I did what I normally do when I am locked out of someplace I want to be (hey, she could have been sneaking a piece of cheese):  I barked bloody murder.

A few seconds later, Sister re-emerged, but instead of cheese, she had, in her hand, the first of Mecki's birthday presents:  A brand new Mini-Mecki (complete with Mecki fur and scent--a nice touch)!  Forgetting my manners, I jumped up on Sister, snatched the toy from her hand, and hotfooted it into the backyard. 

 

My fun, however, was short-lived.  That evening, I had a relapse of the digestive issues I had earlier in the week.  I wasn't really in the mood to play with my new Mini-Mecki, or any toy for that matter, for two whole days.  And on Monday, when my stomach was completely better, I spent most of the time catching up on the sleep I lost the two previous nights.

Then Tuesday rolled around.  Feeling one hundred percent better and very well rested, I found myself itching for something to do (I let my family know by barking hysterically at them while they were trying to watch television).  Sister, understanding what I wanted, got up off her chair, walked into the backroom, and took the second toy out of the bag.  This time, it was a rubber ball that dispensed food.  Sister stuffed the toy full of liver bits and handed it to me.

I had a grand time with my new toy.  The first thing I noticed was that it made a really cool suction sound when I chewed on it.  The second thing I realized was that I needed to roll the toy around in order for the food to come out.  But there's a major problem with pretty much all toys that roll:  they tend to roll away from me.  I really hate that.  So what do I do when my toy rolls just out of reach?  I bark until someone kicks it back to me.  Personally, I find this solution quite enjoyable, but I'm afraid Ma and Pa, who were trying to watch TV, found it less than pleasurable.

Here are a couple of videos of me playing with my food dispenser ball.  In addition to the aforementioned suction sound and barking, please note the modified game of catch Sister (holding the camera) and I play as well as how quickly Ma jumped in to help when the ball rolled under the couch.

Thanks, Mecki, for all the cool gifts!