Merry Christmas!

According to the song (which is occasionally sung at ear piercing levels in my house) and warnings issued by my family, Santa Claus is not only watching constantly, but he's also labeling handsome pups such as me as either naughty or nice.  Nice pups get loads of toys to rip the stuffing out of and bones to chew on (the obvious goal).  Bad pups receive a lump of coal in their stockings (which, frankly, doesn't sound all that bad to me).

Now, it is well known that I have a bit of track record of being mischievous.  But mischievousness, in my eyes, is not necessarily synonymous with naughtiness.  I'd be lying, however, if I said I wasn't, going into Christmas, concerned that perhaps my fun loving antics might be misconstrued as naughtiness by the big man wearing red.

Well, it turns out my concern was unjustified.  Despite all my mischievousness this year, I apparently ended up on every one's extremely good list because I really cleaned up this December 25th.  Between Santa, Ma, Pa, Sister, Aunt B, Faye (Tink & ZeeZee), Karin (Mecki & Bastille), and Jim (Pa's friend from work who is the human dad to Dixie whom I've heard stories about but have yet to meet in person), I got:

Octopus, Reindeer, & Raccoon

• a bag of treats (yet to be opened)
• a new antler (chewed on)
• an orange squeaky ball (plucked, ripped, and thrown away)
• a giant octopus (awaiting surgery for a ripped tentacle)
• a football (still whole...great for greeting people with)
• a plush raccoon (ripped, gutted, and awaiting surgery)
• a flat plush squeaker dog (waiting to be chewed on)
• a Christmas Mini-Mecki (also waiting to be chewed on)
• a giant plush reindeer with tennis ball feet (tennis balls ripped off body and partial lobotomy?--check!).  

Christmas Mini-Meck

But despite all the toys and all the tasty food I grubbed (the less said the better), this Christmas wasn't all good.

In the wee hours of Christmas morning (while Santa was making his rounds), I was felled by an unhappy belly.  Ever helpful, Ma heard my pitiful cries at the door and got up to let me out while the rest of the household slept.  Once I was feeling better, Ma let me back in the house but, in the process, accidentally slammed the side door.  Ma and I both thought that the sound would have woken up Pa, but we were both pleasantly surprised to discover that he had slept right through the noise.

Still emotionally troubled by my earlier experience (I hate feeling sick), I grabbed my new football toy that Ma had given me earlier in the evening and curled up on my pillow.  Sadly, I gave it a squeeze, but, because it was squeaker-less, it didn't make a sound.

So, in review, Pa slept through me crying to go out, Ma getting up, Ma accidentally slamming the side door, and Ma and I wandering back into the bedroom.  I then squeaked a squeaker-less toy.  To quote Charles Dickens (from a story that is very appropriate given the time of year) "this must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate."

Like a shot, Pa jumped up, turned to me, and told me that it was too late to play with my toys and that I should go to sleep.  He took my football from me, scratched my head, and then fell back asleep.  With a sign, I too went to bed.

Later in the morning, after all the presents were open (and some of the paper shredded), Ma related this story to both Sister and Pa (Pa was unaware of what happened before I squeaked my squeaker-less toy) and everyone had a good laugh.  More importantly, however, I got my football back.

Sing Along With Rigby

Merry Christmas to all my fans.  Please enjoy this year's Christmas carol set to the tune of "Silent Night." *<[:{)

Rigby the Black Nosed Rein-Dog!

Drooly boy, slobbery boy.
Waiting for Christmas day.
Picking ornaments off of the tree.
Sniffing through presents that might be for me.
Trolling for cookies to eat,
Trolling for cookies to eat!

Furry boy, troublesome boy.
Cannot wait for Santa Claus.
Asking for a plush toy to tear.
Tennis balls and a bone and a spare.
Lots of cookies to eat,
Lots of cookies to eat!

Barky boy, handsome boy.
Christmas joy to all my friends.
Hope you get toys, bones, and treats galore.
Shred lots of paper and one thing more.
Numerous cookies to eat,
Numerous cookies to eat!

Merry Christmas!

The Couch

My loyal readers know that there is a rule in my house that states that I'm not allowed on the furniture.  My loyal readers also know that there has, traditionally, only been a halfhearted enforcement of said rule.  In short, Ma and Sister let me hang out on the furniture and Pa, well, he strongly disapproves.

Lately, however, the epic struggle between me being comfortable on the nice soft couch or uncomfortable on the cold hard floor seems to be shifting further and further in my favor.  You see, Ma has officially designated part of the couch as being mine.  Now you might ask: How do you know that that particular spot on the couch is yours?  Well, it's really quite simple.  One day, after vacuuming all the fur off of the couch (amassed from the times I spent sleeping on it when no one was looking), Ma took an old bed sheet, draped it over the seat, back, and arm rest, then gave me the "up, up, up" command while patting the spot with her hand.

And that was all I needed.  I jumped up onto the couch, curled up into a tight little ball, and took a nap.

Now I spend most evenings snoozing on the couch.  Sometimes, because Ma is so close (her spot is down the other end of the couch--that's right, I'm kind enough to share with her), I let her rub my belly.  Belly rub or not, my spot is heavenly (or it would be if someone would just turn off the lights and stop taking pictures so I can get a good night's sleep)!

The Doggy Bag

Humans have a knack of giving odd (and sometimes troubling) names to items.

Take for instance, hot dogs.  Why would anyone decide to name a delicious sausage shaped food item after one of my race?  I mean, Sister has assured me that hot dogs are not made from dogs (I can't tell you how relived I was when I heard this especially since I find hot dogs quite tasty) but then why call them that?  Why not "hot cats" or "hot squirrels" instead?  It makes just about as much sense!

And then there are doggy bags.  Now, I've been fooled by this title before.  Humans return from a restaurant with a little bag that smells absolutely delicious and instead of giving it to "the doggy" they stuff it in the refrigerator and eat it all themselves the following day at lunch.  It's just not fair!  I mean, they could easily call it a "human bag" or "leftover bag."  I wouldn't have a problem with that (though I would probably follow after the person begging for the nice smelling food they're transporting).  But no, the humans call it a doggy bag and then they refuse to share it with the dog.

That is, most of the time they don't share their doggy bag with the dog.

On Friday night, Ma came home from dinner with one of those so-called "doggy bags."  Always available for a quick snack (hey, it had been all of ten minutes since I ate my dinner), I followed her around dutifully, but ultimately resigned myself to being denied the contents of the bag once she placed it in the refrigerator.

Boy was I mistaken!

Twenty four hours later, when it was once again supper time, Ma retrieved the little bag from the refrigerator, extracted some of its contents, cut the contents into bite-sized pieces, nuked them in the microwave until they were warm, then added the bits to my bowl of kibble.  Overcome with excitement, I beat Ma to my designated supper area (a small elevated table on which my bowl is placed that Ma says prevents me from having acid reflux--I just enjoy the fact that I don't have to reach all the way down to the floor to eat), watched her put my bowl down, then I scooped up a large mouthful of its contents.

Steak!  Ma had given me steak!

Needless to say, I licked my bowl clean (well, I always do that, but this time I did it with great gusto).

And do you know what?  My next four suppers had cut up steak in them also!

Finally, the entire contents of a doggy bag went to the dog.

A Thanksgiving Greeting

 

 

Happy Thanksgiving to all my pals!

 

 

Adventures Out East

My weekends out on eastern Long Island can go one of two ways.  Sometimes they are quiet--long hours spent lounging on the deck while soaking up the sun--while other times they are action packed--chasing squirrels across the yard and pacing the fence, knowing full well, even though I can't see them, that there are deer hanging out in the yard next to mine.

Lately, my weekends have been of the latter variety.

The Cat:

It was first thing Saturday morning and I was outside in the back yard checking out the perimeter.  I was particularly engrossed in my task because the night before, when my family and I had first arrived, I had caught the undeniable whiff of cat in the bushes.  You see, that's the problem with having two yards to patrol--when you're watching one you can't watch the other and that's when the wildlife starts to take over be it cats, squirrels, moles, or deer.

So anyway, I was snuffling through the bushes, making my way to the side gate, when all of a sudden I saw it:  a furry brown cat on my side of the fence.  Now, it should be noted that I've seen this cat before--mainly in the yard across the street from me (and yes, I barked hysterically at him)--and I was always kind of taken aback by how large he appeared to be given just how far away he was from my window.  I've even heard my family commenting on his size (they said he looked like a mountain lion).  Well, let's just say that if he was big from across the street, he was massive at close range.

Now, when Pa tells this story, he says that I gave off a "high pitched girly scream of a bark" when I saw the cat.  I, however, disagree.  You see, Pa was on the other side of the yard at the time and I'm sure that what he heard was actually a conglomeration of my manly bark, the hissing of the cat, the whistle of the wind through the tree branches, and the cawing of the crows overhead.  Yep, I'm sure of it.

So, there I was standing ten feet away from the cat who was cornered between the front fence and the neighbor's.  Most animals, when cornered like this, would simply slip under or jump over the fence and scurry away.  The cat wanted to do this--I could sense it--but its girth made it completely impossible to make a clean and fast get away (which was further hampered by the cat's concern about turning its back to me).  I, on the other hand, knew what I needed to do--I needed to protect my turf and approach the cat--but, let's just say, I was a bit apprehensive.  You see, the cat was really rather large and the hissing was a bit intimidating.  With neither of us particularly interested in furthering the situation, the cat and I mutually decided to engage in a staring contest.

Realizing that there was an impasse and wishing to save face for everyone involved, Pa came up with a solution to the stalemate.  He called my name.  Being the obedient dog that I am, I turned to look at Pa which gave the cat just enough time to turn away from me, flatten out, and shimmy his way under the fence.  It wasn't a clean get away though.  When I scurried over to the corner where the cat had previously been, I discovered a large tuft of fur clinging to the bottom of the fence.

The Arborists:

The following weekend, I was awoken first thing in the morning with a sudden onslaught of large trucks, cherry pickers, wood chippers, and a crew of five or six men taking over my front and back yards. 

Needless to say, the first thing I did was bark hysterically at the hubbub (I found out later that Pa had scheduled a group of arborists--without my knowledge or input--to come trim our trees).  Next, I took a nap.  Then, after resting up a bit, I started barking hysterically again.

It was during my second round of barking that I suddenly realized something.  Not only were there interlopers in my yard and not only did I have to limit my business trips to their breakfast and lunch breaks, but I was also not allowed to go out and help them turn the giant branches into smaller branches and the smaller branches into mulch.

Needless to say I was really bummed.  I barked my displeasure.

Angel Rigby

"Don't blink.  Don't even blink.  Blink and you're dead.  They are fast.  Faster than you can believe.  Don't turn your back.  Don't look away.  And don't blink.  Good luck."  -Doctor Who, Blink.

My family has christened me with a brand new nickname.  I am now known as a Weeping Angel.

For those of you who are not Doctor Who fans (a new favorite show of mine--I'm particularly fond of the little robot dog named K-9), allow me to explain what Weeping Angels are.  Weeping Angels are an alien species that resemble human sized stone statues with wings.  They remain stationary when being watched, however, as soon as they are no longer being observed, they come alive and, aided by their remarkable speed (they can cover great distances in the time it takes to blink), attack. 

Now here's is how I fit in.

When I'm given a toy (as I was yesterday evening by Pa) and someone monitors me closely, the toy has a pretty good chance of surviving at least my initial spurt of play energy.  However, if I'm left on my own--if someone turns their back on me for even one second--I immediate find a weak spot (an appendage or a seam) and start ripping the toy apart.  Just as the Weeping Angels attack in a blink of an eye, so do I.

So, a word of advice to my family:  "Don't blink."

...And the Little One Said "Roll Over! Roll Over"

I'm a very determined pup.  If there is something I want then I will do everything in my power to get it.  When I see a crumb of food left on a tray table, I will stretch and crane my neck as far as I can to scoff it up (or bark hysterically at it until someone breaks down and hands it to me).  If I know that one of my toys is locked in the doll hospital (AKA front closet) waiting to be sewn up, I will try to steal it at every opportunity I get (or bark hysterically at it until someone breaks down and sews it for me).  And when I'm tired of sleeping on the cold hard floor and want to sleep on Ma and Pa's bed even though I'm not allowed to, well, let's just say that I have no problem resorting to some mischievous tactics.

It was a quarter to seven on Saturday morning and I had just awoken after having spent the entire night sleeping on my pillow in Ma and Pa's room.  With a yawn and a stretch, I got up off of my pillow and surveyed the room.  Ma and Pa were both asleep on the nice comfortable bed and didn't appear to be moving any time soon which was a problem because, despite the fact that my pillow is actually quite comfy, I really wanted to bask in the extreme comfort of the bed.

Now, as I've noted before, I'm technically not allowed on the furniture in my house (the only exception is Sister's bed).  That doesn't mean, however, that I will obey that rule.  You see, in the late morning, after everyone has gone to work, I've been known to climb up on Ma and Pa's bed and stare out the window until I eventually fall asleep.  I've also been known to crawl up onto the couch for a late evening nap.

So anyway, I really wanted to snooze on the bed, but I knew that there were two major obstacles standing in my way.  First was that Pa wouldn't approve of me jumping up on the bed.   The second was that since Ma and Pa were already up there, there really wasn't much room left for me.  Standing in the middle of the room, I started to think and quickly came up with a way of solving my dilemma.

First, I started yodeling in a loud voice accented with the occasional high pitched bark.  Next, I began dragging my snout along the floor.  Finally, I started throwing my butt up against the wall.

Eventually, Pa woke up.  Assuming that I was howling and carrying on because I wanted to go out, Pa dragged himself out of bed and, after informing me that he'd take me out as soon as he got dressed, he left the room.

With the click of the bathroom door, I knew that it was time to take action.  I scurried across the room and, with one giant leap, jumped up onto the bed.  Knowing full well that I only had a few seconds to secure my spot, I quickly threw myself down onto the mattress and curled up into a tight little ball.  I closed my eyes.

A moment later, Pa emerged from the bathroom and discovered me sleeping in his spot on the bed.  Needless to say, he was not particularly happy (I'm curious about what annoyed him more, that I was sleeping on the bed or that I had woken him up early to steal his spot).  Either way, I got the old heave-ho off the bed.

Stuck

Generally, Sister is very nice to me.  She always rubs my belly when I offer it to her, she always allows me to sleep on her bed (on cold nights, she's even been known to throw a blanket over me), she's a bit of a messy eater so there is always a chance of food dropping on the floor when she's having a snack, and she has a tendency of forgetting to put her shoes away and everyone knows how much I enjoy chewing on shoes.  Sometimes, however, Sister's Dr. Jekyll is replaced, temporarily, with a Mr. Hyde which is exactly what happened a couple of days ago.

Ma, Pa, Sister, and I were hanging out in the living room watching the baseball game.  It was Ma's turn to massage my neck that evening, so I parked myself at her feet (I literally sat on her feet) and gave her my sad eyes look to signal that she had a job to do (I also made sure to face Sister who was sitting across the room from me--one never knows when she might start eating so one should always keep an eye on her to ensure that any stray crumbs eventually make their way into my, I mean, one's stomach).  Anyway, I was savoring my neck rub when all of a sudden I became aware of a tickle on my chest.  Now I easily could have scratched the itch with my back leg, but to do so would have required me to shift in my spot and run the risk of moving out of range of my neck scratch.  No, I had to come up with another solution.

And I did.

While Ma continued to absentmindedly rub my neck, I put my chin to my chest and discovered that I could reach the itchy spot with what is known in my house as my raspberry picking teeth--my incisors.  So I started gnawing away at the spot, insanely proud of myself for having managed to figure out how to get a neck scratch and take care of that pesky itch all at the same time.  Within a few seconds, the itch was gone.

And that's when everything went bad.  You see, when I went to lift my head from my chest I discovered that I was unable to; my canine tooth was stuck in a drool encrusted curl of fur on my chest.

To say I was embarrassed would be an understatement, but I decided that my best course of action would be to not draw attention to myself and calmly handle the problem on my own.  Sadly, it didn't work like that.  You see, Sister had noticed what happened and, well, let's just say her response was less than helpful.

What was her response you ask?  She started laughing hysterically at me.

So there I was, a devilishly handsome pup with a major problem and a less than sensitive Sister.  Eventually Ma came to my rescue and detached my tooth from my fur.  She also yelled at Sister saying that she was very mean, but I don't think it did any good because Sister was still laughing so hard that she didn't hear a word Ma said.

The Great Pretzel Explosion

It is a habit of mine to gravitate toward whoever happens to be eating food. I do this to ensure the occurrence of at least one of the following three scenarios:

1. The person eating might take pity on me, the poor starving dog at his feet, and let me have a taste (don’t judge…there’s a chance that I wouldn’t have eaten for a full two hours prior to this).
2. I might be called into action as the official taste tester (obviously to protect the humans—make sure their food-stuff hasn’t gone bad). 
3. The person eating might suffer from a deliciously named bout of “butter fingers.”

And do you know what the greatest thing about all these scenarios is? They generally all result in me getting something to eat. What a wonderful coincidence! Anyway, my favorite of these three scenarios is the third because it generally allows for the biggest payload for me. Think about it, the first two are controlled donations to my stomach. The third? Well, anything goes.

Which is exactly what happened a few days ago.

Ma was in the kitchen packing the lunch she was going to take to work. I was sitting in the threshold between the kitchen and the dining room—just inches away from the “something absorbent” (the rug) that everyone always begs me to sit on due to my excessive drooling—keeping watch over the transfer of food. She had already put her sandwich in her lunch bag as well as the apple that we both knew she would never get around to eating and would eventually bring home with her at the end of the day (which is why I check her lunch bag whenever I get the chance—you never know what might be left over from lunchtime). Anyway, next came the bag of pretzels. Ma went to the cupboard, retrieved a brand new bag of pretzels, and opened it. Reaching in, she grabbed one and flipped it to me. I missed it (catching is not my forte), but gobbled it up on the rebound. Then I watched as Ma walked across the kitchen to the drawer that houses the little zip-locked baggies she was going to pack her snack in.

Days later, I still dream about what happened next.

As Ma pulled open the drawer with one hand, the full bag of pretzels in the other started slipping from her grasp. Ma juggled the bag—back and forth—between both hands until it finally got away from her completely. Suddenly, the skies opened up and it started raining pretzels in the kitchen.

Wasting no time, I quickly jumped up and scurried toward the scene, scooping up stray pretzels as I went. Ma, meanwhile, dropped to the floor intent on gathering and guarding the epicenter of the spill. While this was a noble effort in theory, it was, in actuality, pretty near impossible to carry out; I am way too skilled at pushing my way into situations for one person to both guard a stockpile of food now long past the five second rule and hold me off. Two people might have succeeded, but Pa was already at work and Sister was useless as she was currently doubled over with laughter having witnessed the pandemonium.

Eventually, Ma succeeded in gathering up some of the pretzels (to add insult to injury, she threw these pretzels out) and I succeeded in eating a fair portion of the original spill. Sister, meanwhile, complained that her stomach hurt from laughing.

It’s been days since the “Great Pretzel Explosion,” but proof of its occurrence is still evident throughout the house. Every once in a while I come across a stray pretzel—under a chair, in a corner, by the bathroom door. Pa even found a stash in the drawer Ma was opening during the explosion. Personally, I’m looking forward to someone moving the refrigerator to vacuum underneath it. I predict there will be quite the stash there.

Picking Pieces Off The Fence

I require (and I think deserve) a lot of attention. And when I say a lot of attention, what I really mean is that I deserve all the attention in the world. And when I don’t get all the attention in the world I have no choice but to go out of my way to achieve what is rightfully mine. A perfect example of this premise occurred last weekend.

Ma, Pa, and I were spending the weekend out east (Sister was in a bad mood and decided to stay home—I thought I was really going to miss her, but then I realized that I would not have to share the backseat of the car with her on the drive out so I got over it) and Saturday afternoon’s project, it was decided, would included Ma and Pa picking and trashing mushrooms that had sprouted up in the grass over the course of the previous week. I joined them outside in the backyard during this project.

Now, I’ve never ever been even remotely interested in mushrooms, so for the life of me I couldn’t fathom why Ma and Pa were so dedicated to the completion of this task. Perhaps, I thought, they were concerned that I might try to eat one one day. Ha! Highly unlikely. Why would I bother eating a mushroom from the backyard when there are far more stinky things to eat outside (i.e. half eaten fish dropped by seagulls) and far more tasty things to eat inside (i.e. cheese, apples, tomatoes, and steak)? Humans--I just don’t get them.

Anyway, regardless of my thoughts on the matter, there were two things I knew for certain that afternoon:

1. If Ma and Pa were searching for mushrooms, then they were not paying me the attention I deserved.
2. If Ma and Pa were not paying me the attention I deserved, then I would be forced to draw their attention the only way I knew how…by causing trouble.

I quickly scanned the backyard. At first I felt a bit discouraged; there didn’t seem to be many options. The neighbor dogs were not out so I couldn't rile them up, there really wasn’t much of a garden so I couldn’t dig in the mud, Ma had clipped all the overgrown weeds growing along the fences so I couldn’t graze on them, and the neighbor kids hadn’t thrown any of their toys over the fence so I couldn’t gnaw on them. But then, just when I was about to give up and simply bark at imaginary people passing by the house, a six inch long broken piece of picket fence caught my eye.

But I couldn’t simply run over to the fence. No sir. You see, as much as I craved attention, I wanted it on my terms and I certainly didn’t want to draw attention to myself before I retrieved my prize. So I strolled over to the broken piece of fence as nonchalantly as possible (if I were able to whistle—impossible due to my drooly jowls—I would have done so while I sauntered over to my prize). After an excruciatingly long period of time, I reached the fence, scooped up the broken piece, and, no longer trying to remain under the radar, galloped off across the yard.

My enthusiastic retreat with my prize did exactly what I expected it would: it drew Ma and Pa’s attention. First Ma tried to retrieve my prize from me which resulted in a rousing game of keep away. Then Pa stepped in. Pa doesn't like playing keep away so I reluctantly had to give up my prize when he told me to “drop it.” I was really kind of bummed about losing my piece of fence, but at least I drew everyone's attention.

Two Letters

Dear Ralphie's Mom,

Ralphie Stew

I just wanted to take a minute to thank you for the yummy stew you sent me.  I got a spoonful of it yesterday when Sister came home from class and a couple of scoops mixed in with both my breakfast and dinner today.  And do you know what?  Ralphie's right.  The orange stuff is particularly tasty.  Oh!  And I mustn't forget the chicken!  How did you know that chicken (along with quail, duck, and turkey) is my favorite type of poultry?

My First Taste

Which leads me to the question:  Are you free to cater all my meals?  You see, after sampling your stew, I came to the realization that the catering crew that I currently employ (mainly Ma, Pa, and Sister) are severely lacking in their collective cooking skills.  Don't get me wrong, the kibble they serve me is tasty and I certainly wouldn't turn my snout up at it, but it isn't chicken.  And I realize and appreciate that Ma, Pa, and Sister do try to spice up my meals with pureed pumpkin and something they call "gravy" but, once again, what they're serving me isn't chicken.

So anyway, the offer stands.  I'll be waiting for your response by my dinner bowl.

Love always,
Rigby

Ralphie Tested & Ralphie Approved

Dear Ralphie,

My compliments on your excellent choice of sponsorship.  Your "Ralphie Tested...Ralphie Approved Stew" was delicious!

Your leaning buddy,
Rigby.

Interlopers Run Amok

It's hard for me to admit this out loud, but I feel that I must.  I've recently failed miserably at a job that I hold very near and dear to my heart.  The job:  Head of Security.  My feelings on the topic:  I'm not happy about it.

Interloper Number 1:  
The laps in security started a couple of weeks ago when I noticed that there was an influx of squirrels passing though my yard on their way to the bird feeder and peach tree in the neighbor's yard.  As I've explained in the past, the squirrels and I have a bit of an understanding.  I'm willing to tolerate their trespassing (I hurry them along by chasing after them) provided that they drop their half eaten peaches on my side of the fence (consider it a toll of sorts).  Later, after scrounging through the bushes in search of these peaches, I trade them for a cookie from Pa, Ma, or Sister.  Anyway, long story short, the squirrel paw traffic has increased, but the number of dropped peaches hasn't.

Interloper Number 2:

Henry, When He Was Small

About a week ago, I came to the realization that Henry, the stupid little bunny who usually lives in the yard next door (I bark at him daily), had decided to start nibbling the grass in my yard.  But regardless of how alarming and disturbing the concept of Henry suddenly taking up residence in my back yard is, it is nothing compared to one additional fact.  Henry is no longer a "stupid little bunny."  He is now a "stupid massively large bunny."  I kid you not, he is huge!  He's even starting to rival in size most of the small dogs I know.  Mercifully, as of right now, he's obviously still frightened of me (he still runs away when he sees me), but I fear that his brazen trespassing and obvious steroid use (how else can one account for his sudden and massive increase in size) could signify that the tables might change if something isn't done soon to rectify the situation.

Interloper Number 3:
Last weekend, Pa went into the garage to retrieve his car washing bucket and was surprised to find that a baby lizard had taken up residence in the bottom of the bright orange bin.  He was shocked because he had no idea how the lizard got into the bucket.  I was shocked because of how far onto my property the lizard had managed to travel despite the hours I've put into chasing his like away.

Interloper Number 4:  
And finally, last week, I received a final blow to my pride.  I discovered that there was a raccoon living in my backyard tree.  I was flabbergasted.  How could a raccoon (or heaven forbid, a family of raccoons) take up residence in my tree?  Now, I've never actually seen the raccoon; I've only smelled him.  Even so, when I get a whiff of him, I don't hesitate to put my front paws up on the tree as high as I can reach and bark hysterically into the darkness.  In fact, the very first night I smelled him, I started barking so ferociously up the tree that the neighbors in back came out to see what was going on.  Pa tried for a good long time to convince me to come in (as did Sister), but I wouldn't have it.  I was too intent on barking at that raccoon.  Eventually, Sister got my leash and Pa walked me back inside the house, but I didn't forget.  Every night since, when I've gone out for my last business trip, I've made a mad dash for that tree (unless Pa thinks ahead and takes me out on my leash).

So there you have it, my great failure.  But I'm not admitting defeat.  Vigilance.  That's what's in order right now.  Vigilance and resourcefulness.  I'm hopeful that, with a combination of stepped up perimeter patrols and barking fits, I'll be able to shore up my borders within the next couple of days, push all the interlopers out, and regain my integrity as Head of Security.

Wish me luck!

Guest Blogger: Betsy Ross

Sister did a horrible thing to me yesterday.  She went to the doggy toy store (AKA the pet store) and did not buy me a brand new toy.  But wait, it gets worse!  While she was there, she bought the hamster, Betsy Ross, a toy!  Now don't get me wrong, I don't begrudge anyone a new toy, but why would Sister neglect to bring me home a new plush animal to gut or a loud obnoxious squeaker toy that drowns out the television when she was already at the store buying the hamster a mini hamster ball?  It's just not right.

Anyway, Betsy Ross really seemed to like her hamster ball.  In fact, she enjoyed it so much that she a) didn't seem to notice me barking hysterically at her while she explored the "Land of No" for the first time and b) requested that she be given the opportunity to share her joy with all my loyal readers as a guest blogger.  Since I'm such a sharing dog, I said yes to her request.

So, without further ado...Betsy Ross!

A Hammy Takes On The World

Hello!  My name is Betsy Ross and I'm a dwarf hamster.  I'm a little over one year old.  My favorite hobbies are eating food, begging for food, stockpiling food, and doing nose dives off the top of my water bottle.  I've had one successful (although brief) escape attempt, but I love my little house.  I especially love the penthouse suite on the top of my cage and the loop-de-loop tubing on the ground level.  My cage also has a little shelf.  I like jumping off of it.  That's also where I do my best begging for food.  Mom and Grams say I beg worse than Rigby.  They always give me treats like peanuts, sunflower seeds, and dried apples.  When I was a little baby hammy, I used to do loop-de-loops on my wheel.  My record was five loops before being thrown across the cage.  That was a lot of fun.  Sometimes I still do loop-de-loops on my wheel (when I'm not running on the outside of it).  I also like shredding tissues.  I'm so ferocious when I'm shredding tissues that Mom says I have anger issues and Grams cringes in fear.

Yesterday Mom bought me a little plastic ball.  I climbed in it as soon as she put it in my cage.  Then she closed the lid and put me on the floor.  I started running.  It was a lot of fun.  I bumped into a lot of things, but soon I got the hang of it.  After a couple of minutes I was steering like a pro.  I explored the entire room.  I rolled under the table.  I rolled into the piano.  I rolled into and out of corners.  I also bumped into Mom a few times.  Each time I did she picked me up and said nice things to me.  She said I was a good and smart hammy.  Mom is very smart for noticing.

Rigby barked at me while I was exploring.  He wanted to play.  But he's really big and I'm really small.  Mom built a barricade by the door to keep me safe.  Sometimes I bumped into the barricade.

Here's a video of me my exploring after Rigby went outside.

Mom thought I'd be tired after exploring.  She was wrong.  I was up all night.  I ate food, I stockpiled food, and I did nose dives off the top of my water bottle.  I did not beg for food because Mom was sleeping.  I had fun.

Summer Vacation 2015

Me on Vacation

A few weeks ago, I spent fourteen days on the North Fork of Long Island vacationing with my family.  During the course of those two weeks, I came to realize that I absolutely love being a dog of leisure.  Don't get me wrong, I love my house, my pillow, and the fact that I have an opportunity each week to bark at the guy who comes around with that noisy shopping cart collecting bottles from the recycling bin, but there are some definite highlights to life out east including central air conditioning inside and a warm sunny deck outside.  But my days out east weren't just about alternating between snoozing in the warm sun and cool air conditioning.  No, they included exciting, tasty, and sometimes unsettling events.

But before I wow you with my vacation highlights, allow me to take a moment to compliment whoever in my family came up with the traveling arrangements for this trip.  You see, Pa and I traveled in one car while Ma, Sister, and the hamster Betsy Ross drove out in a second.  What's so special about taking two cars?  I get the backseat all to myself!  You see, when Sister and I travel in the back seat together, I spend an uncomfortable hour and a half fighting for my fair share of the seat and listening to Sister drone on and on about how she doesn't have enough room or I'm drooling on her.  Also, I spend the entire time fidgeting--I stand up, I sit down, I lie down, I repeat.  But when Sister takes her own car, I get to stretch out across the entire length of the backseat.  And because I have the entire back seat to myself, I remain in the down position for the entire duration of the trip.  Sure, I love the girl, but traveling without her is so much more pleasant than traveling with her.

That said, here are some highlights from my two week summer vacation:

Visiting Greenport:  

Whenever someone suggests taking a drive out to Greenport, I can't help but get excited.  Why?  Because Greenport is such a dog friendly town!  Whenever I go there, I see dozens of dogs strolling around with their owners and nearly every store keeps a bowl of fresh water on its doorstep.

This year, Pa and I decided to hang out at Mitchell Park while Ma and Sister went shopping.  First, we strolled up and down the marina, but after a little while, Pa suggested that we go find a nice shady spot to sit in because it was really kind of getting warm.  But there was a problem with this plan; there aren't many shady spots in that particular park.  After much searching, I finally located a tree and, after dragging Pa to it, I threw myself down onto the cool grass.  Now, if I hadn't been so preoccupied by the blessed relief of shade (I was the one wearing the fur coat after all!), I would have noticed that there was no bench for Pa to sit on.  Always the trouper, Pa sacrificed one for the team and stood in place while I lounged in the grass.

While Pa and I hung out under the shady tree waiting for Ma and Sister, I was visited by a number of little dogs and some overly friendly children.  The children kind of reminded me of my bff Mecki (really hyper and super bouncy).  Working off that concept, I concluded that since Mecki is fond of the hair gel drool treatment I give him each time we meet, then the children would equally enjoy it.  Yep, you guessed it!  I made sure to thoroughly wipe my drooly chin over each and every child.  You should have seen their faces!

Meeting a New Friend

Being so far from home, we generally don't get many surprise visitors out east.  In fact, with the exception of the occasional gardener, air conditioner repairman, or deliveryman, most visitors arrive in the same car as I do and are therefore not really a surprise visitor.  That changed on the second Thursday of vacation.

My family returned home from Riverhead to find their friend Den circling the block looking for the house.  Now, I've never met Den and no one informed me that he was coming, so when I scurried out of the house to greet my family with my Mr. Bill toy clenched in my mouth, I was, let's just say, taken by surprise.  I started barking furiously at Den (with Mr. Bill still in my mouth) while cautiously approaching him.  At first, every time he reached down to pet me I backed away, but eventually I warmed up to him and by the time he was eating the soft pretzel and beer my family offered him, we were best buds.

Baiting the Dogs Next Door

As my loyal readers know, I don't get along particularly well with the dogs next door.  Sure, I used to get along with the dog my family and I affectionately called "Sausage Dog," but his owner was only renting and he left a few months ago.  Now I'm left with the two dogs who bark menacingly at me every time they see me.

Anyway, overall I'm a good boy and don't stoop to their level by barking back at them (I save my barking for important causes such as car doors being slammed in the distance and pedestrians walking by my house).  However, I must admit that I don't deserve a halo and angel wings in this situation either.  You see, whenever the neighbor dogs charge the fence and start barking, I strike one of my signature poses and stand perfectly still in the middle of the yard.  This annoys the dogs to no end and they start barking even more.  Eventually, the neighbors bring their dogs back inside.

My work here is done.

A New Treat
 
One evening after dinner, my entire family and I went outside into the backyard and set up in a circle around the fire pit.  Once the fire was good and strong (Pa was in charge of making sure that I didn't set my tail on fire), Sister went inside and got a bag of white fluffy things (they called them marshmallows) and three incredibly long sticks.  The sticks caught my eye first since one of my favorite hobbies is making large sticks into smaller sticks and I couldn't help but wonder how it was that these three sticks had escaped my detection inside the house.  After a couple of minutes, however, I came to realize that the sticks were not the highlight of the event--the marshmallows were.  Realizing that I had never had one before, Sister suggested that I be given my very own toasted marshmallow, but the idea was scrapped because apparently soft sticky marshmallows and a handsome furry face is not a great combination.  Instead, I was given a raw marshmallow.  It was delicious!

A Dental Extraction

My loyal readers will recall the time I accidentally bit Pa while he attempted to retrieve a chewy-bone from the back of my mouth (for those who don't remember, the post is here).  Since then, my family has been, understandably, a bit hesitant about going in after something I'm chomping on (and that's fine by me...I'm personally still traumatized by the events of that day).  At one point during this vacation, however, Sister had to risk her fingers when I got a piece of blue chewy bone lodged between my bottom front teeth.

At first, Sister went for a frontal attack:  She walked right up to me, grabbed hold of my head, pried up my lip, and tried to grab the offending piece of blue plastic with her fingers.  I'm proud to say I fought her the entire time--shaking my head and eventually walking away.  Undeterred, Sister tried a different (and very sneaky) approach:  She waited until I was fast asleep, grabbed and pried back my lip, and, while I was still groggy and just waking up, managed to pinch and pry the blue plastic out from between my teeth.  Ultimately, it was a win-win situation for Sister and me.  I received a cookie for my troubles and Sister managed to walk away with all her fingers.

When Bugs Attack

For whatever reason, the bugs were particularly active during the two weeks I was out east.  The result was not one but two bug attacks! 

Attack Bee!

• Attack Number 1:  There I was lounging on the deck, minding my own business, when all of a sudden a giant bumble bee made a, pardon the pun, bee line from the hydrangea bushes framing the deck to the back of my head.  Now, I know it might sound odd, but I could actually feel when that bee landed on me and I immediately started straining my neck, trying to reach and, ultimately eat, the unwanted passenger.  Ma and Pa also saw the bee land on me and they quickly jumped up from their seats and shooed it away before I could extract it myself.  Of course, one might question why a bee would mistake me for a flower.  Not me.  I know exactly why.  It's because of the stinky flowery shampoo Ma insists on washing me with.

• Attack Number 2:  Later in the week, Ma, Sister, and I were lounging in the backyard.  All of a sudden, a bird came shooting out of the sky and a loud squawking sound echoed from underneath Ma's seat.  Ma, concerned that a baby bird had just fallen out of the tree, jumped up and grabbed hold of my collar.  Sister, hearing the squawking, struggled to get out of her folding chair (the built in canopy folded down in front of her face when she raised the chair from its reclining position).  And me?  Well, I jumped up and, immediately realizing where the sound was coming from, struggled against Ma's grip and inched my way toward her chair.  Sister, finally beating her chair into submission, managed to make her way to Ma's chair and discovered that the squawking creature was not a baby bird but a katydid.  After much screaming, pleading, and promises of cookies, Ma and Sister wrestled me into the house and sent Pa outside to deal with the bug (which he tossed over the neighbor's fence).

Water Water Everywhere:

When I'm lounging on my deck in the morning, I like to have a nice bowl of water nearby.  Of course, the top two reasons why I like a bowl of water nearby are for when I'm thirsty and when I need a quick slobbery chin to drag across someone's pant leg.  A third reason is that I like to dunk my paws in the water from time to time to cool off.  This poses a problem, however.  After a couple of stokes of my paw, my bowl is usually completely empty and I'm suddenly dependent upon whoever is outside with me to notice that my bowl is void of water and refill it for me.

Ma, however, came up with a great solution.  While in Greenport, she bought me a 5.5 quart water bowl.  Now I can dig in my bowl and blow proper bubbles when I submerge my snout under the water line.

Thanks Ma! 

Kindling:

On the deck, my family keeps a pile of split logs for fires in the fireplace.  Because we're only out there part of the week, the number of fires we light are rather limited.  As a result, the wood sits there on the deck day in and day out and the only changes that occur to the collection is when a dried out tree branch falls in the backyard and someone adds it to the pile as kindling.  Well, on this vacation, I decided to claim the wood pile for my own.

You see, normally, I have to search out my own sticks to gnaw on.  In a big backyard like the one out east, this can be a daunting task.  But with a pile of sticks just sitting there on the deck, how can I possibly pass up the opportunity to help myself whenever I pass by?  I mean, it's like a kindling buffet!  Eventually, everyone caught on to my plan and started warning me to leave the pile alone every time I sauntered over to it, but I did manage to grab a couple of sticks and scurry off into the backyard with them (where I turned them into smaller kindling).

Kayaking:

Ma and Pa Kayaking

Throughout the vacation, my family spoke repeatedly of renting a kayak and each time they did, I nearly broke out in a cold sweat.  Why?  Think about it.  In every television show that features videos of amazing dogs doing amazing things, there is always at least one video of a dog standing calmly at the helm of a canoe or surf board while his owner sits or stand behind him.  Did my family expect me to do the same thing?  Don't they realize I dislike becoming buoyant in water?

Luckily, I was not invited on this excursion.  All I can say is, better them than me!