Spring Dog Days 2015

Before I begin to wow my loyal readers with my tales of last weekend's Dog Days at Old Westbury Gardens, I'd like to explain my week long absence.  It was Sister's fault.  You see, she started coming down with a cold last Sunday and "didn't feel like" writing for me (sadly, I'm still dependent upon Sister for typing out my dictations due to my severe lack of thumbs and dew claws).  Anyway, I did my best to try to persuade her otherwise.  I even went so far as to give her an occasional jab to the gut while she lay in bed coughing in an attempt to take over the bed...I mean....get her to start typing.  Sadly, up until today, it was a waste of time (and I never did get the bed to myself). 

So anyway...Old Westbury Gardens.

Snout to Snout

Bastille in a Calm Moment

The big moment from the weekend had to be my official introduction to Mecki's little brother Bastille and, despite my reservations, it went okay.  Sure, Bastille's a bit on the loud side (very loud), and yeah, he has freakishly strong upper and lower body strength (I've never seen a dog jump so high or do pull ups against a stone wall), and there was that problem of him always lunging forward with his mouth fully open, but once he calmed down a bit we actually got to a point where we could stand within a foot of each other.  I’m sure that after a few more meetings we’ll be best of friends (or I’ll be deaf from his shrieking).

Other highlights from the weekend include:

Bastille In A Tree

• Mecki and I arguing over who was going to lead our pack during our walk.
• Play boxing with a cousin (AKA a fellow Golden Retriever) named Riley in the parking lot.
• Mecki and I bonding over the fact that Bastille was placed in a tree for a picture.
• Mooching baby carrots off of Mecki and Bastille's mom (then chewing them, spitting them out, and mooching some more).
• Saying hello to cousin and yearly Dog Days participant Emma Rose and her family.
• Keeping a close eye on Mecki and Bastille's mom because she threatened to pick me up and put me in the tree (I've never fully trusted her after she hoisted me up and into Sister’s car after a BBQ at her house two years ago). 

Needless to say, I was totally and completely spent after all this fun.  On Sunday morning, after only one trip to Old Westbury, I refused to get up until well after 8am despite the fact that I had yet to go out or eat my breakfast (when Ma checked on me prior to 8am, all I could do was give a few thumps of my tail).  I spent most of Monday, after two days of wandering the estate, moving from one soft cool spot on the bed to another.

But, aside from exhaustion, there was one particular low associated with this year's Dog Days weekend.  Pa and Sister each had to pull a tick off of me.  The first one was on my leg and was really hard to get out, but I was really brave and cooperative and earned a whole piece of cheese for my troubles (of course, I really wasn't fond of Pa's idea of marking the spot with a Sharpie marker for easy medicine application--sorry Pa, no matter how hard you try to sell it, that black spot on my fur does not qualify as a tattoo and certainly does not give me "street cred").  The second tick was found on my cheek and as much as I was happy that Sister finally tweezer-ed it away (it was only nestled in my fur--Sister said it couldn't penetrate through the drool), I really didn't appreciate her removal technique of grabbing hold of my snout. 

But back to more pleasant things.  Check out some more pictures taken at this year's Dog Days weekend.

 

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Preparing for Tomorrow

It's that time of year again!  This weekend is Dog Days at Old Westbury Gardens!

But as much as I love Dog Days Weekend and look forward to it twice a year, I have to admit that I do have some reservations about this upcoming one.  You see, I usually spend at least one day of the weekend walking around the estate with my bff Mecki.  This has always worked out well in the past:  we run around (or at least as far as our leashes allow), his Mom takes pictures of him sitting in a tree (I laugh), we mooch food off the humans (Mecki's Mom always has treats in her pockets), we argue over who is going to lead the pack while we walk, and I give him an occasional paw to the head (which doesn't seem to faze him at all).  This year, however, is going to be different.  This year Mecki's little brother Bastille will be joining us for his very first Dog Days and, truth be told, I'm a little bit concerned about meeting him for the very first time.

Now, my loyal readers (who know me as the adventurous, overly friendly, handsome, and intelligent pup that I am) might question why I'm so perturbed about meeting Bastille.  After all, I've met tons of dogs in my lifetime and, with the exception of that Hell Hound I met a couple of years ago at Belmont Lake State Park, I've gotten along splendidly with each and every one.  So why am I concerned about Bastille?

Is it Bastille or a Piranha?

Have you read Mecki's blog lately?!

How would you feel if you were told that you'd be meeting a pup who's referred to as a "vampire piranha" and whose own Mom graffiti-ed a picture of a piranha to resemble him?

Yeah, that's what I thought.

The Day I Bit Pa

It's very hard for me to relate this story to my readers.  It's about an event that happened well over a year ago that I found completely and utterly horrifying.  It was so horrifying, in fact, that even now I'm not entirely sure I'm over it.  This is the story of the day I bit Pa.

It was a warm spring day and Ma, Pa, and I were spending the weekend out east (Sister stayed home because she had to work).  Ma and Pa were reading a newspaper and I was lying on the warm wooden planks of the deck (a favorite past time of mine--I love basking in the sun) gnawing on a rawhide bone that Pa had given me.  All was right with the world.

After an hour of gnawing and reading, Ma looked over at me and noticed that the bone I was chewing was getting kind of small; small enough to become a choking hazard.  Pa volunteered to take it from me and came over to retrieve the slobbery remains.

Now, I have no problem with Pa, or anyone for that matter, taking a bone away from me.  Truth be told, I'm usually quite grateful.  You see, I love to chew things so much that, although my jaw might be tired, I just can't bring myself to walk away from whatever I'm gnawing.  I need someone to physically step in and take it from me.  But while I have no problem with someone taking a bone away from me, I won't make it easy for that person.  Nope, that just wouldn't be my style.

So anyway, Pa came over, patted my head, and told me to "give" at which point I flopped down on my side and worked the slobbery remains back further into my mouth to take advantage of the grinding power of my molars.  "Come on Squirt," Pa said ("Squirt" being one of the numerous nicknames Pa uses for me) as he knelt down next to me, "that's enough."  With the slimy white bone just visible past my jowls, Pa stuck his hand into my mouth and reached for the mass.

What happened next occurred in a heartbeat.  A combination of Pa reaching for the bone, me trying not to give it up, and the fact that I was now playfully laying belly up to the sky, caused the bone to slip further back into my mouth.  This movement caused a gag reflex in me and, well, the gag reflex caused my mouth to snap shut.

I'm told that Pa "screamed like a girl" when my teeth clenched down on his finger.  Frankly, I didn't notice.  All I knew was that my mouth slammed shut, I crunched into something soft, and that I could taste blood.  It was only when Pa removed his hand from my mouth that I suddenly became aware of the enormity of the situation.

I had bitten Pa!

I immediately went into panic mode.  I had chomped on the boss' finger--the head honcho, the top dog, the man who buys me rawhide bones!  I'm dead! I thought.

By this time Pa was wandering around the house with his bloody hand held upward looking for bandages (we had none--he would eventually drive over to the supermarket, his hand wrapped in paper towel, to buy some).  I followed close behind him, my ears low and my tail down, groveling.  Pa told me everything was okay, that it was an accident, and gave me a pat with his other hand, but, frankly, it didn't make the situation any less traumatic for me.

It took me days before I could actually look Pa in the eye again--not because he was angry at me, but because I just couldn't get past the horror.  I did, however, stay extra close to him in the weeks that followed (i.e. met him at the door when he came home from work and sat next to him in the evening).  In short, I was the epitome of "Man's Best Friend."

The Puppy Files: Punishment Walks

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 I've said before, I was a horrid little puppy growing up.  Ninety percent of any given day was spent inflicting pain (i.e. chewing on people) and causing trouble (i.e. pulling up hostas in the backyard).  And that last ten percent?  Dreaming about inflicting pain and causing trouble of course!  Anyway, because of the extent of my troublesome and rambunctious nature, my family would actively seek out ways in which to drain me of energy and, perhaps, exorcise a few demons in the process.  Their number one technique?  The punishment walk.

Punishment walks weren't like normal walks.  Normal walks consisted of a quick run to the local park and straight home.  Punishment walks consisted of a trip to the park followed by millions and millions of extra blocks which had us zigzagging through towns far and wide (my family would argue that these detours only took us a couple extra blocks out of our way).  Normal walks occurred daily in the morning with Pa.  Punishment walks took place any time of day (and sometimes multiple times a day).

No one in my family was exempt from taking me on a punishment walk, but Ma was always the person you had to watch out for.  You see, regardless of whether it was freezing cold, boiling hot, or raining outside, when Ma initiated a punishment walk, you knew that she wasn't going to lose interest in it before it actually occurred.  Pa and Sister, on the other paw, were more easily deterred by the weather; I had to be really annoying to push them out into a weather pattern they found less than ideal.

Avoiding the Gentle Leader

But, surprisingly, the seemingly endless hikes through the wind, rain, and heat weren't the worst part of my punishment walks.  No, the worst part was the use of a training device known as a Gentle Leader which fit over my snout and was designed to teach me how to walk nice on a leash (apparently, my family was not particularly keen on the idea of me pulling them down the street and jumping on their backs during walks...I can't image why).

I hated that Gentle Leader.  I hated everything about it from the indent it left in the fur of my snout to the fact that I pretty much had no choice but to walk nice when it was on me.  And did I ever protest its use!  Whenever someone put it on me I would throw myself down on the ground and refuse to get up.  Early on, when I was tiny, my family would just pick me up, get me back on all fours, and start walking at which point I had no choice but to follow, but as I got bigger, lifting me up became less and less of a viable fix.  It was at that point that my family resorted to bribery; they took advantage of the fact that I would do pretty much anything for a treat.  Unable to say no to my stomach, a cookie waved just out of reach would usually get me up and moving.  Curse my love of all things edible!

Over the years, the number of punishment walks I've been escorted on have lessened (note that I said lessened, I still occasionally have relapses in which my rambunctiousness tries my family's patience).  Lucky for me, though, the Gentle Leader is no longer used (and no, I didn't bury it in the backyard--though it did cross my mind).

A Fair Trade

The Two Rs:  Ralphie and Rigby

Before I begin, I'd like to take a moment to give a shout out to my pal Ralphie.  Ralphie had major surgery last week and is now at home recovering.  I hope you're feeling better Ralphie, and when you're up to it, tell your mom that you want to watch that video of me carrying on after one of my baths...I know how much you enjoy it!

And now, on to my post.

Some very wise man named Phil Pastoret once said:  "If you think dogs can’t count, try putting three dog biscuits in your pocket and then giving Fido only two of them."  Now, while I don't advocate subjecting your pooch to this experiment (under no circumstances should any dog be denied a cookie that is rightfully his...even if it is for science), I can vouch for the fact that it is one hundred percent true.  Dogs really can count!

Take me for instance.  I know that:

• people have two feet and each requires its own sock and shoe.  Therefore, when someone takes the sock/shoe that I just stole away from me, I know that there will be another one just like it back where I found the original.
• people have two hands and each requires its own glove.  Therefore, when someone takes the glove that I just stole away from me, I know that there will be another one just like it back where I found the original.

But my knowledge doesn't end there.  I also understand the importance of a fair trade or an even exchange.  You see, every time I happen upon something that I'd like to claim as my own (even though I know it isn't for me), I pick it up and leave one of my toys in its place.  Why do I do this?  Because it's the polite thing to do of course!

After years of trial and error, I've discovered that a tennis ball left on the bed (in addition to the muddy footprints I left behind when I jumped up on said bed) is fair trade for a mouthful of clean socks fresh from the dryer (dirty socks are better, but they are generally harder to come by as they live in a sealed hamper until they are brought down the basement to the washing machine) and Baby (my plush toy) is good for at least one of Sister's shoes (aside from ripping out the insoles, I really enjoy gnawing on the heels).  I've left my squeaky bone (one of my all time favorite toys) behind for one of Pa's snow boots (a high ticket item) and Nuclear Bunny, I've determined, is a perfect trade for an eye glass case pick-pocketed from Ma's pocketbook.

And it's not just me making trades; I've also trained my family to trade as well.  Once someone wrestles the pilfered item from my mouth (I'm not going to say that I'm ever happy about giving up my stolen merchandise), I'll happily take back whatever I left behind if it's offered to me.  Sister has even taken to trading me a cookie for my squeaker toy when I start plucking at its soft plastic at lunch time.

It just goes to show that humans can be taught too.