I've Got Mail!

It's obvious that I'm quite advanced when it comes to electronic devices.  After all, I maintain this blog (without any thumbs and missing one dew claw), I fully understand the importance of air conditioning (air conditioning makes wearing a fur coat during the summer slightly more comfortable), and I look up with concern every time Pa's cell phone buzzes (it annoys me because it usually wakes me up from a dead sleep).  But did you know that I can also order things online?  You see, early on I learned that those little plastic rectangles people carry around with them in their wallets aren't just chew toys.  They buy chew toys!

So my latest package arrived a couple of days ago and as soon as Ma carried it into the house, I recognized it as my own.  There was just one problem:  I had no way of getting into the box and my family was too preoccupied making their own dinners to lend me a thumb (truth be told, I could easily have ripped my way into the box, but for some reason my family frowns on this behavior).  So what did I do?  Plan B.  I made a nuisance of myself; I spent all of dinner barking at the box.

Finally, after somehow managing to endure an entire meal of me barking, Pa got up and brought my box into the dining room and started opening it.  Overcome with excitement, I reared up on my hind legs, rested my front paws on the table (a definite no-no), and attempted to jam my snout under the loosening flaps.  Once I determined that my "assistance" was proving less than helpful (a phenomenon that occurs very rarely), I dropped back down to the floor and patiently waited for Pa to finish opening the box. I knew based on Pa's reaction to the contents that I had chosen wisely.

The box was packed full of squeaky tennis balls and chewy Nylabones!

Me and My Squeaky Toy

With the box now open, I once again reared up on my hind legs and put my front paws on the table.  And do you know what Pa did?  He laughed and gave me one of the squeaky tennis balls!  With the tennis ball clenched firmly in my mouth, I scurried into the living room and plopped down on my pillow for an evening of noise-making.  And oh boy was there noise!  There was loud squeaking coming from the tennis ball.  There was loud howling coming from me each time the ball rolled out of reach.  And there were loud and exasperated comments coming from my family as they repeatedly informed me that the ball was literally inches away from my mouth and that if I just got up and got it I wouldn't have to lie on my side howling piteously (I love my family, but sometimes they just don't understand me).

I will admit that a couple of times during the evening I left my squeaky ball behind (usually with a large concave dent in the side of it) to check to see if someone had happened to put my box full of toys on the floor so that I could help myself to a few more items, but alas, the box remained out of reach on the kitchen table.  But did I become depressed?  No.  I simply scooted back into the living room and returned to my dented (but still squeaky) tennis ball.