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.