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.