A Christmas Tune

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

Have a howlin' barkin' Christmas
And in case you wonder why
There'll be guests and Santa Claus
Caroler's passing by.

Have a howlin' barkin' Christmas
Lots of people I can greet
Holding bags and lots of gifts
I'm hoping for a treat.

Oh, ho, plush squeaker toys!
Meant to last the year
But when they meet my teeth
They don't last I fear.

Have a howlin' barkin' Christmas
And to all my friends I say:
"Oh by golly have a howlin' barkin' Christmas
Today!"

Abandon Ship

I am a coiled spring. I spring to life from a dead sleep in order to alert the neighborhood of a slamming car door two blocks away, I can hear (and respond to) a peanut butter jar opening despite being outside and otherwise preoccupied chasing a squirrel, and seconds after the cheese drawer opens in the kitchen I can be found right by the snacker's side.

But perhaps even more impressive than my ability to quickly respond to a situation involving an intruder or food is my ability to spring into action when my own self-preservation is on the line.  Allow me to explain with two specific examples:

The Fire Alarm:

I'm not insinuating that their cooking is bad (actually, it is usually very good), but my family has a habit of accidentally setting off the fire alarm when roasting a large piece of meat or a particularly fatty bird.  Now, the logical response to the smoke detector's sudden sirens and mechanical female voice shouting "fire, fire, fire" would be to gather one's belongings and quickly vacate the premises.  Well, my family doesn't do that.  Instead, they split up: one person opens the window in the kitchen, the second person grabs a dish towel and begins fanning the smoke away from the smoke detector, and the third person gets a step-stool and takes down the screeching, talking, flying saucer like device.

Now, I frequently worry that my family is not taking a potentially serious threat seriously when it comes to the smoke detector.  The smoke detector isn't like someone telling you to sit or stay or lie down or say "howdy."  You don't just smile at the smoke detector and pretend that you don't understand what it is saying.  No, you react.  Here's what I do:

As soon as the mechanical female voice issues her first warning of "fire," I jump up and head straight for my favorite toy which I pick up in my mouth.  With my toy now secured, I quickly make one attempt at herding my family toward the nearest exit.  As I am not a herding dog and herding my family is like herding a group of cats, I usually fail miserably at this endeavor.  Then it's on to Plan B; I head toward the door, toy in mouth, and anxiously wait for someone to come and open the door for me (yes, my escape is hindered by the lack of a thumb).  And what happens if no one opens the door for me?  I start pacing, hoping that someone will notice my concern and finally wake up to the potentially deadly situation that is ongoing.

Now that is the proper way of dealing with a fire alarm!

Attack from Above:

It was two o'clock in the morning and I was hours into a very pleasant dream in which I was chasing squirrels through a huge backyard while taking periodic breaks to eat Milkbone flavored ice cream.  Suddenly, there was a fluttering sound and something landed right next to where I was standing.

"The sky is falling!" I thought.

I was at the zenith of jumping ten feet straight up in the air from my initial prone sleeping position when I fully woke up.  And when I landed back on my pillow, out of breath and completely on edge, I immediately went into emergency evacuation mode.  I quickly scanned the room.  Both Ma and Pa were awake--the combination of the fluttering sound and my crash landing woke them--so I figured that they were smart enough to get themselves out of the building on their own.  I only had to focus on getting myself out of the house.

My Light-Up Squeaky Ball

Next to me lay my new favorite squeaky ball (it used to light up and squeak, but now it only hisses when I chomp down on it but it is still good).  I scooped it up and made a beeline to the side door.

Within seconds of reaching the door, Ma came up behind me.  She told me that everything was okay and that I should go back into the bedroom and "check out" what scared me (I later found out that what had fallen was the dust jacket to Pa's book--a breeze caused by Pa shifting his blankets must have dislodged it from its spot on the night table and sent it hurtling to the ground).  I wasn't falling for it, though.  There was a threat and I was determined to abandon ship while I still had the chance.

Eventually, Ma made a deal with me.  She agreed to take me outside to do business if I agreed to come back in afterward.  I wasn't happy about it, but nature won out and I was committed at that point.  Once I was done, I cautiously returned to the bedroom and lay down on the far side of the room; far away from my pillow and the scene of the crime.

New Shoes

Those who know me know that I have a thing for human footwear.  I take great joy in stealing sneakers and work boots from the basement stairs and flinging them about the living room.  I love rooting through Ma's closet and liberating her slippers.  And one mustn't forget all those insoles I ripped out of Sister's shoes.  Over the years, I've gnawed on flip flops, sneakers, snow boots, pumps, slippers, flats, booties, and water shoes and if you had asked me, I would have said that I've tasted/destroyed every type of shoe imaginable--every size, color, and texture.

Turns out, however, I was wrong.

It happened last week.  There I was, minding my own business, gnawing on my squeaky ball while lounging on the couch when all of a sudden Sister jumped up from her chair, declared that she was cold, and quickly ran upstairs to her room.  I must admit that, while startled, I really wasn't terribly interested in what Sister was doing.  After all, like I said, I was preoccupied with chewing on my squeaky ball and I knew for a fact that Sister didn't keep any food in her room (I've checked). 

A few seconds after scurrying upstairs, Sister made her way back down the stairs.  Calmly, she walked into the living room and stood behind her chair which, I admit, was odd, but certainly not odd enough to distract me from my toy.  When she got no rise from me, Sister called my name and, when I looked up at her, she leaped into the middle of the room.  Immediately, I gave her my best perplexed "what is wrong with you?" look.  Nothing (aside from Sister's behavior) was weird; her hair was the same, she wasn't wearing a hat, and her clothing consisted of her usual ensemble of jeans and a shirt (they weren't even new, I could see the slug trail of drool I deposited on her knee earlier in the day).  Then I saw them:

They're slippers!  They're plush toys!  And after I pounced on them from atop my spot on the couch, I discovered that they squeaked too (okay, that might have been Sister screaming in alarm as I dove for her feet, but a squeak is a squeak, right?).

Over and over again I pounced at Sister's feet, each time grabbing hold of a snout or an ear and tugging.  Sister, meanwhile, was laughing hysterically (as was Pa).  Every once in a while, Sister attempted to wrench the slippers (and her feet) away from my gnashing teeth, but it became quickly evident that her heart really wasn't in it.  After all, if she was really so concerned with getting those slippers away from me, why did she keep wiggling the piggy snouts at me by wiggling her toes?

After lots of laughs and numerous of rounds of tug of war, Sister eventually called the game off and put away her slippers.  If I wasn't so exhausted from all the fun I would have been disappointed to see the game come to an end. 

Of course, now that I know about Sister's pink piggy slippers, I am going to have to make it my life's mission to find and shred them.  Wish me luck!

A Thanksgiving Wish and Goal

Wishing all my two- and four-legged friends a very happy Thanksgiving filled with good company and tasty treats.  And remember, you haven't eaten nearly enough tasty treats if you don't look like this when you're through:

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Puppy Files: An Honest Mistake

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.

Street fairs are a big thing in my neck of the woods.  At least three times a year, a major street in my neighborhood is shut down and all the local vendors, store owners, and (my favorite) eateries spill out into the middle of the street and the whole town shows up.

For the first fifteen months of my life, I only heard about these shindigs and while they sounded fascinating (especially the food part), I was never especially interested in checking them out.  Why?  Well, it was twofold.  First, I was too busy biting and disobeying my humans to care about much else.  Second, walks back then involved the Gentle Leader (AKA snout guard) and, as my loyal readers know, I truly despised wearing that.

But then, one day in my sixteenth month (when my gentle Golden Retriever genes started kicking in and my behavior became almost tolerable to the general human population), Pa, Ma, and Sister suggested that I accompany them to one of these fairs.

Needless to say, I was really excited about this outing.  Little did I know that my excitement would multiply exponentially in mere minutes.

My first surprise?  I didn't have to wear the Gentle Leader. Granted, I did have to sit through the whole, "you're a big boy now and you're going to walk like a big boy, right?" speech, but I saw it as a small price to pay for my freedom.

With a bound and a leap I jumped into the car and off my family and I drove to the site of the fair.  After parking, receiving yet another "pep-talk" about being a good boy, and patiently waiting for the okay to jump out of the car, my family and I made our way toward the fair--me walking like a model doggy citizen.

The smell struck me immediately.  There was food everywhere:  sausages, zepoles, popcorn, cheese steaks, hamburgers, pickles, hot dogs, cotton candy, and ice cream!  I didn't know where to look first or, for that matter, where to pull first.  Yes, despite the multiple "big boy" speeches, I started pulling toward the food trucks pretty much immediately.  This resulted in a series of stern "no"s from Pa after which I resigned myself to walking like a good boy (while pledging to pounce on and swallow up anything even remotely edible that happened to cross directly in front of my path).

After a few short minutes, my family and I made it past the food carts and while you might think this would have been a bummer for me, you'd be wrong.  You see, there were dogs and people all over the place!  Immediately, I straightened up, shook once to fluff my fur, and proudly pranced down the street--wowing the crowds of people and dogs with my devilishly good looks.

I was so busy showing off that I almost missed it.  Almost.  A few feet away from me were two giant swan-like creatures.  "Wow!  I didn't know they made plush toys that large!" I thought.  "They're human size!"

Throwing dignity and obedience aside, I lunged at the closest five and a half foot tall swan catching Pa completely off guard and wrenching his shoulder.  I also, in the process, frightened the swan who unexpectedly sprung to life, screeched, and jumped backward away from me.  Almost immediately, Pa gained control of the situation, apologized to the giant swan (who took it fairly well despite the scare of a lifetime), and dragged me away all the while scolding me for having been a bad boy.

I found out later that that pair of plush swans were actually human members of an acrobatic team that was playing at a nearby venue.  For a brief moment, I contemplated asking Pa if we could buy tickets to the show (can you imagine...a stage full of giant plush swans?!) but I ultimately thought better of it.  I figured that Pa wouldn't appreciate my suggestion given the most recent development.

Needless to say, it was a long time before I was allowed to go to another street fair and when I was finally deemed "mature enough," the swans were nowhere to be seen.

Now, flash forward about seven years to a week ago last Monday--also known as Halloween.  There I was, minding my own business in the side yard (you know, eating grass, hunting lizards, and patrolling for squirrels), when what did I see literally crossing the road but a giant white chicken!  Now, I knew it wasn't a real chicken, but I'd be lying if I said that I didn't have an overwhelming desire to run up to it, grab it by the wing, and start plucking its feathers out.  As an alternative, I decided to bark hysterically at the giant chicken.

Alerted by my manly bark, Sister stuck her head out the door to see what was going on.  She was just about to call me a "Barky Boy" (a compliment in my eyes) and bribe me inside with a cookie, when she herself noticed the giant walking chicken. What could she do?  How could she tell me not to bark at a giant walking chicken?  With a shrug, Sister went back inside the house and left me to bark until the chicken strolled out of sight.

Happy Halloween!

Happy Halloween!

^^..^^

A Scary Story

Boo!

A Forward by the Author...

In hindsight, I should have figured it out long before I found it; long before I stared into its cold dead hollow eyes.  But I didn't.  I was too busy being my charming self to put all the pieces of the puzzle together until it was too late.  Here's my tale.

Monday: 

6:30AM:    The entire household is awake--even Sister who is definitely not a morning person.  Not only is everyone awake, but there is a certain feeling of urgency in the house.  Suddenly, Sister drags a suitcase down from her bedroom.  Pa grabs it and puts it in Ma's car along with a knapsack.  I get a hug and a kiss from Sister.  Pa rubs my head, calls me "Squirt," and tells me to be good.  Ma grabs her car keys and informs me that my breakfast will have to wait until she gets back.  Disappointed, I head back to bed as everyone else leaves the house.

7:30AM:  The side door opens and I am greeted by Ma and only Ma.  Pa and Sister are nowhere to be found.  I'm not overly concerned.  I'm often left home alone during the day when my family goes to work, and while I would have preferred to have my entire pack stay home with me, I'm glad that Ma appears to be keeping me company today.  Ma settles down with her coffee to watch TV and I join her on the couch.

12:00PM:  Lunch time!  This is the time of day that Sister usually comes home, eats her lunch, and then lets me out into the backyard to work on my holes.  But Sister never shows.  It's just me and Ma.  Ma makes herself some lunch.  It smells really good, but she doesn't offer me any despite my assurance that Sister always shares at least 3/4 of her sandwich with me (perhaps I was pushing it with 3/4...maybe I should have only said 1/3).

1:00PM:  Lunch is over and Ma takes me outside to sniff around in the yard.  Since it isn't nearly as large as the yard out east, I finish quickly.  Bored, I look for fun in my number one digging hole--the one underneath the forsythia bush.  Ma is distracted--she's talking with our neighbor--and doesn't notice me digging.  She also doesn't notice that I have found something in my hole besides the usual dirt, rocks, and tree roots.  I extract my find and carry it out into the middle of the yard to examine it.  I have two jaw bones, complete with teeth.  "That's odd," I think.  Suddenly, a hand emerges from above and snatches the jaw bones away from me.  Startled, I look up and discover Ma standing over me examining the bones.  "Where did you find these?" she asked with, I swear, a touch of annoyance in her voice.

5:00PM:  Work is out, yet Sister hasn't come home yet.  Ma makes me my dinner.  Why do I hesitate before eating?

10:00PM:  It is time for bed and yet Pa and Sister are still not home.  I curl up next to Ma on Pa's side of the bed.

Tuesday:

7:00AM:  Ma wakes me up by banging on my breakfast bowl.  I'm exhausted.  I didn't sleep well last night.  I kept thinking about those jaw bones and wondering where Pa and Sister were.  Neither are home.

10:00AM:  Ma is changing the sheets on the bed and washing some laundry.  I've seen her do this thousands of times, yet I find this activity oddly suspicious this morning.  Is she trying to hide something?  Still no sign of Pa or Sister.

The Skull and Jawbones

2:00PM:  I've decided to return to the scene of the crime; I need to search for answers.  Ma is once again distracted by the next door neighbor so I have the chance to continue my search.  I start to dig.  I jump back in horror.  I've uncovered a skull!  A bit queasy, I pick it up and carry it into the yard. The skin is gone--it is just bleached white bone.  I stare into the hollow eyes.  It stares back at me.  Do I recognize the face?  No, but that doesn't mean anything.  With dread, I realize that I must be staring at either Pa or Sister.

Something makes me look up and I'm startled to find Ma standing over me.  I grab the skull and she grabs me by my collar yelling to "drop it!"  I do as I'm told.  Ma picks up the skull and examines it.  She doesn't seem particularly troubled by the sight and merely stalks off angrily toward the garage.

My mind is racing a mile a minute.  What has Ma done?  Was that Pa or was that Sister?  Then a sickening thought pops into my head.  If Ma was driven to do in Pa and Sister, then what chance do I have to make it through this madness?  Sure, I'm better looking and much friendlier than Pa and Sister, but I'm not sure these attributes are enough to spare my life.  Let's be honest, I do have a bit of a barking, drooling, and shedding problem.  I am doomed.

2:05PM:  Ma emerges from the garage; the lopper in her hand.  She marches toward me.  My life flashes before my eyes:

I see myself as a cute little puppy, throwing up in the back seat of the car on the way home from where I was born.  I see myself gnawing on my family's hands, jumping out of a moving vehicle doing 30 mph, and threatening to drop Pa's sneaker on Mecki's head.  I see myself digging holes, picking up voles, and barking at horses.  It was short, but it was fun.

I'm done.  This is it.  It will be my skull that the police find in the hole under the forsythia.   I close my eyes as Ma gets closer.  I don't want to watch.  I don't want to watch!

But nothing happens.

Cautiously, I open my eyes.  Ma isn't there.  Suddenly I hear a loud "crunch."  I jump with fright.  I turn around and find Ma.  She is angrily hacking away at the forsythia bush.

3:00PM:  Ma puts down the lopper and stands back to inspect her work.  The forsythia lives, but all the hidden nooks and crannies that I used to hide behind are gone; Ma cut away all the low hanging branches.

Suddenly, Ma turns around and looks at me.  I try to be brave, but I can't help but cringe a little.  "You're filthy," she says, "you need a bath."

I'm led to the side of the house by my leash.  Ma pulls out the hose and picks up a bottle of what appears to be shampoo.  But is it?  Is the shampoo shampoo or is it bleach?  Is the hose there to wash away the mud or the inevitable blood?  Ma rolls up her sleeves and...

3:20PM:  It was worse than I expected:  I got a bath.

5:00PM:  Pa and Sister are still missing and all my holes have been filled in in the backyard.  I'm not sure when I'm going to be able to get back to them to investigate further; now that I'm clean, Ma won't let me out on my own.  Resigned to my current position, I eat my dinner.

11:30PM:  I sleep in Pa's spot again this evening.  Ma has a sneezing fit.  I jump each time she sneezes; they sound like gunshot.

Wednesday:

8:00AM:  I'm still missing Pa and Sister.  I eat my breakfast then go back to bed.

1:30PM:  "I'll be right back," Ma tells me as she gives me a cookie and walks out the door.

1:50PM: I wake up to the sound of the side gate clicking open then shut.  I hear the key in the door and the door squeaking open.  This is it.  I know it.  I feel it in my core.  It is my turn to join Pa and Sister under the forsythia.  Despondently, I get up.  I might as well face my fate head on and not slip into oblivion while sleeping.  I drag myself out of the bedroom, into the hallway, through the kitchen, and out the side door which Ma is holding open for me. The bright light of the sun blinds me at first, but then my eyes adjust and I see...

Pa and Sister!

I'm so excited!  I run to Pa.  He scratches my ear.  I run to Sister who kisses my snout.  I return to Pa for another scratch and then run back to Sister.  I do this two more times before I suddenly remember...the skull!  I hot foot it into the backyard.

While I sniff around under the forsythia, I hear Ma tell Pa and Sister (both had been sightseeing in Philadelphia) about my discoveries.  She leads them to the garage (I wander after them).  She shows them the bones which she's kept hidden since I found them.  Everyone is shocked by my find, but after careful consideration, they come up with a "logical" explanation.

The skull belonged to a long deceased opossum.  You see, over the last few weeks, a raccoon's nest has been falling piece by piece from the tree overhead.  The skull in question must have fallen from that nest (the remains of a meal long ago eaten or perhaps a tacky wall decoration) and embedded itself in the overgrown forsythia which was then deposited into my ever growing hole as I brushed past the low hanging bushes.

Do I believe this story?  I don't know.  All I know is that everyone in my family is safe and the only victim (well, aside from the owner of the skull) is me.  I'm the one, after all, who got a bath!

An Exciting Weekend

Last weekend was a particularly exciting weekend for me--one filled with a grand adventure and a strange sight.

My family was going to the beach, but I wasn't invited.  You see, I'm almost never invited on these excursions, but, honestly, that's okay with me.  Why?  Because it is really hard work keeping track of three people (you never know when someone is going to try to eat a piece of cheese without my supervision) and sometimes even a world renowned "Head of Security" needs a break.  I consider it my own private vacation.

So anyway, after I collected my bribery cookie (payment for not trying to race people out the door when they leave--yes, I have my humans very well trained) and watched my family pull out of the driveway, I scurried into the back room, jumped up on the bed, and hunkered down for a nice peaceful nap.

Ten minutes later, and before I could chase my first dream squirrel, I was awoken by the sound of the side door opening and footsteps scurrying through the kitchen.  Groggily, I opened my eyes, jumped off the bed, and wandered (cautiously) into the living room to check on the commotion.  And what did I find?  I found Sister, standing in the middle of the kitchen, with my leash and collar in hand.  "Want to go to the beach?" she asked.

Did I?  Of course I did!

Sister loaded me into the car (yay!  I didn't have to walk there) and we started down the street.  I was super excited; I paced back and forth in the backseat (because it was such a short trip, Sister didn't bother to strap me into my driving harness), I stared out the window, and I drooled excessively.  I even took some time to breathe down Sister's neck in an attempt to get her to drive faster (she didn't drive any faster, she just complained about how I was grossing her out).  Seconds later, Sister parked the car, opened my door (despite my excitement, I was a good boy and waited for her to give me the okay to get out), then jumped out of the car with an excited bound.

That was when the "good boy" in me disappeared.  At top speed, I dragged Sister back and forth down the path toward the beach, sniffing each and every reed growing up along the way.  I also sniffed the bicycle rack and a few kayaks along the way.  I was about to grab hold of a blow up swimmy someone had left behind on the beach, when I happened to look up and see a very friendly sight.

There, seated about twenty feet away were Ma and Pa.  Pulling like I had never pulled before, I sprinted toward them (Sister, to her credit, managed to hang on to my leash and remain upright on her own two feet) and, upon reaching Pa, I dragged my wet nose across his sunglasses.

Now, I had been warned early on that I wasn't going to be allowed in the water (if I got wet I would have to get a bath), but that didn't discourage me at all.  I was more than happy to wander up and down the shoreline with Ma and Sister, roll around in a patch of dried out seaweed, and eventually plop down at my family's feet while they sat watching the water.

The outing did not last particularly long (a local dog, a goldendoodle with a puppy cut, was wandering the beach without an owner and while she looked very friendly and we likely would have hit it off, my family and I were concerned about making friends without her human around), but that was okay because by the time this second cousin showed up I was already completely exhausted from all my sniffing and rolling.  So, Pa, Ma, Sister and I jumped back into the car and headed for home.  Once I was let inside the house (after a quick brushing to remove any lingering sand and seaweed from my handsome coat), I drank an entire bowl of water then settled down for a much needed nap.

A few hours later, I was hanging out in the living room working on my extended nap.  All of a sudden, I was jolted awake by Sister crying out the word "look!"  A little disoriented, I jumped up and surveyed the room.  Ma and Sister were both staring out the window so I turned to see what all the hubbub was.

There was a woman riding down the street on top of a giant black and white horse.

Needless to say, I started barking hysterically at this strange site.

Now usually, when it comes to me barking at things, I can only get in a good five or six barks before someone steps in and attempts to get me to stop (not that I do, but their interference is annoying).  No matter what is going on, I am abruptly shooed away before I can give the interloper a full piece of my mind.  Well, not this time.  Because I had never seen a horse before (let alone one casually meandering down my block), Ma and Sister allowed me to bark until I had said everything I had to say and then some.  And you know what?  It worked.  That horse didn't pass by my house again.

Freaking Out

Some dogs are heroes, able to fearlessly jump into action regardless of the situation.  Some are cowards, running away from the slightest noise.  Then there are dogs like me, who completely freak out when faced with weird situations.

Yesterday afternoon, Sister and I were hanging out in the backyard after lunch.  Sister was cleaning up the sad remains of her vegetable garden while I, rather than digging in one of the three holes I'm currently working on, was watching from the opposite side of the two foot high metal fence my family put up to keep me from helping myself to the veggies or from digging a fourth hole (I know, very insulting).  From my lookout location, I watched as Sister picked the final tomato off of the brittle remains of the final tomato plant and then rip those sad remains out of the ground by the stem.  She then turned, made her way to the fence and, with the dead plant in one hand and the tomato in the other, started stepping over it.

That was when it all went bad.  Sister's foot got caught in the fence and she fell down onto the pavement.

Now, I should mention that I was standing right next to where Sister fell, and between the scary movement of the fence and the fact that Sister could have easily crushed me had she landed only a few inches to the left (I saw my life flash before my eyes), I had no choice but to panic, make myself real low to the ground, and scurry three feet away before cautiously turning back to assess the situation.  Coincidentally, it was also during this surge of adrenaline that something in my highly evolved brain suddenly snapped.  So, with Sister wallowing on the ground, her hand bleeding and her knees and elbows scuffed, I started freaking out.

The first thing I did was grab the plastic ring (formally part of a flower pot) that had, prior to being dislodged from the root ball in the fall, been used as a barrier to protect the tomato plant from bugs.  You see, I have a long history of playing with plastic gardening pots; I steal them, I run around the backyard with them, and then I shred them all while my humans run and scream behind me.  Let me tell you, it is usually great fun.  But not this time; I was way too freaked out to focus my attention on this pastime and I only managed to scurry about five feet away before I noticed something better.

On the ground, a few inches from Sister's right hand, was the ripe tomato she had pulled from the plant only seconds before.  Now, as much as I love shredding plastic pots, I love eating way more, so I spat out the pot and scurried back to the scene of the accident.  Passing behind Sister to better my chances of success, I quickly scooped the runaway tomato into my mouth and turned to run (where I planned to scoff it down in peace).

I didn't, however, account for Sister's reflexes.  Ignoring the pain in her hand, she grabbed hold of the tomato while it was in my mouth and managed to pry the thing away from me (if I was in a better state of mind I'm sure I would have easily won this struggle).

Undeterred, I scurried away from Sister (who was still sitting in a heap on the pavement) and hotfooted it toward the shriveled up tomato plant she had thrown while going down.  "Leave it" Sister growled as I bent down to pick it up.  I did.

It was then that the pent up emotions bubbling inside of me suddenly burst out all at once and I was taken with the overwhelming need to run.  So I ran.  I ran in tight circles around the backyard.  I ran under the bushes.  I ran through the hostas.  I then ran right past Sister and, in a poorly timed attempt to put on the breaks and turn around, bounced off of the very same fence Sister had fallen over.  Startled, I did another lap of the backyard then made a bee line for my business area down the end of the driveway. After doing what I needed to do, I skidded to a halt at the side door and waited patiently for Sister, who had by now managed to lift herself up from "a puddle of [her] own blood" (her words, not mine...her hand was bleeding but only slightly), to let me in.

By the time I got inside, I was feeling much better (though a little out of breath).  I felt even better when, a few seconds later, I managed to shake Sister down for a cookie despite the fact that she was really only interested in making her way to the bathroom to clean up.  I then got a drink of water, found a nice spot on the bedroom floor, and took a nap.

Freaking out takes a lot out of a dog.

A Scientific Discovery

Recently, scientists proved that dogs, like their two legged human counterparts, use the left hemisphere of their brain to process words and the right hemisphere to process the tone in which those words were delivered.  This means that dogs understand not only what a human says, but how they say it.  Dogs, therefore, understand human language on multiple levels.

To that I say:  "Duh!"

I know when my humans are angry, happy, or sad.  I recognize the high pitched squeal my family uses when I do something good and the "big people voice" they use when I've been naughty.

As for words, my human vocabulary is huge.  It is so huge, in fact, that I have even taken to categorizing my lexicon into two distinct groups:  those words I respond to ("AC," "cookie," and "dinner") and those I tend to purposely ignore ("drop it," "no," and "stop barking at them, they live there").

Allow me to show off my vocabulary further.

Earlier today, Sister and I were hanging out in her air conditioned bedroom; both of us sprawled out on the bed.  While we basked in the coolness, Sister began to tell me about our upcoming Labor Day weekend plans; that we were going out east, that the central air would be on, and that I'd be allowed to repeatedly run up and down the stairs connecting the backyard to the side deck (a favorite pastime of mine).

I listed politely as Sister babbled at me.  Don't get me wrong, I liked everything that she was saying, but I was just too hot to show any emotion.  But then Sister said something important--something that I just had to react to.

"Maybe you'll get to chase some squirrels."

At the mention of squirrels, I woke up from my heat induced stupor, sprang to my feet, and, from the added height of the bed, stared out the window into the backyard, my ears square.

"Some deer too," Sister suggested.

My stance never changed.  I still stared out the window intently, but my ears dropped a little.  I've smelled and barked at deer in the past, but because they were hidden by a wooden fence, I've never actually seen one.  This unknown leaves me a little hesitant about meeting one in person.

Then Sister said the magic word; the word I could never ignore.  She named my archenemy.  "Or bunnies," she casually said.

That was it.  My ears snapped to attention and a low growl work its way out from deep within me.  Words cannot explain how much I hate those stupid little cotton tailed bunnies.

So no, it does not surprise me that humans and dogs interpret language the same way.  Dogs have lived with humans for thousands of years; it's not hard to believe that our faithful two-legged companions would eventually start, from an evolutionary standpoint, learning from us.

Vacation

Ready to Soak Up the Sun!

Vacation here I come!

Of course, I don't really get vacations.  Sure, my family is off from work and can therefore devote countless hours to rubbing my belly, feeding me treats, and chasing after me when I steal their socks, but that doesn't mean I can devote all my time and energy to those exciting and pleasurable past-times.  No, I'm Head of Security and I take my job very seriously!  How can I, with a clean conscience, declare myself to be "on vacation" when I've got to, every day, protect my property from intruding wildlife (squirrels, bunnies, voles, and deer) and bark at everything that happens to walk, crawl, or fly by my house?  That's right, I can't.

But that doesn't mean that I can't have a little fun--let my fur down so to speak.  I'm sure I'll be able to squeeze in a few rounds of keep away, a couple of laps along the beach, and maybe even a quick walk through town.

All work and no play, after all, makes Rigby a dull (though devilishly handsome) boy.

Pa's Tale

The following story isn't about me.  It isn't about me getting a bath or spitting on walls or shredding something that I probably shouldn't have had in the first place.  No, this story is about Pa and something that happened last weekend--something very disturbing.

It was first thing in the morning and Pa had gone outside to water the front yard.  In an attempt to make watering easier, Pa had, years ago, set up an above ground sprinkler system that allowed for any area of the property to be watered with the simple redirecting of a connector and a turn of the main faucet.  So, that morning, Pa redirected the connectors, turned on the water, and immediately realized that something was wrong.  He couldn't hear the sound of the sprinkler running in the front yard.  Figuring that one of the connectors was diverting the wrong way, Pa rechecked the system.  Everything seemed fine, yet the sprinkler in the front yard still wasn't running.  Puzzled, Pa then wandered into the front yard to inspect the sprinkler head itself.

As soon as he stepped foot in the front yard he saw it:  a bunny sitting in the green grass a couple of feet away from a length of exposed hose.  Pa looked at the hose.  Water was gushing out from the middle of the length.  He looked back at the bunny.  The bunny stared back at him, his nose twitching.  Pa looked at the hose again which was still gushing water.

Something was fishy.

Pa then approached the hose (the bunny took this opportunity to scurry off) and discovered that the bunny had gnawed a 1/2 inch hole directly into the rubber.

I feel for Pa.  I know how it feels to struggle against the brazen gall of those stupid little fluffy tailed trespassers.  I only wish I had free access to the front yard.  If I had, I would have chased that stupid bunny away long before he turned Pa's property into his own private chew toy.

When the Spit Hits the Wall

Quick!  Drop everything and call the newspapers!

I am proud to announce that I have achieved a personal (and perhaps world) record:  I managed to fling spit a full 35 inches up the side of a vertical wall.

I'll pause here a moment to allow for the inevitable applause.

Thank you!  Thank you!

Wait, did I hear someone say "speech"?  Well...okay, if you insist!

It has been a long hard yet rewarding road I've traveled.  I've spent countless hours honing my skill.  I remember back when I was a little pup and first discovered the ability to leave unattractive black drool on unsuspecting pant legs and bedspreads.  I was so proud and my family was so disgusted (little did they know that that was just the tip of the iceberg).  But despite my success, I chose not to stop there.  I set my sights on higher goals and that was when I discovered the joy of leaving my drooly calling card on walls.  Of course, I started small, a few inches at a time, but with hard work and vigilance, I finally managed to reach the epic level I'm at today.  Look at me, I'm a champ!

A Summertime Walk

Sister is usually pretty cool.  She's almost always willing to share whatever she's eating, she's always hot so she's usually the first to suggest turning on the air conditioner, she's given up trying to stop me from dig-dig-digging under the forsythia, she was the first to allow me to sleep on the bed, and it has been through her co-workers that I have met pretty much all of my four legged friends.  But sometimes, despite all of her good ideas and willingness to share, Sister comes up with some truly stupid ideas.  She had one of those today.  Today, Sister took me for a walk.

Now you might say: "A walk?!  So what?"  Well, allow me to list three well known facts:

1. It is July and I live on Long Island, New York.  The daily temperature for my neck of the woods is between 80 and 90 degrees Fahrenheit.
2. I wear a full (and luxurious) fur coat all year round.
3. I hate walks--always have, always will.  I'd much prefer to be chasing squirrels or barking at people passing by from the comfort of my own backyard.

So, yeah, like I was saying, going for a walk was a really stupid plan.  And what's worse, when Sister put my leash and collar on me, I thought that we were going for a ride in the nice air conditioned car.  When we got outside, I even ran straight to Sister's passenger side door.  And when we walked past her car, I actually looked up and down the block for Ma's car (which wasn't there).  Talk about a bummer!

So anyway, Sister and I trudged our way to and from the local park which, while only a couple of blocks away, felt like it was in the next state.  Needless to say, I was not a happy camper.  So much so, in fact, that I even downright refused to eat the cookie that Sister bribed me with when she dragged me down one particularly shade-less street (I spit it out and left it on that street).  When we finally got home, I drank about a gallon of water out of the doggy stream (the garden hose).  Then Sister and I went inside.

In an attempt to buy back my love, Sister turned on the air conditioner in the bedroom and insisted that I hang out with her in the coolness (she was looking a bit worse for wear from our walk too--her hair, which is almost as thick as mine, was rather frizzed out).  I was tempted to refuse her offer on principle--plop myself down on the kitchen floor for a marathon panting session--but the cool air was just too enticing and I was so hot.

I snoozed on the bed in the air conditioning until lunch time when I sauntered out to see what Sister was eating.  Obviously feeling bad about dragging me out for a walk in the hot summer sun, Sister gave me a sampling of cheese from her sandwich.  All was almost forgiven.

Really?!

So first there were squirrels.  Then there were bunnies.  Mustn't forget about those pesky robins or the deer, fish, voles, and turtles which can be found out east.  Then, of course, there was the cat and her kittens from last week.  So, given all that and figuring that the only remaining member of the animal species not accounted for was an elephant, I don't think I'd be blamed for assuming that my backyard couldn't possibly play host to another interloper.

Well, I was wrong.

Two days ago, I was hanging out outside in my backyard doing my doggy thing (basically looking for trouble to get into and barking hysterically at non-existent things).  Eventually, I snuffled my way over to the back corner of the property where I sniffed a leaf, stuck my nose in a shallow hole I dug a few weeks ago, and came across something interesting--something that smelled and acted weird.  Indulging my genetic instincts, I gently picked up the smelly twitchy thing (us Retrievers are known for our soft mouths except, of course, when we're gutting a toy or shredding wrapping paper) and scurried into the center of the yard.

Now, Pa knows me; he knows me very well.  He can tell when I'm up to no good and let's just say that he knew immediately that I had something that I wasn't supposed to have.  Quickly, he grabbed me and gave me a stern "drop it."  Out of my mouth popped a tiny little sparrow.

Definitely Doesn't Taste Like Chicken!

Ma and Pa quickly ushered me into the house then returned to tend to the tiny little bird.  Thinking that perhaps it had fallen out of its nest and was fatally injured, Ma suggested that Pa pick the bird up and deposit him in the fenced off vegetable garden where he'd be safe and left alone.  So, while I barked hysterically from inside the house, Pa attempted to scoop up the bird.  As for what happened next, let's just say that the little bird had more than enough life (and fight) left in it as did the mother bird who swooped in to defend her chick.  Deciding to leave well enough alone, Ma and Pa joined me inside.

The baby bird eventually flew away.  Sister, who was not present for the event, when told about it, suggested that we get a cat to take care of our bird problem.

I was less than amused.

The Worst Interloper Of All

Well, it's official.  I have completely lost control of my backyard.

As my loyal readers know, I've struggled for years to maintain a squirrel/bunny/robin free zone in my backyard.  Sure, it was always embarrassing to admit that my turf had an occasional pest problem, but at least I could find solace in the fact that I gave the interloper the fright of its life as I chased it out of my yard at top speed while barking my head off.

But it didn't work this time.  You see, a couple of days ago, I discovered a cat and her three kittens in my backyard.

Needless to say, when I first saw the cat and her kittens I was shocked.  Sure, I had seen cats before--on walks and when one of the local strays brazenly strolled by my house--but never in my backyard.  Once the shock wore off, however, my instincts as Head of Security kicked in and I began running toward the cat at full speed.  The kittens fell back and scurried under the fence.  The cat, however, stood firm.

What happened next occurred both in slow motion and at high speed.  As I got closer to the cat, I saw her raise her paw and with a mighty swipe she made contact with my snout.  Simultaneously, I also heard a high pitched screech (who screamed is still up for debate, but I'd like to think it was the cat and not me).

That's when Ma and Pa got involved.  You see, they were following right behind me and gave chase as soon as I did.  Together, they managed to hold me back while scaring away the cat.  I admit I was kind of grateful for their assistance, however, I can't help but think that, if I was given more of an opportunity, I would have been able to avenge my honor and drive that cat out of my yard myself.

I haven't seen the cat and her kittens since that fateful day and while she did make contact, she failed to leave so much as a mark on my handsome snout (though another scratch to go along with the faint scar I still have from trying to move the house with the side of my head really would have added to my ruggedness).  Now I just have to concentrate on damage control.  I must reassert myself as Head of Security before the squirrels/bunnies/robins start trying to take over.

An Ode to Kibble

I mentioned in an earlier post that my recurrent tummy troubles recently resulted in my family switching me over from the dog food I had eaten since the day I graduated from puppy chow to a new brand that I found to be even tastier.  I'm afraid that I might have undersold my appreciation and love for this new food in that post and therefore I would like to rectify it now.

But before I do, I just want to say that I have never had any complaints about my previous brand of dog food.  I ate it twice a day every day without fail and enjoyed every morsel of it with or without the occasional addition of pumpkin, steak, carrots, and rice.  In fact, I'd happily eat it now if a bowl of it were put in front of me.

But, like I said, now I'm served something I like even more.  It smells yummier and tastes even better than it smells (my family has even commented on how delicious it smells...hopefully they won't decide to start sampling it)!  In fact, it is so lip-smacking good that I'm finding it more and more difficult to mind my manners when breakfast and dinner are served.  You see, with the old food, I was trained to sit about a foot away from my bowl and wait for the "okay" from whoever was serving me to dive in and start eating.  Now, every day, I find myself inching a little closer to the bowl.  I predict that soon my family will have no choice but to pour the food directly into my open mouth while I sit in my food bowl's spot.

I do, however, have one complaint about my new food:  the quantity.  I know for a fact that the bag says that I should be getting way more food than I'm actually being given.  And to make matters worse, my family has actually slightly decreased my daily allotment of kibble from one cup twice a day to about 3/4 of a cup twice a day (in their defense they do make up for the 1/4 cup difference with yummy pumpkin which Ma actually warms up in the microwave for me).  But still, what gives?

Me and My Birthday Present

And speaking of food, I'd like to thank my bff Mecki and his little brother Bastille for the yummy birthday cookies they gave me for my birthday.  Sister is limiting me to one cookie a day, but if it were up to me, I'd eat the whole bag right now!

Happy Birthday!

 Happy 7th Birthday to Me!!!

Fighting for Attention

People might find this extremely hard to believe given my movie star good looks and sparkling personality, but I've felt very neglected this last month.  Why?  Because of these:

Yes, Sister's brand new hamster, Mittens, had babies.  Six in fact.  Now usually, when Sister gets a new rat, she and Ma spend a lot of time "oohing" and "aahing" over the little tailless squirrel (Pa's never fooled...he's always on my side).  It's sickening, but I tolerate it because I know that in a couple of days the hamster will be integrated into the family and I'll regain my status as primary attention receiver.  But when you add babies into the mix...well, let's just say that I immediately realized that everything wasn't going to blow over in a day or so.

What needed to be done suddenly became very clear to me:  I needed to fight to win back Ma and Sister's undivided attention.  And that's what I did.  And let me tell you, I held nothing back in my quest.  Here's what I did:

1. I managed to will myself into having a bad belly which resulted in no less than two trips to the vet, countless peanut butter and pill sandwiches, two messes inside the house (the less said about those the better), a few midnight trips outside to do business, a number of meals augmented with rice (sadly no chicken), and a switch over to a new prescription kibble mix that is way tastier than the food I've eaten all my life.
2. I managed to force myself into having an allergic reaction to a new flea, tick, and mosquito treatment which resulted in another two trips to the vet, twenty four hours of howling, crying, and scratching because I was so uncomfortable, a dose of doggy Benadryl which failed to take the edge off the itchiness and instead made me even more hyper and super thirsty, and a bath to wash off the remaining treatment.  And if all that wasn't bad enough, the technician at the vet's office "accidentally" tried to send me home with some cheap costume jewelry (a tacky rope leash) rather than with my bling (a stylish black collar, shiny metal chain, and a leather leash).  What nerve!

And did my extreme devotion to the issue work?  Yes and no.  Sure, I got a lot of attention during both of my medical incidents, but once I started feeling better, Ma and Sister returned to the babies. It wasn't until today, the start of a hamster free weekend (Pa, Ma, Sister and I went out east while the "hamlets" stayed at home), that I finally received the attention I craved.  And do you know what?  Perhaps I didn't really want all that attention after all.  Look what Sister did to my tail when I wasn't looking:

Goodbye to a Friend

Ralphie and Me

To my pal Ralphie,

I'll never forget our play dates and sleepovers, our jockeying for the best pets, and our marathon leaning sessions.  You taught me how to make dog angels in the snow and let me sample your yummy "Ralphie tested, Ralphie approved" meals.  We barked at Chinese food delivery men and checked the pizza tree for new growth.  I'll think of you every time I howl my displeasure about getting a bath.

You were a good dog...a very good dog...and I'll miss you always.

Love,

Rigby and family

Doc. Friedman

I know that there are plenty of pups out there who do not like to go to the vet.  I, however, am not like other pups.  I love visiting the vet.  Sure, I'm not a fan of shots that leave my butt sore or those dreaded nose drops.  And I'm certainly not happy about going there when I'm hurt (tried moving a building with the side of my head) or sick (when I snuffed up something that upset my tummy).  But I'm more than game for a routine check-up.

I love check-up visits for the following four reasons:

1. All the receptionists "ooh" and "aah" over me as soon as I walk in (and rightly so).
2. When I'm done with my appointment, I'm given a cookie from the community cookie jar.
3. I have great fun jumping on and off of the scale/adjustable exam table.
4. The doctors all love me and give me lots of attention.

But there is one doctor that I'm particularly fond of:  my primary vet Doc. Friedman.  Every time I visit him, he goes that extra mile to make me feel as special as I truly am.  In addition, he's able to turn a blind eye toward my family's odd and often embarrassing questions such as:

"Does he have more (or bigger) teeth than most Golden Retrievers?"

and

"When he drinks, most of the water dribbles out past his jowls.  Is he getting enough water?" 

So anyway, a couple of days ago, Pa told me that I was going to have to go to the vet to get some blood work done (purely routine...I need it to get my heart worm prescription renewed).  I knew that it was not guaranteed, but I was really hoping that I'd get to say hello to my pal Doc. Friedman who I haven't seen since my last physical.

Sadly, it wasn't meant to be.

When the receptionist called my name, she directed me into a room that was not Doc. Friedman's.  Strike one.  Then, a technician came in and took my blood.  Strike two.  Finally, I overheard the technician tell Pa that Doc. Friedman retired a few months prior.  Strike three.

It goes without saying that I was completely and totally crushed by this news.  How could Doc. Friedman retire and why, at the very least, wasn't I invited to his retirement party where I'm positive there must have been cake (and I'm a big fan of cake)?

When we got home, Pa told Ma the bad news and she immediately tried to comfort me.  She reminded me that all the other doctors are really nice especially Doc. Petermann who helped me when I hurt my back and when I tried to move the house with the side of my face.  Ma, of course, was right; all the vets there are really nice.  But I'm still going to miss Doc. Friedman (and his retirement cake) a lot.

Spring Dog Days at Old Wesbury Gardens

Smiling

Last weekend, my bff Mecki, Mecki's mom, Sister, and I went to Old Westbury Gardens (AKA my estate) for their bi-annual Dog Days celebration and oh boy was it fun!  Mecki and I:

• squabbled over who was going to lead the pack on the walk
• bunked noses with lots of dogs (I'm always amazed at how many cousins--AKA Golden Retrievers--I meet on these walks) and had our ears scratched by a lot of humans
• forcibly dragged our slow two legged family members around behind us
• threatened to jump into the lake to steal fish food (okay, that was me, but Mecki would have approved had I done so)
• tangled our humans up in our leashes
• walked in and out of the giant dog houses (log cabins) multiple times 
• slobbered all over everyone with our drinking water soaked beards (Mecki) and jowls (me)
• ate a lot of snacks

Annoyed (or Sneezing)

And speaking of snacks, why is it that Mecki's mom always shows up with a bag full of nice tasty human treats like carrots and apples while Sister only shows up with a bag full of dry flavorless dog cookies (not that I would ever turn my snout up at them)?  Obviously Sister doesn't shop in the right supermarkets.

So anyway, a good time was had by all (and we all slept well following the adventure).

Expect the Unexpected

There are some events you can predict and prepare for.  Then there are others that you cannot.  Apparently, gardening with me falls into both categories.

It happened a couple of days ago.  Ma invited me outside to supervise her while she threw away some spent tulips from Easter and transplanted a preexisting houseplant into the pot that the tulips used to occupy.  Everything was going well--the plant seemed to survive the transplant and I had the opportunity to bark hysterically at someone who dared to walk by my house unannounced. 

But then it was time to clean up.  Fully aware of my love of being involved and determined to prevent me from doing naughty things (i.e. shredding and ripping pots, maiming and uprooting plants, and stealing and carrying away gardening tools), Ma purposely made sure that she picked up all of the following items in one fell swoop:

• the discarded flower pot (a favorite of mine...the plastic is nice and brittle so it shreds easily)
• the spade (a favorite of mine...the handle makes for easy stealing)
• the rubber knee-saving kneeling pad (a favorite of mine...the foam is nice and chewy)
• the scissors used to open the new bag of potting soil (a favorite of mine...like the spade, the handles make for easy stealing and since no one has lost an eye yet it's still considered "all good fun")
• the decorative foil sleeve that the nursery used to decorate the tulip pot (a favorite of mine...it makes a lovely crinkly sound when shaken and it rips easily)

But despite her thoroughness, she forgot one thing.  Did you catch it?  Yep, that's right.  She left behind the half filled bag of potting soil with the rationale that "he's never shown any interest in stealing that before."

Well, there is a first time for everything!

With Ma preoccupied in the garage putting away her supplies, I quickly and quietly sauntered over to the bag of potting soil, grabbed hold of it in my teeth, and dragged it into the backyard (it was a good deal heavier than what I usually steal so I couldn't simply scurry away with it).  For a couple of minutes, I calmly shredded the bag, but then Ma emerged from the garage.  That's when the fun really started.  All of a sudden a game of keep away broke out.  I ran in circles with the tattered remains of the bag clenched in my teeth.  Ma chased after me while shouting at me to "Toss!  Drop!  Give!" at the top of her lungs (I ignored her of course).  Meanwhile, dirt and shredded plastic was flying everywhere!

Eventually, Ma wrestled the sad remains of the bag of potting soil away from me.  Exhausted, I turned around and surveyed the backyard.  It was littered with scraps of plastic and mounds of soil.  Needless to say, I was proud of my work.

St. Patrick's Day 2016

Wait!

Do I smell...

Irish soda bread?
corned beef?
cabbage?
potatoes?

 Happy St. Patrick's Day to all my friends!

A Play Date At Ralphie's

Look at me!

I'm a wreck!  I'm a mess!  I'm a shadow of my former self!  And why?  Because I'm exhausted from last Saturday.  Allow me to explain.

On Saturday morning, Sister surprised me by asking Ralphie's mom if he was available for a play date and, as luck would have it, he was.  I don't need to tell my loyal readers how happy I was to hear this.  I haven't seen my pal Ralphie for nearly two years now!  He and I always have fun when we get together...we take turns leaning on people, we check out the now defunct pizza tree, and we make dog angels in the snow.  So anyway, an hour later, Ma, Sister, and I set out to Ralphie's house (and yes, I pretty much dragged Sister the whole two blocks).  Little did I know that there was an even bigger surprise waiting for me at Ralphie's house.

Twins (Archie On The Left)

I was greeted at Ralphie's front gate by a dog that was not Ralphie.  Turns out, the nine year old Golden Retriever that was barking at me from inside the gate was Archie, Ralphie's house guest.  Right away, I came to the conclusion that Archie was cool.  First of all, he's a Golden.  Second, he bears a striking resemblance to yours truly.  Yeah, I found out later that he's a bit of a people hog (he kept inserting himself between me and the humans who were obviously all hanging around to exclusively pet me), but I was okay with it because, ultimately, there were enough humans to go around.  

L to R:  Me, Ralphie, & Archie

So anyway, Archie and I ran around the front yard for a while which was an awful lot of fun.  Then Ralphie's mom went inside to get Ralphie.  That's when the fun really started.  Ralphie, Archie, and I took turns getting drinks from the water bowl (I kept sticking my foot in the bowl...why? why not!?), trampling the lone crocus growing in Ralphie's front yard, and begging for attention.

L to R:  Archie, Me, Ralphie

After an hour, Ma and Sister told me that it was time to go home.  I hated to go, but I had to admit that I was kind of tired (and yes, Sister was quick to point out that I was the youngest in the pack and the first to tucker out).  I said goodbye to everyone (Ralphie took an extra turn saying goodbye to Sister) and walked home (all the while wishing that we drove the two blocks rather than walked).

Totally exhausted from my play date, I decided that I'd devote the rest of the day to napping.  Unfortunately, Ma didn't get the memo.  No, she decided that that Saturday afternoon was the perfect time to give me a bath.  Truth be told, I knew that a bath was eventually coming my way--my family had been threatening me with one since January--but I didn't think they'd take advantage of my worn out state to tackle me, clean my ears, and hose me down in the driveway (they didn't even have the decency to take me to the doggy spa!).

Needless to say, I was quite annoyed by this and decided to voice my displeasure the only way I knew how:

Is There A Zoologist In The House?

It was Saturday afternoon and I was spending the weekend out east with Ma and Pa.  Because I knew that there was a nice coating of icy snow on the grass for me to rub my snout in, I jumped at the opportunity to go outside when Ma made the suggestion that I join her outside.

After I finished rubbing my snout in the icy snow, I decided to check out what Ma was doing.  You see, Ma requires a certain level of supervision when she's outside in the yard.  She's always raking up leaves or digging holes which means that there are always garden tools or plants that need to be carried away by yours truly.  So I surveyed the yard and located Ma.  She was raking up leaves that had gathered in the basement doorway.  Wasting no time, I scurried over to her side and started snuffling my way through the pile of leaves she had already collected.

Truth be told, I was searching the pile of leaves for a nice stick to chew on.  Never did I ever expect to find what I found and when I did, I did the only thing I could:  I picked it up in my mouth.

I had found a small, furry, and very much deceased creature.

Now, I've heard Pa, Ma, and Sister argue about it before:  What is the difference between a field mouse, a mole, and a vole?  Well, I certainly didn't know, but I did know that I had one of them in my mouth (there was, after all, no zoologist present at the time of death).  I also knew that whatever it was it didn't taste particularly good.  But even though it didn't taste good didn't mean that I would simply walk away from it.  No, I had to get Ma's attention so she could take it away from me (that's one of the top three purposes of the human race, isn't it?  To buy soft comfy furniture for me to sleep on, open the food tin so I can eat my supper, and take disgusting things out of my mouth).

I've learned over the years that my family is most suspicious of me when I'm quiet--that that's when they come looking for me expecting me to be up to no good.  So I, with the mouse/mole/vole still in my mouth, wandered about ten feet away from Ma and lay down in the grass.  I spit the mouse/mole/vole out on the grass in front of me.  Then I waited.

Ma was uncharacteristically oblivious to my quietness, but I was patient.  I lay there quietly with the late mouse/mole/vole before me trying not to look at it for fear of losing my most recent meal.  Ma, meanwhile, raked away.

Eventually, after what felt like forever, Ma noticed that I was acting weird.  I wasn't nosing through her leaf piles any more.  I wasn't snuffling through the bushes.  Something was amiss.

Ma turned to me and I immediately gave her my "yeah, I've got something.  Aren't you gonna come and take it away from me already?" look.  That message she got loud and clear.  Quickly, she advanced on me.

Now, just as I wasn't going to leave the mouse/mole/vole behind just because it didn't taste good, I certainly wasn't going to give up the mouse/mole/vole to Ma without at least putting up a little fight.  As Ma approached me, I summed up my strength, wished I was able to pinch my nose, and picked up the mouse/mole/vole.

Ma started shouting "drop it" and reached for my collar to prevent me from running off.  Ever the obedient dog (and more than happy to get rid of my icky tasting prize), I immediately spit out the mouse/mole/vole.

Ma obviously wasn't expecting me to have found a small, furry, and very much deceased creature either.

Standing between me and the mouse/mole/vole, Ma started frantically motioning to Pa (who was inside the house watching the events unfold), desperate to get his attention so that he could collect the recently departed animal and dispose of him before I snatched him up again.  Pa eventually came and collected the mouse/mole/vole and while he and Ma once again debated the difference between mice, moles, and voles, I considered my next step.

I decided to circle back to where I had initially found the mouse/mole/vole in hopes that I would find something just as exciting (though hopefully a whole lot tastier).  For fifteen minutes Ma watched as I circled from the spot the mouse/mole/vole had departed this world, to the pile of leaves I had plucked him from, to the spot that Ma and Pa had taken him away from me, but to no avail.  I never found anything else.

Once all the leaves were picked up, Pa, Ma, and I went inside.  I was exhausted from my adventure and was more than happy to go take a nap, but Ma was obsessing about the fact that I had been carrying around a dead mouse/mole/vole in my mouth.  Hoping to get the nasty taste out of my mouth, Ma gave me a cookie.  Not wishing to insult her, I ate it.  Then Ma brought me my water bowl to wash down any lingering taste.  Obediently, I drank.  But then Ma, taking advantage of my drooly jowls and dead set on erasing all trace of the mouse/mole/vole from my lips, grabbed a wad of paper towels and started wiping my mouth which I really hated.

It's been over twenty four hours since I picked up that mouse/mole/vole and I'm still being harassed about my germy jowls.  I'm thinking that I'm going to have to break my usual rule of not being a kissy dog and give someone in my family a big wet kiss across the nose.  I, for one, can't wait to see that person's face.