A Flock of Robins

I've said it before and I'll say it again:  I hate robins!  About a year ago, I shared on this blog the reasons why I hate robins and they were:

1.  They have beady little eyes.
2.  They don't take a hint and return a minute after being chased out of the yard.
3.  They don't fly away when confronted; they just skip (and not fly like proper birds) out of reach.

But as annoying as robins are, I've never seen a group as brazen as I did last weekend.

It was a perfect morning out east.  Having eaten my breakfast and gone outside, I was happily lounging in the dining room while Ma and Pa ate their breakfasts.  As a practice, I always hang out in the dining room during breakfast time in hopes that one day someone's bagel would accidentally slip from their hands and roll off the table.  And as everyone knows, once a bagel (or any food for that matter) hits the ground it's mine.  So anyway, after a half hour of lounging with no runaway bagels, I decided that it was time to seek out a new sunny spot on the floor.

As I crossed the room in search of nice warm spot, I happened to look out the window.  It was then that I saw it: a whole gaggle of robins, at least twenty, brazenly congregating in my backyard. 

I was in shock.  How dare those robins gather in my yard!  I needed to do something.  I needed to take back my yard.  But how?  I considered my options:  

Option One:  Go outside and chase away the flock, all while barking hysterically.
Problem:  I was stuck inside--Ma and Pa would never let me outside knowing that I'd be yelling and screaming my head off as I went (apparently 8AM on a Sunday morning is too early for a barking fit).

Option Two:  Bark out the window.  Sure, it wouldn't be as effective as physically charging the birds, but I was sure that if I used my most ferocious bark I'd get results.
Problem:  The windows were closed and, seeing as it was winter, there was little chance of getting someone to open them for me (and that's before going into the whole "don't open the window because Rigby might jump out it" discussion).

Option Three:  Bark loudly through the closed window.  Obviously, in order to get my voice to penetrate the thick glass and distance between me and the flock, I'd have to really push myself.
Problem:  My family would likely complain of ear pain.

Needless to say, I went with option three.  I would just have to deal with my family later.  And besides, perhaps after the ringing in their ears stopped, my family would realize that the pain they experienced was for the greater good--protection from those beady eyed robins.

So I started barking.  When the birds failed to respond, I barked even louder.  Then I got even louder.

Despite the glass and the distance, my message must have finally gotten through their little tiny bird brains because the flock suddenly lifted off and flew away.  I gave them a few parting barks (the canine equivalent of "and don't come back") then went back to the more pressing matter:  hunting down that sunny spot on the floor.

Baby and Me

Baby

Baby and I used to be cool.

Baby, if you recall, is one of the only two toys that have survived since I was a little puppy (Nuclear Bunny is the other).  When I first got Baby, I immediately started to personalize her to my specifications (as I do with all toys).  First, the squeaker box went (originally, she would bark three times every time I bit down on her), then I ripped off both of her ears, and finally I turned my attention to her upper lip.  After each amputation or mutation, Sister would replace Baby's stuffing and sew her back together (Baby's nose was a victim of the surgery on her upper lip).  Then one day, about five years ago, I came to the conclusion that Baby was finally perfect; I didn't need to do any more personalizing.  From that day forward, I stopped ripping her apart.  In fact, she became one of my go to meet-and-greet toys (she's big enough for people to notice that I'm greeting them at the door with her yet she's small enough to make it impossible for someone to try and grab hold of her thinking that I'm giving her to them).

But then, two weeks ago, something happened.  Suddenly I started ripping at the stitches on Baby's nose.  Three times Baby was taken away from me for emergency surgery and each time I got her back, I picked up exactly where I left off.

What happened between Baby and me?  What made our relationship go sour?  Pa thinks Baby said something to me.  Sister thinks that Baby looked at me funny.  Ma thinks I'm just being my "charming self" (I'm thinking I should be offended by that).

So?  What happened?

I'm not going to say.  This conflict is between Baby and me.