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.