Just As Good the Second Time

Cheerios have played a significant role in my life since I was a pup.  Early on, Sister clicker-trained me (kind of) by rewarding me with Cheerios.  I learned how to play "Get, Bring, Toss" (my equivalent of fetch) with the promise of those tiny little "o"s motivating me.  I've been given them in my puzzle Kong toy and scoffed them up when I inexplicably became freaked out at stairs and needed to be bribed to climb them again.  And when Pa eats a bowl of Cheerios for breakfast, he always makes sure to give me a couple to test.

But the problem with Cheerios is that they are very tiny.  I mean, I don't even have to chew them (in fact, I'd probably bite my own tongue if I tried).  But not chewing food is dangerous and occasionally those tiny little "o"s have turned into attack cereal.

For instance, last week I was outside with Pa and he was running me through my list of tricks.  I came, I sat, I said my prayers, I played dead, and I did figure eights in quick succession despite the fact that Pa had only asked me to sit.  As a reward, he tossed me a Cheerio which I inhaled before immediately begging for more.

But something went wrong as I looked up at Pa expectantly; the Cheerio he had given me did not want to go down.  In fact, it seemed as though it was fighting to come back up.  Pausing, I looked down at the floor and with a mighty hack the Cheerio went shooting from my mouth and landed a foot away.

Amused by the concept of an endless food supply, I strolled over to the attack Cheerio, scooped it up, and swallowed it for a second time.  It was just as tasty. 

Oh My God, I Bit Pa...Again!

A couple of years ago, I told the story of the time I accidentally bit Pa (the story can be found here). As you might remember, I was absolutely horrified at what happened that day--it was Pa, the boss, the head honcho, the top dog, the guy who “gets” me and I bit him! And as horrified as I was, I can only image that you, my loyal readers, were equally if not more horrified and disappointed in the misdeeds of yours truly. I’m just not that kind of dog anymore (as you know, I was quite the juvenile delinquent when I was a pup).

Well, I hate to report it, but it happened again.

I know, I know! How could this happen, you ask? How could I possibly make the mistake of biting Pa a second time? Well, as before, I blame him.

It was Sunday morning and I decided to help Pa make the bed and by that I mean I got in his way and prevented him from making the bed. How? After he pulled the sheet up on one side of the bed, I took a running leap and threw myself down onto the middle of the mattress. Assuming the “dead weight” position (going limp while lying on my side), I turned my head and smiled up toward Pa. He tried to act angry. He tried to make it look like he didn’t find my shenanigans 100% adorable. But he was unable to fully suppress the laugh that started emanating from his throat as soon as I collapsed on the mattress. So, Pa did the only thing he could think of: he decided to rough me up.

Now, I’m not sure if I ever mentioned this before, but my family has always said that I don’t know how to play like a normal dog. I don’t play with my toys, I kill them. I don’t retrieve a thrown ball, I just look up at you as if asking “why did you throw it if you wanted it back so bad?” I also don’t roughhouse like other dogs nor play a game that my family refers to as snarly face (a game in which I'm expected to playfully show my teeth and gently nip at hands which sounds so completely wrong, but apparently is not as violent as one might think).

So, long story short, I don't normally roughhouse, but Pa was so annoying and so insistent that day (rolling me over, giving me a gentle shoves, and pulling the blankets over my head), that eventually I cracked. Without even thinking, I turned my head sideways and grabbed hold of Pa’s shirtsleeve.

Suddenly, time stopped. I had Pa’s shirtsleeve in my mouth. Did he notice? Did he realize that I bit him again? Granted, the first time, all those years ago, I actually caught flesh and this time I only caught his sleeve, but a bite’s a bite, right? I quickly spit the fabric out and sheepishly looked up at Pa, my ears back in shame.

“What did you do?” he asked, but not in an upset or angry sort of way. He looked like he did before when he was trying to scold me for jumping on the bed—he was barely able to suppress his laughter. Despite the fact that I didn't appear to be destined for a hollerin’ at, I must admit that I was a little shook up from the entire experience. There would be no more roughhousing from me.

So there you have it. As you can see, Pa was fully to blame. He caused me to bite him and nothing is going to change my story.

What the Nor'easter Brought

I have mixed feeling about storms like the nor'easter we had last weekend.  On the one paw, the strong winds often bring down branches and pieces of bark from high up trees which, as my loyal readers know, is key to my hobby of making small branches into smaller branches and gnawing on bark like it's chewing gum.  Then of course, there is the fact that my model-like poses are way more effective when I'm facing into the wind, my glamorous fur rippling behind me.  On the other paw, however, high winds tend to make already scary things (like garbage cans) scarier by making them move and there are few things I hate more than the wind blowing on my tail feathers when I'm trying to do my business.

Like past storms, this recent one brought both good and bad things to my day.  But the key to this entire story, which I will relate now, however, is that I came out on top.  Here's what happened.

The bulk of the storm occurred on Friday.  By Saturday morning, when my story takes place, the driving snow, sleet, and rain had dried up leaving only cloudy skies and occasional gusty winds.  Bright eyed and bushy tailed from a good night sleep, I was out first thing in the morning wandering through the backyard scoping out the damage which consisted of only a meager number of felled twigs and branches.  I started out near the garage on the right side of the yard.  Then I moved to the middle of the yard where I sniffed suspiciously at a roof shingle which had blown in from who knows where.  I jumped slightly when the fabric cover on the next-door neighbor's grill billowed in the wind, then, after checking to see if anyone noticed my start, sauntered over to the forsythia bush located in the far left corner of the yard. 

I was absentmindedly sniffing behind the forsythia bush when I came across something strange.  It was roundish and bright yellow and when I picked it up in my mouth I discovered that it was squishy, tasted of plastic, and had a slightly rigid outer shell.  Hoping to get a better handle on the entire situation, I dragged this strange object out from behind the bushes and spit it out in the middle of the yard.

A Visiting Beach Ball

The storm had brought me a slightly deflated beach ball!  

Happy with my discovery, I picked up the ball and guffawed my way across the yard and onto the driveway.  I needed to show Pa what I had found. Needless to say, he was quite impressed with my discovery.

I stood there in the middle of the driveway for a couple of moments holding my new found toy, but then I got tired and put it down.  It was then that things got a little scary.  Out of nowhere, a sudden gust of wind took hold of my beach ball and blew it toward me.

I backed away quickly.

Pa laughed and suggested we go inside to eat our breakfast.  I thought it was a good idea, so I quickly sidestepped the beach ball--careful never to take my eyes off it just in case it decided to attack again--and ran inside.

A couple of hours later, Sister took me outside again.  At first, I forgot all about the beach ball and walked right by it (it was now hiding to the right of the side step).  It wasn't until after I had checked the perimeter of the backyard for squirrels and made up my mind to go to the front gate and bark at nothing at all that I happened to come across the ball in passing.  Completely forgetting about my noisy plans, I scurried over to the ball, picked it up, and ran into the backyard.

Burying my Head

Attack!

For the next forty-five seconds I had a grand time.  I ran.  I jumped.  I guffawed.  I shook the yellow beach ball way up high over my head and from left to right allowing it to thump against my sides.  I even buried my face in it and attempted to roll on it (which didn't work).  But the fun was short lived.  While running with the ball in my mouth, I suddenly heard the whooshing of escaping air.  My tooth had punctured the thin yellow plastic shell.

So, with the beach ball punctured, there was only one thing left for me to do.  I had to kill it.  I stopped in my tracks and, with my foot firmly placed on the deflated ball, began picking at it with my razor-sharp teeth.  Within seconds, the ball was no more.

A Short-Lived Friendship