Look who’s turning 12 years old today!
That's right, yours truly!
And it's going to be a great birthday. I've already been promised parades (some might say they are in celebration of Memorial Day, but we all know they're really for the birthday boy), lots of new toys, some tasty snacks, and a visit from Aunt B (first time in a very long time).
I can't wait!
Despite taking to blogging like a fish to water, I rely a lot on more traditional forms of communication for much of my local knowledge. Of course, there’s the “newspaper” which includes all the bushes, trees, fences, fire hydrants, and telephone poles I sniff on my walks with Pa, but my real source of information and gossip comes from checking the hotline.
The hotline is the web of dogs situated throughout the neighborhood who call out news to each other. Think of it like the game “I’m Going On A Picnic” but done with town criers. Fluffy learns that the mailman has arrived on the scene and calls out the news. Spot hears Fluffy’s news and spreads the word that the mailman is on the scene and a new dog just moved in next door. Then Prince howls that the mailman is on Fluffy’s street, a new dog moved in next to Spot, and his (Prince’s) human is cooking hamburgers. Before you know it, the whole town is barking and information is freely traveling from one street to the next.
But the hotline isn’t just there for information transfer. No, it’s also there as a superb way of causing a ruckus which, as everyone knows, is one of my favorite pastimes. Here’s how you cause a ruckus using the hotline:
But sometimes, there’s no one on the line. I go outside and bark and bark and bark and no one responds—not one yip, howl, or “woof.” Desperate for gossip and/or a hankering for trouble, in these situations I end up walking from one end of the property to the other—from the front gate to the outdoor “Land of No” to behind the garage—barking loud and long and listening for any response from any direction.
Today was one of those days. I came charging out of the house in full voice and barked for two solid minutes without a single neighborhood dog responding. Talk about depressing.
Comfort is really important to me. Now, obviously this is not a stop the presses moment to my loyal readers. I know that I wax poetic about comfort all the time on this blog. And as a result, you all know my go to comfort spots including...
the couch,
Sister's bed,
my pillow,
and the nice cool floor.
But there's one other place--one special place--that is quite possibly my all-time favorite relaxation zone. It is none other than the porch out east.
Now, I know what you're thinking. How could a hard splinter filled porch compete with a nice soft bed? Well, it does.
It's called "deck-time" in my house. As the winter turns into spring and the warmth of the sun starts overcoming the chill in the air, I take every opportunity I can get to spend all my waking (and non-waking) hours sprawled out on the deck soaking in the sun. With my giant water bowl beside me and my spare pillow at my disposal, I can spend hours out there. And I don't even need company. Pa and Ma can come and go from the deck to the yard to the house and I won't bat an eye or bark hysterically (yes, Rigby, the King of Barking, who barks at everything real and imagined and never wants to be left alone for fear of being left out of an exciting event or maybe a snack, actually lounges quietly by himself for hours on end ignoring passing dogs, squirrels, and humans).
And I take advantage of my entire deck when I'm out there. I start in a nice sunny spot facing the street then, when the view gets old or I've drooled excessively in that spot, I get up, get a drink of water, and find a new spot facing the backyard. A little while later, I get up again, get another drink, and relocate to a third spot. As long as it's a sunny spot on my deck, it's got my name on it.
Of course, it's possible to overdo a good thing and sometimes my family has to interrupt my lounging to suggest that maybe I've spent enough time in the sun and should come in and cool off (it's never good when you start smelling like roasted chicken). They're right of course, but even still it is always hard to walk away from my deck...unless of course the air conditioner is on inside the house.
