Dig, Dig, Digging No More

I dig in the snow.

I dig in the doggy pool.

I dig on the carpet.

I dig in the side garden.

I dig in the vegetable garden.

I dig by the cherry tree.

I dig under the forsythia bush (my favorite).

My love of digging has always been a bit of a sore spot between me and my family; a sore spot with some definite mixed signals mixed in.  They have no issue with me digging in the doggy pool and they actually build (and rebuild) snow mountains for me each winter.  But the concept of me digging on the carpet or in the garden is seriously frowned upon.

And oh, has my family tried to discourage my digging in inappropriate places over the years.  They've turned the vegetable garden into a "Land of No" with the assistance of a metal portable fence.  They've blocked my favorite digging spots with flower pots (which I run off with), buckets, garbage can covers, and broken pieces of fence.  They've blocked my access to my favorite carpeted areas with books and chairs.  They've cut back the forsythia to make my digging area less private.  And, as I mentioned in a recent post, they've developed a sixth sense when it comes to reading my mind and can therefore head me off with a stern "no" when I've merely look at a patch of dirt.

Yesterday, however, Ma took an epic maneuver in the ongoing battle between my digging and the welfare of her garden.  First, she filled in my latest hole under the forsythia bush.  Then, she planted four cement pavers right in the middle of that prime digging real estate.

 
Touché, Ma; well played.  But don't think for a minute that this war is over.  I'll come up with a way of reclaiming my favorite digging spot!

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.

Snow Day

Walking Through The Snow

It snowed this weekend—a lot. In my neck of the woods, the total snowfall amounted to almost two feet which was great because I love snow and, in my view, the more the better. Of course, I am always concerned about my more vertically challenged friends like Mecki and his little brother Bastille in storms like this, but their Mom posted some videos of them playing in a shoveled out spot in the yard, so they seem to be doing okay.

I think perhaps the reason I enjoy snow so much is because it allows me the opportunity to unleash my wild and crazy side. Take this recent storm. When Ma and I went outside first thing yesterday morning after the blizzard was over I:

• bunny hopped around the backyard in circles at top speed (bunny hopping is the only way to get through such deep snow efficiently)
• located and ripped out a rosebush branch that dared to peek out from underneath the snow 
• did my business wherever I pleased. 

But hidden just behind these happy moments of frolicking through the snow and doing business wherever I saw fit, dark forces were brewing.

Balancing Snow On My Snout

Later that very afternoon, Sister and I went outside to play in the snow. After chasing me around for a little bit, Sister and I went our separate ways; I found a nice stick to chew on and Sister decided to build a snowman. Sister spent a lot of time sculpting the snow while I, having finished with my stick fairly early on, watched patiently from afar. Once the three layers of her snowman were built, Sister retrieved a scarf, a carrot, and a couple of walnuts (she didn’t have any coal) that she had brought out with her earlier and had left on the patio table. She wrapped the scarf around the snowman’s neck, but never got the opportunity to insert the eyes and nose.

You see, that’s when I pounced!

What's That Over There?

Sister's Snowman

Like a bat out of hell, I charged the snowman and, propelling myself upward by launching myself off of its bottom sphere, plowed straight into its head. The snowman’s head popped off on impact and dropped to the ground in one piece (Sister is obviously very skilled at making snowman heads). Wasting no time, I pounced on the head and immediately started pummeling it with my paws and breaking it into pieces with my mouth. Oblivious to Sister’s screams and riding high from the fun of beheading the snow creature, I then turned around and threw myself at the snowman’s torso. Digging like a fiend (my loyal readers know how much I enjoy “dig, dig, digging” on the mountains of snow my family build for me when clearing the driveway), I tore apart the snowman’s chest, leaving behind a gaping hole in my wake. Satisfied that the snowman was indeed dead, I ran down the driveway to bark at someone who had the gall of walking by my house. Sister remained behind, mourning her decapitated and disemboweled friend.

Covered In Snow

The remains of Sister’s snowman still stands in the middle of the backyard and, while I’m looking forward to going back outside to finish him off, I can’t help but wonder one thing: Whatever happened to that carrot Sister was going to use as a nose?