Freaking Out

Some dogs are heroes, able to fearlessly jump into action regardless of the situation.  Some are cowards, running away from the slightest noise.  Then there are dogs like me, who completely freak out when faced with weird situations.

Yesterday afternoon, Sister and I were hanging out in the backyard after lunch.  Sister was cleaning up the sad remains of her vegetable garden while I, rather than digging in one of the three holes I'm currently working on, was watching from the opposite side of the two foot high metal fence my family put up to keep me from helping myself to the veggies or from digging a fourth hole (I know, very insulting).  From my lookout location, I watched as Sister picked the final tomato off of the brittle remains of the final tomato plant and then rip those sad remains out of the ground by the stem.  She then turned, made her way to the fence and, with the dead plant in one hand and the tomato in the other, started stepping over it.

That was when it all went bad.  Sister's foot got caught in the fence and she fell down onto the pavement.

Now, I should mention that I was standing right next to where Sister fell, and between the scary movement of the fence and the fact that Sister could have easily crushed me had she landed only a few inches to the left (I saw my life flash before my eyes), I had no choice but to panic, make myself real low to the ground, and scurry three feet away before cautiously turning back to assess the situation.  Coincidentally, it was also during this surge of adrenaline that something in my highly evolved brain suddenly snapped.  So, with Sister wallowing on the ground, her hand bleeding and her knees and elbows scuffed, I started freaking out.

The first thing I did was grab the plastic ring (formally part of a flower pot) that had, prior to being dislodged from the root ball in the fall, been used as a barrier to protect the tomato plant from bugs.  You see, I have a long history of playing with plastic gardening pots; I steal them, I run around the backyard with them, and then I shred them all while my humans run and scream behind me.  Let me tell you, it is usually great fun.  But not this time; I was way too freaked out to focus my attention on this pastime and I only managed to scurry about five feet away before I noticed something better.

On the ground, a few inches from Sister's right hand, was the ripe tomato she had pulled from the plant only seconds before.  Now, as much as I love shredding plastic pots, I love eating way more, so I spat out the pot and scurried back to the scene of the accident.  Passing behind Sister to better my chances of success, I quickly scooped the runaway tomato into my mouth and turned to run (where I planned to scoff it down in peace).

I didn't, however, account for Sister's reflexes.  Ignoring the pain in her hand, she grabbed hold of the tomato while it was in my mouth and managed to pry the thing away from me (if I was in a better state of mind I'm sure I would have easily won this struggle).

Undeterred, I scurried away from Sister (who was still sitting in a heap on the pavement) and hotfooted it toward the shriveled up tomato plant she had thrown while going down.  "Leave it" Sister growled as I bent down to pick it up.  I did.

It was then that the pent up emotions bubbling inside of me suddenly burst out all at once and I was taken with the overwhelming need to run.  So I ran.  I ran in tight circles around the backyard.  I ran under the bushes.  I ran through the hostas.  I then ran right past Sister and, in a poorly timed attempt to put on the breaks and turn around, bounced off of the very same fence Sister had fallen over.  Startled, I did another lap of the backyard then made a bee line for my business area down the end of the driveway. After doing what I needed to do, I skidded to a halt at the side door and waited patiently for Sister, who had by now managed to lift herself up from "a puddle of [her] own blood" (her words, not mine...her hand was bleeding but only slightly), to let me in.

By the time I got inside, I was feeling much better (though a little out of breath).  I felt even better when, a few seconds later, I managed to shake Sister down for a cookie despite the fact that she was really only interested in making her way to the bathroom to clean up.  I then got a drink of water, found a nice spot on the bedroom floor, and took a nap.

Freaking out takes a lot out of a dog.

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.

Picking Pieces Off The Fence

I require (and I think deserve) a lot of attention. And when I say a lot of attention, what I really mean is that I deserve all the attention in the world. And when I don’t get all the attention in the world I have no choice but to go out of my way to achieve what is rightfully mine. A perfect example of this premise occurred last weekend.

Ma, Pa, and I were spending the weekend out east (Sister was in a bad mood and decided to stay home—I thought I was really going to miss her, but then I realized that I would not have to share the backseat of the car with her on the drive out so I got over it) and Saturday afternoon’s project, it was decided, would included Ma and Pa picking and trashing mushrooms that had sprouted up in the grass over the course of the previous week. I joined them outside in the backyard during this project.

Now, I’ve never ever been even remotely interested in mushrooms, so for the life of me I couldn’t fathom why Ma and Pa were so dedicated to the completion of this task. Perhaps, I thought, they were concerned that I might try to eat one one day. Ha! Highly unlikely. Why would I bother eating a mushroom from the backyard when there are far more stinky things to eat outside (i.e. half eaten fish dropped by seagulls) and far more tasty things to eat inside (i.e. cheese, apples, tomatoes, and steak)? Humans--I just don’t get them.

Anyway, regardless of my thoughts on the matter, there were two things I knew for certain that afternoon:

1. If Ma and Pa were searching for mushrooms, then they were not paying me the attention I deserved.
2. If Ma and Pa were not paying me the attention I deserved, then I would be forced to draw their attention the only way I knew how…by causing trouble.

I quickly scanned the backyard. At first I felt a bit discouraged; there didn’t seem to be many options. The neighbor dogs were not out so I couldn't rile them up, there really wasn’t much of a garden so I couldn’t dig in the mud, Ma had clipped all the overgrown weeds growing along the fences so I couldn’t graze on them, and the neighbor kids hadn’t thrown any of their toys over the fence so I couldn’t gnaw on them. But then, just when I was about to give up and simply bark at imaginary people passing by the house, a six inch long broken piece of picket fence caught my eye.

But I couldn’t simply run over to the fence. No sir. You see, as much as I craved attention, I wanted it on my terms and I certainly didn’t want to draw attention to myself before I retrieved my prize. So I strolled over to the broken piece of fence as nonchalantly as possible (if I were able to whistle—impossible due to my drooly jowls—I would have done so while I sauntered over to my prize). After an excruciatingly long period of time, I reached the fence, scooped up the broken piece, and, no longer trying to remain under the radar, galloped off across the yard.

My enthusiastic retreat with my prize did exactly what I expected it would: it drew Ma and Pa’s attention. First Ma tried to retrieve my prize from me which resulted in a rousing game of keep away. Then Pa stepped in. Pa doesn't like playing keep away so I reluctantly had to give up my prize when he told me to “drop it.” I was really kind of bummed about losing my piece of fence, but at least I drew everyone's attention.

Christmas 2014 Summary

Christmas 2014

I love Christmas!   Why wouldn't I?  It's the one day of the year that I get to spend every single waking hour eating, shredding wrapping paper, or playing with new toys.  And this year's Christmas celebration was one for the books; one of the best.  Why?  Because I made out like a bandit this year.  Here's some of the fun stuff I got:

• 2 squeaky tennis balls from Pa.
• A replacement Rudy the Reindeer from Sister (my former Rudy is missing three of his legs, both antlers, half his skull (including a nostril, an eye, and an ear), and his tail).
• A bag of cookies from Mecki, Bastille, and their mom.

  

  Rocky, Bullwinkle, and Me

• A set of Rocky and Bullwinkle plush toys from Pa's friend Jim and his dog Dixie.
• A floppy snowman toy from Tink, ZeeZee, and their mom
• The book "Ask Anna" from Ralphie and his mom (Sister and I read it before bedtime).
• A few packets of special flavoring for my food from Ma.
• A new bed from Pa (which I'm really not a big fan of--when will people finally accept the fact that my rightful place is on the couch?).

And the only fatalities (at least as of right now) from my list of Christmas gifts are a handful of cookies (which are obviously in my belly), one packet of special flavoring (again, in my belly), and the floppy snowman which I happily filleted the very first night I had him.

But the fun didn't end with presents.  I found numerous ways of entertaining myself throughout Christmas Day (a necessity brought about by the fact that my family forbid me to shred any of my other toys so soon after receiving them).  So instead, I...

• helped unwrap presents (I believe my teeth may have accidentally gotten a bit too close for comfort to some people's fingers.  To that I say:  I'm sorry).
• shredded discarded wrapping paper (I was helping--the more finely shredded the wrapping paper is the more of it can be cram into a single garbage bag.  To that I say:  you're welcome).
• carried off presents that didn't belong to me (which lead to numerous joyful romps throughout the house as my family chased after me to retrieve their packages).
• managed to get close enough to the snack food table to lick a few shrimp (which ended up backfiring on me because, rather than give me the "tainted" goods, Pa ate the shrimp I slobbered on.  To that I say:  not cool, man, not cool).

My Face Says It All

There was, however, one low point this Christmas.  Sister received a goat.  Sure, it wasn't a real goat, but I think it still warrants a certain level of concern on my part.  What if this is a "gateway goat"?  What if Ma and Pa are merely testing Sister to see if she cares for this one before getting her a real one?  If that's the case, there is a horrifying possibility of waking up on the morning of Sister's birthday and coming face to face with a real-live-head-butting-sideways-prancing goat.  The horror!

Halloween 2013

Trick or Treat!

Happy Halloween to all my two and four legged friends!

I had a very busy day today.  You see, in addition to keeping an eye on Ma and Sister who both took the day off from work (and believe me, keeping them out of trouble is a full time job) I...

• stole and punctured Sister's witch hat.
• shredded a pumpkin place mat.
• raced Sister for a runaway Gobstopper (Sister got to it first, but only because she actually saw where the candy landed--I only heard it bounce).
• barked at all the little ghosts and goblins who came begging at my door for candy but didn't offer me a single belly rub in return (some people can be so rude!).
• spit all over the front storm door while barking at all the little ghosts and goblins who came begging at my door for candy but didn't offer me one single solitary belly rub in return (can you tell I'm insulted?).

But that's not all.  At Sister's insistence, I also posed for a few Halloween pictures (and let me tell you, Sister is lucky I'm such a good sport--I hate dressing up, yet I always humor her just long enough for her to snap a few pictures).  Here are a few of them:

And while I might be good sport, Sister needs to learn the concept of quitting while one's ahead because...well...this happens:

RUN!!!!

Blue Ball

I'm not your traditional ball dog.  I don't chase after balls and I certainly don't catch them in mid air.  I do, however, collect tennis balls on my daily walk to the local park (it is the job of whoever is walking me to carry the balls home for me), walk off with balls lost and forgotten by the neighborhood kids (ill gotten gains are the best), and walk around the house with a ball in my mouth while my family sings the "Bally-Ball" song (perhaps some day I'll talk my family into recording it for some major music label).

Anyway, Pa's dream has always been to have a traditional ball dog; one he can play fetch with for hours on end.  A couple of years ago, in an attempt to make Pa's dream come true, Sister set about trying to teach me how to play fetch.  She went out and bought me a special blue ball to use only during training sessions and had a bag full of Cheerios in her pocket to use as rewards.  She gave me daily pep talks ("You're a retriever," she told me, "fetching is in your blood!").  Then she developed a game, complete with word cues, which we played everyday at lunchtime in the living room.

Now, I know what you're thinking, "How can you play fetch inside the house?" (at the time, Sister deemed it too cold and too icy to play outside for extended periods).  Well, it wasn't easy.  Sister would sit in the living room and throw the ball into the adjoining dinning room with the command "go get!"  Off I'd run and weave my way between the legs of the dining room table and chairs.  Once I found the ball (sometimes, it would ricochet off a chair and wedge itself behind the china cabinet at which point Sister would have to come and liberate it) I would grab it and, with the promise of a Cheerio and the command "bring it back," I would return to the living room.  After some persuasion (read begging and pleading on Sister's part) I would give the ball up and collect my treat.  Then we'd start again.

Overall, the system worked well enough, however, a ball dog I was not.  You see, the game never really translated well to the outdoors.  Provided I actually ran after the thrown ball (there are so many other more interesting things to do outside than chase a ball), once I got it, I would end up playing keep away with Sister rather than bring it back to her.  As time went on, Sister and I gave up on the experiment and the game was all but forgotten.

That is, until two days ago.

While cleaning out the cabinet under the sink, Ma and Pa discovered my special blue ball and, after I barked at them loudly because I wanted it (I always know when there is a toy hidden just out of my reach), I was reintroduced to my toy.  Ma and Pa tried to play the blue ball game with me, but sadly something just wasn't right.  They didn't know all the rules.

The following day (yesterday), Ma suggested that Sister give me my blue ball and once she did, everything suddenly clicked.

She sat on the living room floor, showed me my blue ball, and chucked it into the dining room screaming "go get!"  Despite the oppressive heat, I barreled into the dining room and picked up the ball.  Then I heard the command "bring it back."  Into the living room I scurried.  Then Sister said something that wasn't part of the original game:  "Toss!"

"Toss."  That's a new addition to my repertoire.  You see, I was never particularly good at the commands "give" or "drop."  Any situation that called for either term usually resulted in a fun (at least for me) game of keep away.  Well a few months ago, my family realized that the word "toss" actually meant something to me.  They discovered that if they said "toss" I'd (most of the time) spit whatever I had in my mouth at them like a pitcher throwing a ball.  Now, rather than "give" or "drop," I'm told to "toss" whatever I have (generally something I've stolen).  Everyone wins; it's a game for me (last night, after I stole Pa's flip-flop, Ma told me to "toss" the shoe at Sister who was laying on the floor in front of the fan--I got a cookie for doing that!) and my family doesn't have to chase me when I steal something.

So, anyway, Sister called out "toss" and I spit the ball at her and everyone, Ma, Pa, and Sister all screamed "Yay!" in unison.  Now, for those not in the know, "Yay!" is a synonym of the phrase "you get a cookie" (though Ma, Pa, and Sister will argue that I am very much mistaken).  Despite our difference of opinion in terminology, Pa jumped up and gave me a cookie. 

The game continued for multiple rounds and I earned three additional cookies (sadly, I did not get a cookie for each and every "toss").  After a while, though, Sister declared that it was too hot to continue playing and that we should take a break.

Maybe we'll play again tonight!

Mean Sister

I've been feeling pretty restless lately.  I think it is because my foot is still bandaged up and I can't really run around and cause trouble like I'm used to.  As a result, I've had to settle for low level mischievousness--nothing really creative, but still effective at annoying people. Since my last post I've attacked a roll of paper towels, destroyed a plastic bottle (sadly, there was no juice in it), shredded my protective boot, and stole a stapler, a TV remote, a couple of crumpled papers, a brush, a pen, and some tissues (which I picked straight from the box) from Sister's room.  True, I've kept myself busy, but I still feel slightly frustrated that my bandaged foot keeps slowing me down.

That frustration boiled over this morning when Sister took me outside in the backyard to survey the damage from the thunderstorm that blew through the night before.  Overall, there wasn't much to look at.  A couple of small branches had fallen from the tree, nothing I couldn't handle.  Then, from the bushes, Sister pulled out a branch that was at least two times longer than me with lots and lots of branches and leaves to strip off.  Well I couldn't control myself; I charged, jumped up, and grabbed the stick from Sister's hands and dragged it to the other side of the yard where I proceeded to tear it to shreds.  It wasn't until I started eating the stick that Sister decided that it was time to take it away from me.  Not wanting to give up my stick, I jumped up, grabbed the end, and started running (Sister does not like playing keep away, but I think it is a lot of fun).  When Sister finally got the stick away from me I went crazy!  I started running around in the backyard like a possessed dog; keeping low to the ground and trying (sometimes unsuccessfully) not to trip over my bandaged foot.  Sister was concerned that I might hurt myself and screeched that I should stop, but I payed no attention to her.  Instead, I raced down the driveway to the gate then back up the drive way and into the backyard narrowly missing Sister while doing so.  Then I ran around in circles pausing, every once in a while, to have a go at tearing the boot off my foot).   Exasperated, Sister eventually called out the magic words:  "You want a cookie?"  Without hesitation I bolted to the side door.

Then Sister did a very mean thing.  Rather than giving me the cookie as soon as we got into the house, she instead brought it into the living room, sat down, and told me that I wasn't going to get the cookie until I relaxed.  At first I thought, "this isn't going to be too bad....Sister is a pushover...she'll give me the cookie in no time," but while I sat there ears forward and drooling, I started to realize that Sister wasn't kidding around.  For ten minutes we sat staring at each other (okay, I was staring at the place I last saw the cookie and Sister was staring at the television) then, five minutes later and extremely exhausted, I decided to give in.  With a large and dramatic sigh I rolled on my side and put my head down.  Only then, when I had given up all hope of ever eating that cookie, did Sister give it to me.

After I had eaten my cookie and got a drink of water (had to replenish my drool supply), Sister came over to me and asked if I wanted to go for a walk.  "Aah, trying to get back on my good side are we?" I thought.  I wagged my tail eagerly.

Once my leash and collar were put on, Sister and I started down the block in the direction of the park.  When we reached the first intersection I stopped dead in my tracks; Sister had turned left rather than continuing straight ahead.  Now, I am not a big fan of change.  Sister and I have a very specific route to the park that we always use and whenever she tries to stray from it I throw myself down in the middle of the street and show my belly (it's a win win...I make her look silly to passing drivers and occasionally I get a belly rub).  Anyway, when she noticed that I had stopped, she assured me that we were still going to the park, but that we had to go the other way because the Pomeranian on the next block was out and she didn't want me to pull her over to greet it (I can't resist saying "hi" to little dogs).  Then she pointed down the street she wanted us to use.  "Look," she said, "a Chocolate Lab!"  Now, while I can't resist saying "hi" to little dogs, I absolutely love dealing with dogs my size because I can box with them and bunk chests.  Begrudgingly (I didn't want to appear too eager less Sister would think its okay to change our route daily), I turned away from my established route and headed down the street in hopes of meeting the Chocolate Lab.  My hopes, sadly, were dashed a block later when the Lab continued going straight and Sister, looking to return to our usual route, turned right.

What a mean Sister!