The Games We Play

Chillin' on Two Pillows

Ever since I was a pup, Sister and I would play a game where she would hold a cookie in one of her two clenched fists and I was tasked, when presented with these fists side by side, to pick out which one had the cookie using only my keen nose and my canine intuition.  Comparing the choices, of course, involved a lot of slobber transfer from my drooly jowls to Sister’s hands, but once I made up my mind, I would tap the hand of my choosing with my snout repeatedly (or, in my younger days, slash the attached arm repeatedly with my nails).  Sister would always try to trick me—she’d give me the option of switching hands one last time (Monty Hall’s got nothing on Sister)—but I always stood firm with my decision and most of the time ended up being correct.  “You’d be a great bomb sniffing dog,” Sister once told me, “if only bombs were made of cookies.” 

But that’s an old game, a game that Sister and I have played for years and years.  Recently, I’ve come up with a new game.  A game I play with Pa.

Each morning, after breakfast and my first perimeter search of the day, Pa gives me a beef flavored vitamin pill which I’ve happily scoffed down every day for years and years.  Well lately, I’ve been occasionally snubbing my vitamin, but not with any regularity.  I’ll accept the vitamin on Monday, but snub it on Tuesday and Wednesday.  And on Thursday, I’ll take it again, but spit it out on Friday (after breaking it into dust with my teeth) and so on.  There’s no rhyme or reason to my snubbing (at least my family hasn’t figured it out and I’m not telling), but I find the thrill of keeping my humans guessing is quite invigorating and the peanut butter used to persuade me to eat my vitamin on snub days is pretty nice too.

Vincent van Rigby

My loyal readers know that I am a pup with many talents.  I maintain this blog, I’m Head of Security, I shred large things into smaller things, and I can hear (and respond) to a car door slamming three blocks away.  My loyal readers also know of my love for Bob Ross.  Well, I’m happy to report that I have added a new talent to my repertoire and it was inspired by Bob, himself. 

I am now an artist! 

Before I continue, allow me to take a step back. 

Sister spends a lot of time watching videos of cute dogs doing adorable things.  Normally, I am quite offended by this behavior as everyone knows that I’m the cutest and most adorable dog and that she should be spending her time doing more productive things like jotting down my inner most thoughts for you, my readers.  Anyway, every once in a while, she does come upon an interesting video with an interesting idea and her most recent discovery was one of those instances.  Even still, I will admit that I was a bit hesitant as I watched Sister bring all her art supplies down into the living room. 

With a glint in her eye, Sister set up all her acrylic paint bottles in a row on the living room floor and called me over.  Obligingly, I slipped and slided my way over to her (I’ve got an uncanny ability to find and snooze on the single one-foot by one-foot square space on the floor not covered by an area rug which therefore results in getting up with all four feet facing in the same direction something of a challenge) and observed the bottles.  There were colors everywhere: dark grey, medium grey, light grey and everything in between!  Sister encouraged me to come over and pick out my favorites.  Carefully I sniffed the bottles and zeroed in on one particularly pretty grey.  I picked it up in mouth and took a step in the direction of running off with it.  Sister tackled me and wrenched the bottle from my mouth with a “good boy! Now pick another one!”  I sniffed some more and found another grey to my liking.  I picked it up, Sister tackled me, and, again, pulled the bottle out of my mouth.  “Okay, keep going,” she said.  Again and again, I picked until I got bored with the remaining greys and started to walk away.  Sister grabbed my collar and told me that I had picked out four colors: black, forest green, teal, and brown.  I looked up at her kindly thinking “those are some pretty weird names for the color grey.” 

Sister scooped up all the bottles of paint then scurried away with the four I had chosen.  I, on the other hand, decided to take a nap. 

A few minutes later, I was awoken by the nutty smell of peanut butter wafting in from the dining room.  With great interest and a rumbling belly, I make my way into the room just in time for Sister to present me with a strangely shaped and yummy smelling item. 

Turns out, while I was asleep, Sister squirted a canvas with the four paints I had chosen and covered it with plastic wrap.  Next, she coated the plastic wrap with a layer of peanut butter.  My job was to lap up the peanut butter and, in the process, smear the paint around the canvas.  She had me at “lap up the peanut butter.”

So, I did my artistic duty and licked away at the nutty goodness.  By the time it was gone, I had created the following masterpiece. 

 

This one, Bob, is dedicated to you.

Guilt and PB&Ks

My family often comments how easily I pick up tricks and remember things that I approve of and how stubborn I am when it comes to adapting to the behaviors they favor or remembering things that they think are important. Exasperated by my “selective memory,” they’ve made many a comment such as “he remembers that he saw a cat hiding behind the garage last week and keeps looking for it, yet if you tell him to “sit,” he looks at you like you’re speaking a different language.”

It’s offensive the way they keep bringing it up so frequently, however, they aren’t entirely wrong. I’m an independent pup and I make up my own mind and do what I want. Not to mention, sometimes that “selective memory” is actually part of a clever plot to make my family do exactly what I want them to do. Here’s a recent example.

About a week ago, when I went outside to do my early evening perimeter check after my family finished their dinner, Ma surprised me upon my return with a PB&K (Peanut Butter [stuffed in a] Kong) left on my pillow. It was a great surprise and I happily settled down for an evening of eating peanut butter and gnawing on the rubbery Kong.

The next night, after I went outside and did my perimeter check, I wasted no time in getting back inside the house figuring that another PB&K would be waiting for me. I ran through the kitchen, I skidded through the dining room, I scurried through the living room, and I screeched to a halt in front of my pillow. But there was no PB&K! In utter disbelief, I checked on either side of my pillow—maybe it had rolled off—but I wasn’t wrong; there was no PB&K. I turned and looked to Ma. She and Sister were laughing. “He expected another PB&K to appear on his pillow—how does he remember?” they asked each other.

I was both angry and embarrassed. It was bad enough that they were making fun of me, but to be subjected to such ridicule without the reward of a PB&K was beyond disturbing.

But then, I got an idea. If I managed to make Ma feel guilty about making fun of me, eventually she’d be forced to get me a PB&K.

I turned back to my pillow and, feigning panic, continued looking. I looked all around my pillow and under the couch. I checked where Ma and Sister were sitting (making sure to drag my slobbery chin across their legs in the process). Then I went back to my pillow and stared at it in disbelief. Guilt ridden, and a little grossed out by the slobber dripping down her knee, Ma eventually caved. Into the kitchen she went to make me a PB&K (and to wipe off her leg with a paper towel).

The next evening—night three—arrived and I came into the house much as I did the previous one. Into the living room I rushed and was discouraged to find that, yet again, there was no PB&K waiting for me. I turned on my faux-anxiety and this time Sister caved first.

But rather than get my me PB&K, Sister was mean and decided that she should first have some fun at my expense. She went into the kitchen and brought back into the living room not a PB&K but a cookie. “Cover his eyes,” Sister instructed Ma and then, once my eyes were covered, Sister quickly hid MY COOKIE!!!!

“Find the cookie” Sister instructed as Ma removed her hands from my eyes.

Suddenly, my faux-anxiety morphed into sheer panic. Where was my cookie?! I looked at Ma. I looked at my pillow. I looked at Sister. Then I went back to Ma. Ma and Sister tried coaching me. They kept instructing me to find the cookie and pointed toward my spot on the couch. “No,” I thought frantically, “that’s my spot, not my cookie.” I was inconsolable.

Eventually, Ma reached over to my spot and pulled the cookie from the corner to the middle of the cushion. “Find the cookie” she instructed pointing directly at the Milkbone. By this time, I was completely and totally frantic and did not even notice that the cookie was right there in the open. “Use your nose” Sister instructed which I found less than useful. The laughter issuing from both Ma and Sister was even less so.

Eventually, Ma handed me the cookie. It tasted good, but I knew two things that would taste even better: slinging guilt and a PB&K.

Although I had consumed the cookie, I made sure not to rachet down the anxiety. I continued pacing the room looking for cookies even though I knew there were no others. After a few moments of watching me search the room, the guilt got to be too much for Ma and she stalked off to the kitchen for my PB&K. I had won on both counts. 

So yes, I had to undergo some criticism, but really, in the end, I won out. And all because my family has been so well trained.

Four Vignettes

Bruno:

Ill Gotten Gains

There's a new dog on the block out east--a boxer puppy named Bruno. Bruno and I had a meet and greet in my backyard a couple of weeks ago and while he was very playful (he kept jumping over me and gnawing on my ears), I was way more interested in the squeaky ball his human had brought over for us to play with.  In fact, I was so interested in the ball that I basically ignored Bruno.  When it was time for Bruno to go home, no one was able to wrestle the toy away from me.  So, I kept it.  Well, I kept it for the night.  The following morning, before we left for home, Pa tossed the squeaky ball over the fence and into Bruno's backyard.  Sigh.  Anyway, Bruno's squeaky ball can visit any time it wants.

In the Wash:
My evenings are usually spent snoozing on my end of the couch which is protected from fur and slobber by an old bed sheet.  Two days ago, I was shocked to discover that the protective sheet was gone and a number of pillows were piled high on the cushion preventing me from claiming my spot.  Undeterred, I headed toward the other end of the couch, but found that Ma had beaten me to it.  Becoming concerned, I started to pace in front of the couch, looking for a way up.  Ma noticed my anxiety and told me that I wasn't allowed on the couch that evening and that I'd have to snooze on the floor.  I started to whine.  Ma explained to me that my sheet was in the dryer and that I couldn't lay on the couch until it was dry.  I started to bark.  Ma jumped up, went downstairs, and brought back a new old bed sheet for me to use.  I waited just long enough for Ma to cover most of the couch before pushing by her, jumping onto the cushion, and flopping down with a sigh.

Ears of Steel:
One evening, when Sister came home from work, she decided to make a snack of peanut butter and jelly crackers (PB&J on saltines).  Alone in the kitchen (I was in the living room), and not in the mood for sharing, Sister decided to work as quietly as possible with the hope that I wouldn't scurry in looking for samples.  She retrieved the crackers and jelly with no issue, but then she knew those would be easy to obtain.  The issue was the peanut butter (my favorite).  As quietly as possible, Sister opened the pantry door, picked up the peanut butter jar, slid it onto the counter top, and unscrewed the top.  Proud of her accomplishment of doing the aforementioned tasks silently, Sister turned around to get a knife to spread the peanut butter on her crackers with, but stopped suddenly in her tracks.  There I was, sitting at her feet, looking up at the peanut butter jar, and drooling.

A Little Too Quick
At lunch time, when Sister says it is time to go outside and check the perimeters, I immediately jump up and scurry to the door.  Usually, just as I reach the top step, Sister opens the storm door which allows me to exit the house without actually having to slow down my pace.  Well, I don't know if it was her, me, or a combination of both of us, but earlier this week the timing of this little tradition was horribly off and I ended up running head first into the storm door long before Sister managed to open it.

Crazy From the Heat

The hot weather brings out the worst in me.  If I'm not stretched out on the kitchen floor trying to suck the cold out of the tiles while moaning piteously, or sighing loudly in the bedroom hoping that someone will take pity on me and turn on the air conditioner, I'm up and about searching for ways to be troublesome.

Now, seeing that it is nearly the end of June in New York, the temperature outside has been slowly climbing.  Not high enough, I'm sad to say, to guarantee that someone would turn on the air conditioner for me (don't the humans realize that I'm wearing a fur coat?!), but certainly high enough to seek out trouble.  I started causing trouble in earnest last week when for three consecutive mornings I woke Ma and Pa up at 6:30am, 5:30am, and 4:30am to go outside and eat breakfast before returning to bed (for some reason, Ma and Pa did not find this arrangement fun) and nearly destroyed one of Sister's shoes when she wasn't looking.  Both offenses, however, proved to be merely practice for the troublesome situations that I would get myself into yesterday.

What Remains of My Pillow

First, I killed my pillow in Ma and Pa's room.  I ripped off the zipper pulls (and deposited them neatly at the threshold of the room), tore open the zipper track, then proceeded to rip the track from the fabric of the pillow cover.  If Sister hadn't heard the ripping sound (I had actually started killing my pillow prior to her coming home from work, but because I hadn't finished what I was doing, I was forced to continue with her in the house), I would have managed to pull the actual pillow from the pillow case and potentially shred it, but, well, I guess it wasn't meant to be.  Sister yelled at me for breaking my pillow and put it into the "Land of No," but not before I managed to give her a big wet kiss across the face (I'm not a kissy dog, but I've come to realize that a well timed sign of affection usually softens my humans up).

After about five minutes of "I'm not talking to you because you were not a good boy," Sister asked me if I wanted to go outside.  Of course I did!  Sister and I spent about ten minutes checking the perimeters and pulling wild mushrooms out of the lawn (Sister's concerned that I might try to eat the mushrooms, but why would I want to eat them when there is an entire yard full of sticks and grass to chew on?).  Anyway, after a while, Sister decided to take a break from the hunt and sit on the side step.  Usually, I join Sister at the side step, sit on her feet and demand that she scratch my neck until I collapse on the floor and demand a belly rub.  It's our thing.  This time, however, I kept myself busy by snuffing around on the floor which lulled Sister into a false sense of security (which was exactly my plan).

Helping Myself

My troublesome activities were brought to Sister's attention when she heard the distinct sound of my lips smacking.  She looked over to me and realized, with horror, that I was helping myself to a strawberry plant that was sitting alongside the side stoop.  Sister jumped up screeching "No!" and shooed me off, but I had instantaneously developed a taste for strawberries and a little screaming and arm flailing was not about to stop me.  Back to the strawberry plant I went, again and again, carefully pulling off only the ripe fruit with what have now been dubbed my strawberry pickin' teeth (AKA my incisors).  Fed up with my antics and desperate to protect the remaining strawberries, Sister picked up the plant and placed it on top of a garbage can figuring that I'd leave it alone now that it was no longer at eye level.  Well, she was wrong.  I strolled right up to the garbage can, stretched out my neck, and started plucking off the strawberries that hung down the sides of the pot.  More screeching and arm flailing occurred before Sister picked up the plant and carried it toward the backyard (the whole time I was hot on her heals nipping at the strawberries that still hung from the plant's stems).  Once in the backyard, Sister placed the plant dead center on the picnic table; completely out of reach of any neck stretching or lapping tongues.  After a couple of quick calculations, I realized that the strawberry plant would not be out of reach if I jumped up onto the table.  The issue, however, was being left alone with the plant long enough to make my move--an issue which I never managed to overcome.  Every time I went outside, I hotfooted it to the table, but by this time everyone in my family was on to me and would not leave me alone to put my plan into motion.  The next morning (today) the plant was moved to the safety of the outdoor "Land of No."

Next in my troublesome rampage (I was now only four hours in), I stole one of Sister's shoes, stole my travel shirt, ran up and down the stairs like a crazy dog just for the fun of it (a particularly treacherous activity seeing that the living room is not carpeted and I tend to skid into the couch when I transition from the stair to hardwood floors at top speeds), barked hysterically at some person who had the nerve to walk by the house, and then rummaged through Pa's closet.

Completely exhausted by my trouble laced spree, Ma offered me the one thing that would calm me down:  a PB&K also known as a peanut butter and kong (my kong toy stuffed with peanut butter).  After chowing down on all the peanut buttery goodness, I settled down and took a nap.  That nap transitioned smoothly into a restful night sleep which was apparently just what the doctor ordered because I woke up recharged and ready to begin anew today (I shredded the dust cover of Pa's book).

Dueling Visits to the Vet

On Saturday, Sister took Daisy the hamster to the vet to have her second mani-pedi. As you might recall, Daisy’s fist mani-pedi was back in March and it was, let’s just say, memorable for all involved. My readers might also recall that the day after Daisy's trip to the vet I demanded my own visit.

Well, it’s happened again. Daisy went to the vet at 10:30 on Saturday morning and I followed suit two hours later.

Here are our stories (the first of which features guest blogger Daisy):

Daisy’s Trip to the Vet

by Daisy the Hamster

On Saturday morning I was hanging out in my habitat, sleeping under some nice fluffy tissues in a little nest of bedding I created the night before, when all of a sudden Mom pulled back my tissues, scooped me up, and transferred me over to my small travel habitat which lacks all the amenities of home (no wheel, no food bowl, no water bottle) all of which I would have found extremely disturbing and rude if it wasn't for the fact that I was too sleepy to care--I'm nocturnal after all and Mom's morning is my late evening--and Mom seemed hell-bent on whatever she was doing which included carrying my travel habitat out to her car, driving off, parking, and carrying me into a building that I immediately recognized to be the place where I bit and drew blood from two technicians who tried to trim my nails.

After a couple of uncomfortable minutes of wearily watching four dogs watch me in the waiting room, I heard my name being called and Mom carried me into the exam room where I was greeted with the comment of "is she any easier to handle?" by the vet after which the vet stuck her hand in my habitat and chased me around about ten times trying to pick me up while muttering how fast I was until eventually getting such a good hold on me that not only was I unable to break free, but I was also unable to bite her fingers, which then allowed time for the vet technician, with much reservation, to come forward with the nail clippers that were bigger than me, grab hold of each of my tiny legs and trim each of my less than tiny nails only stopping long enough to ask the vet whether or not I had any dew claws that needed trimming.

In the mean time, I contemplated an alternative to squirming away or biting because last time I found myself in this predicament, I threw almost everything I had at escape--I bit, I wiggled, I jumped, I peed, I pooped--but nothing made any difference so this time I needed to come up with another strategy and while hanging there with the technician trimming my nails I came up with another idea which included spitting all the reserved seeds I had stored in my cheek pouch at my captors which, rather than make them cringe in horror, made them laugh which just made me angrier, but before I could spit the whole peanut half I had stored deep down in the recesses of my pouch (with the target of the nearby window) the technician said she was done and the vet, AKA "The Muscle," put me back in my travel habitat.

Mom carried me back into the waiting room which was now, thankfully, void of all dogs who could stare at me, paid for what she called my mani-pedi, carried me out to her car, drove home, and put me back in my habitat where, after stuffing the pumpkin seeds that Grams gave me into my newly empty cheek pouches, I scurried back to my nice fluffy tissue nest and fell asleep.

Rigby’s Trip to the Vet

by...well...me!

Pa couldn't take it any longer; he couldn't deal with my sad looks and my "poor busted snout."  It was time to go to the vet.

Now, I know some pups dislike going to the vet, but not me.  I’m a big fan of it and here’s why:

• It involves a ride in the car (always fun).
• I’m a big hit at the vet’s office (the receptionists all oooh and ahhh over me). 
• The vet always has nice things to say about me (like how sparkling white my teeth are).

Poor Busted Snout

So anyway, Doc. Petermann (my usual vet, Doc. Friedman, was off) called me into the exam room and took a look at my snout.  She said that the wound was healing nicely and that she'd give me some antibiotics just to make sure that it didn't get infected.  Now when someone says the word antibiotics, what I actually hear is the phrase peanut butter and pill sandwich (pill coated in peanut butter between a split oyster cracker).  One word:  YUM!  Anyway, I was standing there salivating when the doctor dropped a bombshell:  the scuff on my snout might never turn black again.  Well, it's a good thing I wasn't eating a peanut butter and pill sandwich at that moment because I would have spit it across the room in shock.  What do you mean my snout might not turn black again?!

Now in the past, Pa has been very supportive in situations such as this.  He's the one, after all, who told me that the scar by my eye (from when I tried moving the house with the side of my face) makes me look tough.  Well, he let me down this time.  Pa pointed out the fact that at the rate my nose was turning pink (he says I'm wearing it out by sniffing too much), the scuff need not even bother attempting to turn black.  What never!

And for the record, my nose is not turning pink!

Shortly thereafter, Pa and I left the office armed with a bruised relationship and a prescription bottle of antibiotics.  When we got home, Pa tried to make up for what he said about my nose by giving me my first peanut butter and pill sandwich.  I ate it, but only because I didn't want to waste the peanut butter.

So there you go:  one day, two vet stories, and neither one particularly pleasant.  I think I, however, deserve the most sympathy because the next day I was given a bath.  Talk about a bad weekend.

Ralphie!

And that leads to one other thing.  I'd like to take a moment to give a shout out to my friend Ralphie who had surgery on Thursday for a hematoma ear and is now sporting "The Cone of Shame."  Ralphie, I hope you feel better real soon, but until then, please enjoy this video of me carrying on after my most recent bath; I know how much you enjoy the howling.

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year!

Happy New Year to all my friends!

My New Year's resolutions for this upcoming year are...

1. ...to chase more squirrels (and, hopefully, catch one).
2. ...to eat more peanut butter.
3. ...to steal and shred into itty bitty slobbery pieces all future silly hats and costumes Sister buys me.