Communicating

My family says I’m bossy.  I disagree.  I’m simply a dog who knows exactly what he wants and is committed to getting it. 

And besides, what my family calls being bossy is actually just me communicating with them.  We don’t naturally speak the same language, my family and I.  They rely on words (and I’ve learned quite a few from sit, down, paw, and eights to squirrel, cookie, walk and focus (sometimes I get distracted when I go out to do business and my family has to remind me to focus on the task at hand)).  I, however, rely on barks, whines, and looks to get my points across.  The way I see it, both sides are talking, we’re just talking in different languages and making do as best we can.  They might sometimes find my way of communicating annoying, but do you have any idea how many times a day I have to hear them say the word 'sit'?  It gets old…quick. 

So that’s my opinion and my family's.  Now it’s your turn, my loyal readers.  Am I bossy or am I simply communicating my wants and needs?  Feel free to use the following as a guide.

Toys:

I want a toy!

There are everyday toys and then there are special toys.  Everyday toys are dull to play with, but good for greeting someone at the door with.  Everyday toys live throughout the house, scattered under tables, beneath chairs, in the middle of the room, and on stair treads.  Special toys, however, are fun to play with (and even more fun to rip to shreds) and generally live in closed off closets and rooms awaiting a special request.  I know where all those closed off closets are and when I want a toy, I ask my family by parking myself outside the door and barking hysterically.  If my family wants to hear the television, they pretty much have to give me a toy.

Bedtime:

When I’m ready to go to bed, I’m ready to go to bed and, what’s more, it is my firm belief that when I go to bed, everyone should go to bed.  Why?  Two reasons:

1. If I go to bed and my family remains awake, someone might decide to snack without me which is beyond rude. 
2. When everyone else finally decides to pack it in, they might assume that I’m not awake and waiting for my goodnight treat.  They would assume incorrectly. 

So what’s a dog like me supposed to do when he’s ready to go to bed and no one else is? 

I start with a combination of physical and vocal cues: I stalk into the bedroom, throw myself down on my pillow, and issue an exaggerated sigh.  Then I wait for my message to really penetrate my family's brains.  While I wait, I snooze--why waste the time?  This step usually lasts for about a half hour.

If, when I wake, my family still hasn’t called it a night, I up the ante and move to a more visible spot: the threshold of the doorway between Ma and Pa’s room and the hallway.  With my snout peeking out of the door, I give my family in the living room a distant side eye (when I'm not snoozing again) to encourage them to move along.

I'm watching you!

Now let’s say my family still does not submit to my demands.  If that’s the case, I get up, drag myself into the hallway, and shoot them the dirtiest look I can muster.

Staring someone down

Going through all these steps might result in my family laughing at me or saying that they are going to ignore me, but I know from experience that it is nearly impossible to ignore me when I give them that final “look.”  It’s only a matter of time before everyone starts fidgeting uncomfortably and eventually get up and head to bed.  Family 0—Rigby 1.

Go to Work:

Part of my job as Sister’s Administrative Assistant is that I am in charge of keeping a careful eye on the time clock.  If Sister is so much as a minute late coming back from lunch, I set myself up in her office and give her one of my disdainful looks.  Needless to say, she always comes running (though she’s usually muttering something about her being Bob Cratchit to my Ebenezer Scrooge).

Walks:

As I mentioned in a recent post, I’ve actually started to enjoy walks.  I mean, for the longest time I hated walks.  I hated being told to walk nice on a leash or, even worse, having to wear the snout guard.  And those punishment walks my family used to take me on (long walks designed to tire me out when I was becoming incorrigible)?  They were definitely not my idea of a good time.  But now, I actually demand walks whenever I’m out east.

Usually, when I want to go for a walk, I get all excited and start pacing the room.  That frantic energy doubles if my family shows even the slightest sign of daring to leave the house without me.  Sometimes, however, I have to take it a step further.  Here’s what I did a few weekends ago to express my excitement about going for a walk:

1. Barked frantically
2. Sneezed repeatedly
3. Retched loudly
   

Luckily, Ma got the message before I actually lost my breakfast.

A Bad Month

Snoozing

Did you ever have one of those months?  You know, one of those months where you suffer from two different injuries, one hot spot, three trips to the vet, a dead air conditioner in a heat wave, a bath, and then find out that you haven't even reached the lowest point yet?

No?  Well, that's been my month.

Let's recap briefly.  In the injury department, there was that leg injury Sister caused when she took me outside to play and a week after that my neck started bothering me which resulted in a trip to the vet and some medication (a strain possibly brought on by the leg injury).  Prior to both injuries, I ended up with my first hot spot (an itchy oozing sore on my neck) which  took a shave, medication, and two separate trips to the vet to treat.  The central air conditioning system out east is dead so I spent the last two weekends out there in a perpetual state of hot and sweaty which resulted in Ma and Sister giving me a bath on Sunday afternoon when I got home.

But like I said, I haven't even reached the month's rock bottom.

What, you ask, is worse than multiple trips to the vet, multiple injuries, no AC, and a bath?  It's truly dreadful.  Nightmarish one might even say.  Maybe even chilling, grisly, hair-raising, hellish, traumatic, and alarming.  You see, according to the vet, yours truly has packed on a couple of pounds over the last few months and something needs to be done about it.

Now, right off the bat, I have two issues with this diagnosis.  First, I question the validity of the vet's scale.  Either the scale's calibration was way off or he was leaning on the table when he took my weight.  Second, how can I be overweight when I'm fed so infrequently?  I mean, all I get each day is my breakfast kibble, two pretzels, some cereal samples from Pa's breakfast, some blueberries, a giant Milkbone cookie when Pa leaves for work, a small Milkbone cookie when Ma leaves for work, my dinner kibble, grass from the backyard when no one is looking, a cookie to leave the humans alone during their dinner, a cookie for going out and doing my business after the dishes are cleaned, a PB&K, a sampling of my family's dessert (I love ice cream!), another cookie to get me up for my final business trip of the night, and a liver treat on my pillow when I go to bed.  And to make up the difference between the aforementioned approved food sources and the empty areas in my tummy, I rely on the scraps I find when my family cooks or snacks and those "good dog" treats I earn for acting cute and coming when called.  So basically, I'm wasting away as it is.  How could I possibly need to lose weight and what could I possibly cut?

Well, Ma stepped in and declared that I wasn't going to get nearly as many "good dog treats" (Pa, trying to help, took to replacing my "good dog treats" with Cheerios which I can't entirely say is worth the trouble of being good for) and that my two daily bowls of kibble will be a little less full.

But that's not all.  Now I'm being subjected to nightly walks!  I hate walks.  I've hated them since I was a little pup being taken on punishment walks (long walks around town with the purpose of wearing me out so I wouldn't be such a bitey, jumpy, miserable-to-live-with-juvenile-delinquent at home).  I'd much prefer to be romping around the backyard, chasing squirrels and digging holes rather than pounding the pavement.  And speaking of pounding the pavement, my family has decided that these walks, like the punishment walks, need a catchy and descriptive title.  Right now, the front runners are "fat dog walks" and "pudgy pooches pounding the pavement walks."  I don't approve of either of them.  The only good thing with this arrangement is that if my family wants me to go on walks then they have to go on walks.  If I have to drag about town in the sweltering heat then they do too.  I'm hoping their better judgment, not to mention their love of air conditioning and general laziness, wins out and soon.