Proof of Life Squeak

Plush toys are my toy of choice.  I’m not a huge fan of bones (you don’t get anywhere with hard bones), rubbery squeaky toys are no match for my large gnashing teeth (they pop like balloons and are not repairable), and I’m not allowed to have rope toys.  Plush toys, however, are soft, and squeaky, and perhaps best of all, satisfyingly destructible.  And oh boy am I tough on them.  Here’s just how tough:

• Every night, at least one toy is taken away from me because I’ve started ripping the stuffing out of it.  On a good night, four toys are taken away.
• I know the terms “no plucking” (ripping with my front teeth) and “no back teeth” (sawing through toy fabric using my back teeth), but choose to ignore both. 
• Not a single one of my toys has all the limbs it started with. 
• There’s an entire closet floor in my house dedicated to the storage of toys in need of an operation in the doll hospital and the area outside that closet is a holding zone for toys that are in imminent danger of needing a trip to the hospital (toys that were taken away from me not because they had a hole but because I was fixated on making one).
  

But despite the destructive nature of my play, I’ve learned ways of prolonging the inevitable moment when my family realizes what I’m up to and takes away my victim before I’ve shredded it to the point of no return. It’s called the “Proof of Life Squeak.” 

As I furiously pick and rip my way through a weak spot in the toy, I keep my ears tuned to any sound of my family showing interest in what I’m doing (usual warnings include the issuing of the dreaded “is he being good?” question and the creak of a chair as the occupant bends over to check on me).  As soon as this warning is issued, I stop my ripping, grab the entire toy in my mouth, and give it a good squeeze so that the squeaker (I’m always careful not to kill the squeaker) cries out.

It works every time.  Because the squeaker is usually in the middle of the toy, my family naively assumes that if they hear squeaking I can’t possibly be ripping or gnawing on a seam.  Once the heat is off and my family resumes whatever they were doing prior to checking on me, I go back to my destructive ways.

Eventually, my family catches on and all the “Proof of Life Squeaks” in the world won’t prevent them from noticing either the loud ripping sound or the pile of stuffing littering the ground.  They toy is immediately transported to the doll hospital and I move on to a new one.  The process begins again.

Rigby the Thief (AKA Parker)

There’s a story that my family often tells about of my predecessor, a Golden Retriever named Tikka.

Tikka

One morning, while watching Ma make herself a bowl of cereal, Tikka had a sneaky and delicious idea.  As soon as Ma was distracted by her breakfast and newspaper, Tikka hotfooted it into the bathroom where she proceeded to cause a scene by unrolling and shredding the toilet paper.  She knew, however, that in order for her plan to work, she had to get caught, so she made sure to bang her tail (which was always giving her away) extra hard against the bathtub.  As anticipated, at the sound of the echoing bang, bang, bang of a tail hitting the tub, Ma got up and made her way into the bathroom to investigate.  As soon as Ma was in the bathroom and on hands and knees to clean up the mess, Tikka backed out of the room, ran down the hallway, cut through the living room, and entered the dining room where Ma’s half eaten bowl of cereal was waiting unprotected.  Rising up on her hind legs and putting her front paws on the table, Tikka helped herself to the mushy meal.  When Ma returned to her breakfast and found Tikka eating it, she was hopping mad.  Shooing her away, Ma grabbed her bowl, threw it in the sink, and made herself a new one.

Tikka (left) and Bobo

The next morning, feeling peckish and having developed a taste for cereal, Tikka decided to try her paw again at stealing herself a bowl.  Once Ma was seated, Tikka hurried into the bathroom and started unraveling the toilet paper while enthusiastically banging her tail on the tub.  Right on schedule, Ma showed up to investigate, at which point Tikka ran out of the bathroom, through the house, and into the dining room where she helped herself to Ma’s breakfast.  Moments later, Ma returned, shooed Tikka away, threw out the slobbery remains, and made herself a new bowl.

Tikka Speaking

Tikka and Ma did this song and dance every day for five days.

On the sixth day, after shooing Tikka away from her bowl, Ma decided not to bother making herself a new breakfast.  Instead, she just sat down and ate what Tikka left behind, slobber and all.  The game no longer fun, Tikka never again stole Ma’s breakfast.

Now, I never had the pleasure of meeting Tikka, but I must admit that I admire her spunk.  I’ve never been much of a toilet paper dog, but her system was ingenious.

Like Tikka, I am a thief...a skilled and persistent thief.  And while Tikka’s endgame was a bowl of cereal with an assist by toilet paper, my prize is napkins.

During meals, I case the table from below looking for an opportunity to steal napkins, or more specifically, steal Ma’s napkin.  She can change seats and she can be consciously aware of where her napkin is in relation to my snapping jaws, but I’m always there and ready to pounce as soon as the moment presents itself.

And I have numerous techniques.  Here are just a few: 

• The Stroll By:  While sauntering by nonchalantly (extra points if you can make it look like you’re interested in something else), reach over and grab the napkin.
• The Shark:  From the depths of nowhere, suddenly breech the surface and grab the napkin (extra points if bystanders can hear the snap of your jaws). 
• The Distraction:  Grab a toy and lay on the floor under the table.  Make it look like you’re planning on plucking the toy.  After being warned not to pluck, drop the toy, stretch your neck, and grab, from your prone position, the napkin using your front teeth. 
• The Sleepwalker:  Pretend to be sleeping then, when no one is suspecting, crane your neck up and swipe the napkin without ever getting up. 
• The Sideways Monkey-Eye Snatch:  Scoot up alongside the chair, turn your head sideways so that those above only see the whites of your eye (monkey eye), and start snapping, sideways and parallel to the person’s lap, until you make contact with the napkin. 

Sometimes Ma is on her game and able to quickly snatch the napkin from my snapping white jaws of death.  More times than not, however, I’m faster than her and we quickly enter a phase where I frantically shred the napkin while Ma drops to the floor, crawls under the table, and tries to pry bits of saturated paper from my drooly jowls.  And oh boy is she annoyed while she picks bits of napkin from my mouth—muttering under her breath the whole time.  And listening to Pa and Sister above snickering adds to the fun of the entire situation.

Pa's Faux-Pas

Do you remember how mortified I was when I accidentally bit Pa when a gag reflex sent my canine tooth through his pointer finger? (If you don’t, here’s the post). And then, afterwards, how I followed him around for days groveling with my ears low and tail down? It was traumatic. It was horrific. It was quite possibly the worst day of my entire life (and I’ve had days where I’ve jumped out of moving vehicles and tried moving a house with the side of my face).

Well, I’m over it now. I’m no longer ashamed of what I did and it’s all because Pa did something to me that made my faux-pas seem insignificant.

Pa vacuumed my butt.

Now, I know some pups are offended by the vacuum cleaner; in fact, some are downright scared of it. Not me. Don’t get me wrong, I dislike the fact that vacuums are responsible for removing the dirt, leaves, and sticks that I so carefully drag in with me from my adventures outside. I’m also keenly aware that the vacuum has been responsible for quite a few interrupted naps over the years. But really, when it comes to my feelings about the vacuum, I’m neutral; I don’t really think much about it.

Because of this lack of interest, it’s no surprise that this weekend, while Pa was pushing the vacuum around the house, I simply snoozed away in the kitchen, waiting for the very last minute when I’d have to get up and move to a new local so Pa could vacuum the spot where I was sleeping. When the time came, however, I guess I didn’t move fast enough. I was lying there with my head down watching Pa when, all of a sudden, I saw Pa’s eyes go wide and I felt a sharp tug on my butt.

“I’m so sorry, Squirt!” I heard Pa shout as he turned off the vacuum.

Confused, I got up and looked around. What I saw was shocking. There, hanging from the front of the vacuum, was a one-inch wide chunk of fluffy golden fur. My fluffy golden fur.

Now, unlike Pa who “screamed like a girl” when I accidentally bit him all those years ago, I did not make a peep when that chunk of fur was unceremoniously ripped out. In fact, its removal didn’t even impact my rugged good looks as neither me nor my family can even find the spot that was de-furred so rudely (luckily, I have thick, luxurious fur). But still, the entire event was disturbing. Way more disturbing than me accidentally taking a nibble out of Pa’s finger.

Oh My God, I Bit Pa...Again!

A couple of years ago, I told the story of the time I accidentally bit Pa (the story can be found here). As you might remember, I was absolutely horrified at what happened that day--it was Pa, the boss, the head honcho, the top dog, the guy who “gets” me and I bit him! And as horrified as I was, I can only image that you, my loyal readers, were equally if not more horrified and disappointed in the misdeeds of yours truly. I’m just not that kind of dog anymore (as you know, I was quite the juvenile delinquent when I was a pup).

Well, I hate to report it, but it happened again.

I know, I know! How could this happen, you ask? How could I possibly make the mistake of biting Pa a second time? Well, as before, I blame him.

It was Sunday morning and I decided to help Pa make the bed and by that I mean I got in his way and prevented him from making the bed. How? After he pulled the sheet up on one side of the bed, I took a running leap and threw myself down onto the middle of the mattress. Assuming the “dead weight” position (going limp while lying on my side), I turned my head and smiled up toward Pa. He tried to act angry. He tried to make it look like he didn’t find my shenanigans 100% adorable. But he was unable to fully suppress the laugh that started emanating from his throat as soon as I collapsed on the mattress. So, Pa did the only thing he could think of: he decided to rough me up.

Now, I’m not sure if I ever mentioned this before, but my family has always said that I don’t know how to play like a normal dog. I don’t play with my toys, I kill them. I don’t retrieve a thrown ball, I just look up at you as if asking “why did you throw it if you wanted it back so bad?” I also don’t roughhouse like other dogs nor play a game that my family refers to as snarly face (a game in which I'm expected to playfully show my teeth and gently nip at hands which sounds so completely wrong, but apparently is not as violent as one might think).

So, long story short, I don't normally roughhouse, but Pa was so annoying and so insistent that day (rolling me over, giving me a gentle shoves, and pulling the blankets over my head), that eventually I cracked. Without even thinking, I turned my head sideways and grabbed hold of Pa’s shirtsleeve.

Suddenly, time stopped. I had Pa’s shirtsleeve in my mouth. Did he notice? Did he realize that I bit him again? Granted, the first time, all those years ago, I actually caught flesh and this time I only caught his sleeve, but a bite’s a bite, right? I quickly spit the fabric out and sheepishly looked up at Pa, my ears back in shame.

“What did you do?” he asked, but not in an upset or angry sort of way. He looked like he did before when he was trying to scold me for jumping on the bed—he was barely able to suppress his laughter. Despite the fact that I didn't appear to be destined for a hollerin’ at, I must admit that I was a little shook up from the entire experience. There would be no more roughhousing from me.

So there you have it. As you can see, Pa was fully to blame. He caused me to bite him and nothing is going to change my story.

The Day I Bit Pa

It's very hard for me to relate this story to my readers.  It's about an event that happened well over a year ago that I found completely and utterly horrifying.  It was so horrifying, in fact, that even now I'm not entirely sure I'm over it.  This is the story of the day I bit Pa.

It was a warm spring day and Ma, Pa, and I were spending the weekend out east (Sister stayed home because she had to work).  Ma and Pa were reading a newspaper and I was lying on the warm wooden planks of the deck (a favorite past time of mine--I love basking in the sun) gnawing on a rawhide bone that Pa had given me.  All was right with the world.

After an hour of gnawing and reading, Ma looked over at me and noticed that the bone I was chewing was getting kind of small; small enough to become a choking hazard.  Pa volunteered to take it from me and came over to retrieve the slobbery remains.

Now, I have no problem with Pa, or anyone for that matter, taking a bone away from me.  Truth be told, I'm usually quite grateful.  You see, I love to chew things so much that, although my jaw might be tired, I just can't bring myself to walk away from whatever I'm gnawing.  I need someone to physically step in and take it from me.  But while I have no problem with someone taking a bone away from me, I won't make it easy for that person.  Nope, that just wouldn't be my style.

So anyway, Pa came over, patted my head, and told me to "give" at which point I flopped down on my side and worked the slobbery remains back further into my mouth to take advantage of the grinding power of my molars.  "Come on Squirt," Pa said ("Squirt" being one of the numerous nicknames Pa uses for me) as he knelt down next to me, "that's enough."  With the slimy white bone just visible past my jowls, Pa stuck his hand into my mouth and reached for the mass.

What happened next occurred in a heartbeat.  A combination of Pa reaching for the bone, me trying not to give it up, and the fact that I was now playfully laying belly up to the sky, caused the bone to slip further back into my mouth.  This movement caused a gag reflex in me and, well, the gag reflex caused my mouth to snap shut.

I'm told that Pa "screamed like a girl" when my teeth clenched down on his finger.  Frankly, I didn't notice.  All I knew was that my mouth slammed shut, I crunched into something soft, and that I could taste blood.  It was only when Pa removed his hand from my mouth that I suddenly became aware of the enormity of the situation.

I had bitten Pa!

I immediately went into panic mode.  I had chomped on the boss' finger--the head honcho, the top dog, the man who buys me rawhide bones!  I'm dead! I thought.

By this time Pa was wandering around the house with his bloody hand held upward looking for bandages (we had none--he would eventually drive over to the supermarket, his hand wrapped in paper towel, to buy some).  I followed close behind him, my ears low and my tail down, groveling.  Pa told me everything was okay, that it was an accident, and gave me a pat with his other hand, but, frankly, it didn't make the situation any less traumatic for me.

It took me days before I could actually look Pa in the eye again--not because he was angry at me, but because I just couldn't get past the horror.  I did, however, stay extra close to him in the weeks that followed (i.e. met him at the door when he came home from work and sat next to him in the evening).  In short, I was the epitome of "Man's Best Friend."

The Puppy Files: My Overly Toothy Grin

Welcome to the fourth installment of The Puppy Files--the series where I recount stories from before I had my very own blog.  Today's topic:  my pearly white teeth.

Showing Off My Baby Teeth

As I've mentioned before, I was a very nippy little puppy.  I chewed on hands, I chewed on clothing (Pa still has a shirt that I put a hole in during one of my temper tantrums), I chewed on shoes, and I chewed on other inanimate items.  Basically, if I could get my mouth around it, I'd chew on it.  And boy was I a good chewer!  I had sharp needle like teeth and was not afraid to use them.  It was great (though my family would likely tell you otherwise).

But then, a really disturbing thing happened:  all my teeth started falling out.  There I'd be happily playing with one of my toys or gnawing on Sister's hand and POP! a baby tooth would just fall right out of my mouth and onto the floor (Sister collected these teeth--she keeps them in a little metal tin).  But not all of my teeth fell out this way.  Nope, I ended up swallowing most of them while I innocently ate my kibble or my daily Milkbone dog biscuit.  I know, how gross!

My Mouth Hurts!

Of course, once a tooth was ejected, a new one would start growing in and that was a particularly painful process.  My family tried to help me:  they bought me Chilly Bones (bone shaped cloth toys that were soaked in water and frozen) and didn't yell at me when I commandeered some other piece of fabric to gum piteously (that's how painful teething was for me--I couldn't even enjoy being bad!).

Finally, after days of pain and bleeding gums, my adult teeth finally grew in and I was pleased to discover that they were about five times larger than the teeth they replaced.  Seemingly overnight, I went from being a little puppy with a little mouth filled with razor sharp tiny teeth and a bad attitude to a little puppy with a little mouth filled with giant gnashing teeth and a bad attitude.  My family was horrified:  I was all teeth!  They were so concerned with this latest development that the next time I visited the vet, Pa asked him if I had more teeth than I was supposed to (the vet just sort of chuckled and assured Pa that I had all the teeth I was supposed to have).

Check Out Those Pearly Whites!

It wasn't until months later that my head and jaws finally grew in enough to match the size of my teeth.  Now I'm a handsome dog with sparkling white teeth and an award winning personality.

Silly Me

Lookin' silly.

I wear many hats. Sure, my main job is to be noble and show off my devilishly good looks to the world, but I am also an author (I expect someday to win the Nobel Prize in Literature), a companion to my family, a watch dog, a vacuum cleaner for dropped foodstuff, and animal control (got to keep those squirrels and bunnies from taking over my backyard) to name only a few. This week, I’ve taken on a new role: court jester.

You see, I’ve come to the conclusion that my family has been too serious lately and that it is my responsibility as family dog to try to cheer them up. Therefore, I’ve decided to hang up my noble and refined persona and allow my wild and crazy side to shine through. Here are my most recent attempts at making my family laugh.

My family and I spent last weekend out east. On Saturday, I happened to walk into the kitchen (okay, I didn’t just happen to walk into the kitchen…I was trolling for bits of leftover bacon from breakfast) and came upon Ma, Pa, and Sister talking about some truly boring and terribly uninteresting topic. I stared up at them, following the conversation with my eyes, all the while flexing my jaws on the tennis ball I had picked up in the living room (I think of it as endurance training—it takes a lot of effort to chew all the bones I chew). When I got tired of listening (and believe me, it didn't take that long), I scurried past and stepped up to my water bowl. With a splash and a thunk, I spit my bally-ball into my water dish and started drinking around it. By the time I had quenched my thirst and simultaneously filled my jowls with lots of water which I planned on dribbling all over the kitchen floor (stone floors are especially slippery when wet and one of my favorite pastimes is watching my family go skidding across the room), my family was laughing hysterically. I wagged my tail with approval and reclaimed my ball from Ma once she had plucked it from the water.

A couple of days later, I decided to allow my crazy side to appear again.  You see, recently I've had this thing with my collar where I insist on holding the tail end in my mouth despite the fact that it is really hard to do and I have to bend and crane my neck in odd angles to grab hold of it.  Well, this time, rather than grab my collar, I made sure to accidentally get my bottom canine tooth stuck in one of the beautiful blond curls located on my chest (I tend to get a bit knotty there because my drool fuses my fur together).  At first Sister thought I was having a fit, but as soon as she realized what was happening she laughed and called me over to help.  Once she detached my tooth from my chest, I wagged my tail as she rubbed my ears.

Yeah, I've looked foolish this week, but you know what, if it makes my family laugh, I guess it's worth it.

The Dew Claw I Used to Know

A very sad thing happened to me on Tuesday.

Remember the dew claw I ripped off about a month ago?  Well, it's been hurting me a lot lately.  At first, my family thought that it hurt because it was growing in--like how my mouth hurt when I was teething--but when I started waking up at five o'clock in the morning with an upset stomach from licking the wound, they started thinking differently.  So Ma, on Monday, gave my friend Doc Friedman at the vet's office a call and made an appointment for Tuesday morning.  She told me that even if the doctor looked at my foot and determined everything was okay, I was due for some shots and Pa wanted to get me chipped just in case I decided to wonder off while visiting my house out east.  Needless to say, she didn't ask my opinion on any of the aforementioned subjects.

On Tuesday morning Pa took me to the vet’s office and, after giving me my shots and chipping me (Sister says me getting a chip implanted in my neck reminds her of what happened on The X-Files when Scully was abducted by aliens--needless to say, I am not amused) Doc Friedman took a look at my dew claw.  He said it didn’t look too good; the nail was growing in super thick and that was why it was bothering me.  He gave Pa two options to choose from: antibiotics or the removal of the nail...permanently.  “Antibiotics! Antibiotics!” I screamed, but apparently Pa couldn’t understand me and decided on the second option.

As I did one month ago, I woke up hours later in a room with a lot of barking dogs and meowing cats with a big bandage on my foot.  The rest of the night was a haze riddled with moments of lucidity.  I remember coming home and seeing Sister (she had just returned from vacationing in Montauk).  I remember struggling with her when she tried to remove the bootie protecting my bandage and struggling again against Pa when he tried to put it back on.  I remember Ma pulling my tail out from under me.  I also remember hearing something about me having to keep the bandage on for seven to ten days.  After that, I remember nothing.

It has been over twenty four hours since I came home and I'm still coping with the grogginess associated with the anesthesia (Sister says I should be the poster child for a "Don't Do Drugs" campaign).  I'm just so tired--too tired even to chew a small cookie--but my family has been really nice to me.  This morning Sister wiped my chin when I forgot to swallow and broke up my cookie so that I could eat it with less effort.  She even chased three mourning doves out of my yard when the two of us were outside getting some air.  Pa, when he got home from work, hand fed me my dinner and Ma gave me lots and lots of pets.

Hopefully tomorrow I'll be more myself.