Two Stories

Happy National Dog Day to all my four-legged friends!  Wag your tails, beg for table scraps, and dig in the garden with abandon!

In honor of this great day, I wish to share with you, my loyal readers, two little stories from the last couple of weeks.

Soft Mouth:

Members of my breed are supposed to have soft mouths--meaning that we are able to pick up delicate items in our mouths without causing them damage.  Now, some might think that I missed this gene and, to be honest, I couldn’t really blame them when you consider the dozens of punctured shoes and gnawed on remote controls I’ve left in my wake over the years.  But I definitely do have this trait and it was on full display a couple of mornings ago.

That particular morning, Pa and I were sitting on the side step spending some quality father-son time before he went to work.  After a couple of moments, Pa extended his hand and offered me a small red ball which I dutifully took in my mouth.  But what was I supposed to do with it?  I gently rolled it around my mouth a couple of time, looked back at Pa, and tossed the small red ball back into his hand.  A little surprised, Pa offered me the small red ball again and I again tossed it back to him.  This happened two more times before I suddenly realized that the small red ball I had been tossing back and forth to Pa was in fact a cherry tomato.  Once I came to this realization, I quickly ate the tomato, but apparently I am easily fooled because Pa and I repeated the entire process the following morning (though, to my credit, I only tossed the tomato back to Pa three times before eating it).

Almost No Trace:  

A couple of months ago, Ma discovered undeniable proof that I had taken to spending my days in the basement Land of No (story here).  However, it seems that half the thrill of my super-secret spot was the fact it was indeed secret.  So, immediately after the discovery, I started seeking out a new spot to spend my days and haven't returned to the basement since.

Well, good news.  I found a new spot!

Now, whenever someone comes home after leaving me alone for any period of time, he or she will likely discover, smack dab in the middle of Ma and Pa's bed, a warm spot that matches the shape of my snoozing back-end. 

But unlike the discovery of my forays into the Land of No, I will not be put off from curling up on the bed each day.  I mean, it is just too good a spot to give up on it that easily.  After all, it...

• ...is soft:  The Land of No has tile floors and no comfy cushions while the bed has a mattress, blankets, and pillows to lounge on.
• ...has a view:  With the added height of the mattress, I can stare out through the back window and bark at any four-legged interlopers in my yard (squirrels, bunnies, etc.).
• is nice and cool:  The air conditioner is right there.

So basically, I see no reason to give up on my new spot.  In fact, the only way I can see that spot getting better is if my food bowl (full of course) was left by one of the pillows.

Yeah, that would be great!

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!