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.

I'll Never Be A Model

There is really no denying that I’m devilishly handsome (yes, that sounds narcissistic of me, but a truth’s a truth).  I mean, look at all the photos I’ve posted throughout the years.   Even at my stinkiest (you know, immediately after getting a bath…have I mentioned lately that my family and I have very different definitions of the words clean and dirty?) I can still strike a pose that would make a runway model jealous.  And then there are the golden locks, the flowing tail, and the deep brown eyes.  What can I say?  I’m quite the package.

That being said, I’ve recently come to the realization that, despite all this, I will never have a model’s career.  I’ve already told you, my loyal readers, about the scar I have alongside my right eye from when I tried moving a building with my head (for a recap, click here), and then there is the story of my missing dew claw (click here), but what happened this weekend, I believe, was the final nail in the coffin of my professional career.

You see, on Saturday morning Ma took me outside to check the perimeter of my backyard out east.  We had arrived the night before, but, because it was dark outside when we pulled up to the house, I was not given free range of the backyard to search for any intruders.  Anyway, as soon as Ma opened the door, I raced across the porch, down the stairs, and was greeted, at the foot of the stairs, by the sound of two of the three dogs next door barking at me from their yard.

Allow me to take a moment to introduce the dogs next door.  The first is a little dog with a fevered bark.  The second dog, who is much bigger, just barks at me from the middle of his yard in a loud stately way.  Both, according to Sister, are very nice (she met them personally when Ma and Pa bought the house), but I've never been formally introduced to them.  The third dog, who was not present, is a squat lumbering old guy who, last summer, wandered up onto my porch and tried to steal the hot dogs Pa was making for lunch.

Anyway, back to my tale.  The two dogs were barking at me and I went over to the fence to investigate.  We ran back and forth for a while barking, but then the next door neighbor called for her dogs to come in and Ma asked me nicely if I'd like to come in to eat my breakfast (Ma had barely gotten the word 'breakfast' out before I was running, full speed, up the stairs toward the house).

The Injured Party

It was when we were both inside that Ma noticed that there was a scratch on the top of my nose, a pink bump on the front part, and a little bit of blood oozing from both.  Now, Ma doesn't know exactly what happened to my nose--and I'm not telling--but, I'll have everyone know that I was a big boy and did not make a peep when whatever happened to me happened to me.  Besides, the actual event was not nearly as bad as the aftermath:  Ma decided to wash off my nose and rub it with medicine (the water stung and the application of medication required her coming up behind me--or worse, sneaking up on me while I was sleeping--and grabbing hold of my snout).  Talk about disturbing! 

A couple of days have passed, the wounds are starting to heal, and I'm starting to come to terms with the idea that I will never be a model.  Pa has helped a lot in coping with this realization:  he put a nice spin on the entire situation.  He told me that my scars make me look tough.  I knew I always liked that man.

A Bad Belly

I had a belly ache this week; actually, it was worse, I had a stomach virus.  I’m feeling better now, but let’s just say that this virus came with all the ugliness that usually accompanies such an ailment (don’t worry, I promise not to go into graphic detail).

As anyone who has had a stomach virus would know, this week wasn’t all that great for me.  Aside from feeling ill (which is bad enough on its own), I was cheated out of all treats (no cheese, no ice cream, no peanut butter, no leftover Easter pie, and no big Milkbone cookies), I spent most of Monday night and Tuesday morning outside in distress rather than sleeping, I was not allowed to be unsupervised in certain rooms of the house—mainly those with carpets, and Sister’s room upstairs was totally off-limits (Sister said it was because it was too far a trek, in the event of an emergency, from her bed to the side door, but I think she just wanted the bed to herself).

But you know what?  Some good came out of my stomach virus (I’m very much a dinner bowl half full type of dog, even though, now that I think about it, my dinner bowl is never filled to the level I’d like—such as overflowing).  My family was really sympathetic and kind to me when I felt sick:  Ma stayed up late with me on Monday night when I felt really bad and went into work late on Tuesday to make sure I was okay, Pa took me to the park at odd hours when I needed a change of scenery, and Sister made me rice for my kibble and played “No Mess In Here” every time she came home from work (what can I say…I love that game).  And I mustn’t forget about all the gentle belly rubs everyone gave me whenever I asked.

But like I said, I’m feeling much better now.  My energy level is up (I barked at every person who walked by my house today), I’m actively looking for trouble again (I stole a pair of freshly washed socks this evening), and I spent last night sprawled out on Sister’s bed.  Yep, everything’s good again.

You Look Different

I'm a bit of a control freak; I don't like it when things change without my permission.  That's why, whenever a new decoration appears at home (such as a stuffed bear wearing a Santa suit or a threatening greeting card) or a room's layout changes (my pillow or food container moves), I devote myself to sounding the alarm the only way I know how:  by barking.

Sometimes, however, I find myself at a loss for words when it comes to change and yesterday was one of those days.

Believe Me, the Resemblance is Great

Yesterday, Sister left the house looking like she normally does:  big puffy frizzy hair and long bangs that bear a striking resemblance to my bff Mecki's eyebrows.  An hour and a half later, someone who resembled Sister returned sporting slightly shorter hair that was blown dry straight and bangs trimmed in a way that I could actually see her eyes underneath.

Now it goes without saying that I was slightly taken aback by this change.  This person who walked through the door kind of looked like Sister, was wearing the same clothes that Sister was wearing when I last saw her, and sounded like Sister, but I just couldn't be 100% sure (identity theft, after all, is a major problem these days).

Remembering my position as Head of Security, I, cautiously, approached this Sister look-alike, reared up on my hind legs and placed my front paws on her chest.  Then I leaned forward (I'm not ashamed to say I took a little stretch in the process) and sniffed the hair draped over her left shoulder and then the hair draped over her right shoulder.

The shampoo and the hairstyle were different, but it was undeniably Sister.

I jumped down off of Sister and wagged my tail in greeting.  Then Sister leaned over, gave my snout a kiss, and scratched my ears.

Yep, definitely my Sister. 

A Fun Weekend, Except If You're A Flower

I've discovered that weekends come in three varieties:

1. Lazy Weekends at Home:  involves finding a warm sunny spot on the floor, taking a nap, waking up, finding a new warm sunny spot on the floor, and taking another nap.
2. Action Packed Weekends Out East:  involves chasing squirrels, going to the beach, running up and down the porch steps, and tracking deer.
3. Dog Days Weekends:  involves exploring Old Westbury Gardens with my favorite two and four legged friends.

Well, this weekend was a Dog Days weekend, and let me tell you, despite it being a little too warm for comfort (it has been a very cold, very snowy winter and I haven't gotten around to shedding my entire winter coat yet), I had a blast.

Here's a rundown of some of the fun stuff that happened this weekend:

Saturday: (Visiting the Estate with Ma, Sister, Mecki, and Mecki's Mom)

Mecki!

- Went berserk in the car when I realized that Sister had parked her car next to Mecki's and that Mecki was barking at me from the front passenger seat.

- Patiently listened while Sister brought to my attention the fact that Mecki was sitting, unrestrained, in his seat, next to an open window in a convertible, and was not trying to jump out (geez...you jump out of a moving vehicle one time and you never live it down).

Mecki Pulls Ahead

- Played follow the leader with Mecki (Mecki hates it when I lead).

Giant Water Bowl

- Hit up Mecki's Mom for lots of Pup-Peroni treats (and only once nearly took off her hand when trying to grab the treat).

- Inspected the biggest water bowl I have ever seen (Sister said it was a fountain, but I don't believe her).

- Drank out of Mecki's water bowl (I left him some water).

- Singled out one clump of daffodils in a sea of grass and peed on them (with an audience watching and, ultimately, moaning in distaste).

- Took some stylish (and less than stylish) photos.

Sunday: (Visiting the Estate with Ma, Sister, Tink, Zee Zee, and Tink and Zee's Mom and Dad)

- Met a Golden Basset (a weird combination, but she seemed nice enough--though a bit short).

Walking with Tink

- Jumped ten feet in the air with fright when Tink managed to sneak up on me in the Rose Garden (for a big dog, she's quite light on her feet).

- Got yelled at by Sister for trying to dip my feet in the communal watering trough (I saw no sign forbidding public bathing).

Tink and Me Staring At The Bird

- Settled for dipping my entire snout in the communal watering trough (hey, it was hot).

- Competed with Tink and Zee Zee to see who could retain the most water in his/her face (I had to admit defeat when I realized that my enormous jowls were no match for their absorbent beards).

- Conspired with Tink and Zee Zee to grab the remains of a dead bird we found next to where our humans were resting in the shade (sadly, we did not succeeded in our quest).

Later, At Home

My New Leopard Toy--Thanks Sis!

Spit Ball!

But the fun didn't end at Old Westbury Gardens; it continued when I got home. Sister bought me a brand new toy (a plush leopard that's longer than me) from the doggy toy store and Pa gave me an old baseball he found when he was cleaning out the basement (Ma took it away from me last night when I finally managed to tear off its outer shell).

All in all, not a bad weekend!

The Puppy Files: Rigby v. Rug

Welcome to yet another edition of The Puppy Files, a series in which I travel down memory lane to when I was an itty bitty little puppy with large gnashing teeth and a bad attitude.

Today's tale is entitled:  Rigby v. Rug

It was a typical weekday afternoon.  Sister had just left for work after having spent her lunch hour entertaining me and I was planning on hunkering down for a well deserved nap.  But I was never going to get that nap; fate had other plans for me.

You see, rather than be visited by happy dreams and content yawns, I was suddenly overcome with the overwhelmingly urge to dig.

Dirt Hole, 2012

Water Hole, 2012

Now, my loyal readers know that I have a soft spot for digging.  Over the last couple of years, I've not only shared stories about at least two marvelous holes I've dug in the backyard, but I have also wowed my fans with tales of digging in the doggy pool.  I haven't, however, before today, disclosed the fact that I have been known to sleep dig (it's like sleep walking, only with digging--I get up in the middle of the night, find a carpeted corner of the room, and start digging frantically, completely oblivious to my family's attempts to wake me).  So, I have a history, but, with the exception of a few choice words muttered by the person who shirked his/her responsibilities and did not keep a close eye on me when they should have, my digging has always been harmless.

Anyway, I found myself stuck inside the house and driven by an overwhelming urge to dig.  I wandered around the first floor in search of the perfect location, but ended up being unimpressed with my options (you can't just dig anywhere!).  Then, all of a sudden, the answer came to me:  upstairs.

[I should take a moment to mention that, at this point in time, the second floor of the house had only just become available to me.]

So up the stairs I climbed and came face to face with the perfect digging place:  the landing (a three by three foot carpeted platform between two sets of perpendicular stairs).  As soon as I dug my claws into the carpet pile, I knew I had chosen the right spot.  Like a dog possessed, I hunkered down and started digging with abandon, completely oblivious to the world around me.

Minutes later, I came to my senses and looked down at the mess I had made.  The carpet was pulled back on itself, the backing was torn, and the carpet pad was shredded and deposited all over the stairs.  Only the tack strips-each of which harbored dozens of sharp upward pointing nails-remained on the newly exposed floor.

Panicked was an understatement of how I felt.  I had managed to do all this damage without cutting myself or tumbling down the stairs which was good (I was a bit clumsy as a pup), but I knew none of that really mattered if my family returned home and saw what I had done.  I needed to hide the damage.  But how?  Then, an idea came to me.

I ran down the stairs, skidded through the kitchen, and screeched to a halt at the dining room table.  Rearing up on my hind legs, I put my front paws on the table and grabbed an unopened envelope, a piece of scrap paper, and a magazine.  I then jumped back down onto the floor and hot-footed it back up the stairs to the scene of the crime.  I then proceeded to shred the unopened mail, scrap paper, and magazine into tiny pieces and deposited them neatly over the destroyed carpet.

Let's just say, my family was not fooled.

A Plethora of Pillows

I have the best Pa in the whole wide world.  “What makes him the best?” you might ask.  Did he make me my very own steak dinner last night?  No, that would make him the best Pa in the entire universe.  Did he rub my belly after dinner?  Of course, but that’s part of the nightly agreement.  My Pa is the best in the world because he went to the store and bought me a brand new pillow.

My New Pillow

I must admit that I have quite the collection of pillows.  I might even be considered a pillow connoisseur.  I have one in the living room (square with stylish stripes), one in Ma and Pa’s room (round, tuffet-like, tan and green), one in Sister’s room (an orthopedic square one which I rarely use because, let’s face it, if you’re given the choice between a pillow on the floor or a nice soft bed, the bed always wins out), and one out east (round and tan).

It is the pillow out east that this new pillow (round, tuffet-like, pale blue and gray) is supposed to replace.  You see, the old one is kind of falling apart:  the stuffing has gone flat, the cover is wearing thin, and the zipper has had to be sewn shut because someone keeps gnawing on it (not me, I swear...I blame the mole that lives in the backyard).

Old & New in Living Room

Old & New in Bed Room

But there's one major problem with replacing the old pillow with the new one:  I've kind of taken a liking to the new pillow living here at home.  Every evening, I whine and cry and bark until someone drags the new pillow out of Ma and Pa's room and into the living room.  And then, every night, when it's time to go to bed, I whine and cry and bark until someone drags it back into the bedroom (where I sleep on it for a little while before high-tailing it upstairs to Sister's bed).  Sometimes, I even whine and cry and bark until my new pillow is dragged into the kitchen when my family eats their dinner.

Now, I love my humans, don't get me wrong, but they can be such complainers.  You see, this influx of pillows has made life difficult for them; apparently, they find it very annoying to maneuver through the living room and bedroom when multiple pillows are present.  They also say that it makes each room way to small and claustrophobic.  I disagree.  I think it makes both rooms nice and cozy.  After all, who wouldn't want to be surrounded by fluffy pillows?