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).

The Puppy Files: My Only Friend

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:  My Only Friend.

Me at 5 Months Old

I've said time and time again that I was a troubled puppy: I bit, I jumped, I stole, and was generally miserable to my family (Sister used to coat both her arms in Bitter Apple Spray in an attempt to stop me from grabbing hold of one of them, dropping to the ground, and rolling like an alligator in a death roll--it rarely worked).  Now, because of my misguided ways, I could pretty much guarantee that I'd have at least one, possibly two, family members annoyed at me at any given moment.  I'm ashamed to say that, at the time, this didn't bother me one bit.  I always had a friend waiting in the wings, or, more appropriately, in the backyard.

My friend was a rock.  But not just any rock.  You see, it needed to be the perfect rock--not too big, not too small, rather smooth but just rough enough to get a good grip on it with my teeth.  Once this perfect rock was obtained (I usually found it in Ma's garden...a difficult feat because I was often distracted by Ma yelling at me to get off her pansies and mums), I would grab it in my teeth and go scurrying into the backyard.

Once in the backyard, I either plopped down in the nice cool grass to gnaw on my new friend (I was always very careful not to swallow him) or proudly trotted around while occasionally flinging him up into the air (I got real close to clocking myself upside the head a few times).

I refused to share my rock with anyone.  When someone came into the yard, I'd watch them from a distance, rock clenched firmly in my teeth, afraid that if I got too close to that person he or she might try to take my friend away.  Then again, if that person approached me, I'd either jump up and scurry away from him with the rock in my mouth or roll onto my back in an attempt to distract the interloper with the offer of a belly to rub.

Ma was often witness to my rock obsession and used to joke that if anyone saw me and my rock, they'd think that I was a deprived little puppy.  She said that I looked like a pup who had no nice toys or people to play with and that my only friend was a rock.  This, of course, was completely false.  I had plenty of people to play with (I just couldn't find anyone who appreciated how I played) and tons of toys to rip to shreds.  I just really enjoyed playing with my rock.

As months passed and my bad attitude started to wane, rocks became less important to me.  Still, to this day, if I find a perfect rock in the backyard, I just can't help myself.  I need to pick it up, scurry into the backyard, and prance around with it clenched firmly in my teeth. 

Thanks BFF!

It's not easy to wait for things you want.  When my tummy is rumbling, I want my dinner.  But if it is only 2pm and dinner is at 5pm, I have no choice but to wait which is really annoying.  Now, they say that good things come to those who wait.  The last nine days proved this concept to be true.

My Birthday Card

It all started two Mondays ago (two days after my birthday), when Sister came home from work and blew past me without saying hello.  I won't lie, I was taken aback by her actions; Sister always says hello to me as soon as she comes in the house (though, there have been numerous occasions where she's had to come find me before saying hello because I was sleeping and didn't hear her come in).  Anyway, trying not to let my hurt feelings show, I ramped up the cuteness and followed behind Sister as she made her way through the house to the backroom (a former Land of No).  It was when she stopped alongside the piano that I noticed that she had, held high over her head, a pink gift bag that had the scent of my bff Mecki wafting from it and two toys sticking out.  Mecki had gotten me a birthday present!  Well, it goes without saying that I had to investigate.  I reared up on my hind legs, braced myself on Sister's stomach, and stretched as far as I could toward the smell, but alas, I was unable to reach the bag.  Sister, in an attempt to appease me, reached into the bag and pulled out a card.  She showed it to me, read it out loud, but refused to give it to me (instead she put it on display on the TV table).  Then, with great disappointment, I watched as Sister placed the gift bag just out of my reach on the piano (though my disappointment was temporarily superseded by excitement when she then asked if I wanted my supper).

Four days passed before I saw the birthday bag again.  Now, one might ask why it took so long for me to gain access to the contents of the bag (after all, it was my birthday present), but there were reasons (some good and some not so) for the delay.  On Monday, Sister didn't give me the toys because she wanted Ma and Pa to admire them before I got hold of them (I have a history of being very hard on toys) and Ma wasn't getting out of work until after my bedtime.  On Tuesday, I was suffering from digestive issues and on Wednesday I was much too tired after being up all night the night before.  I wasn't given the toys on Thursday because Sister was in a bad mood and didn't feel like playing (like that's my problem).

It had been such a long time since I last saw the birthday bag that by the time Friday rolled around I had pretty much forgotten all about it (I have a lot on my mind:  food, squirrels, food, lizards, food, people walking by the house, food, etc).  So there I was, hanging out in the backyard with Sister on her lunch break, when all of a sudden Sister jumped up from her seat on the bench and ran into the house.  Although hot on her heals, by the time I made it to the side door, she was inside the house (Sister is, for the record, not faster than me...she just got a better start).  So, I did what I normally do when I am locked out of someplace I want to be (hey, she could have been sneaking a piece of cheese):  I barked bloody murder.

A few seconds later, Sister re-emerged, but instead of cheese, she had, in her hand, the first of Mecki's birthday presents:  A brand new Mini-Mecki (complete with Mecki fur and scent--a nice touch)!  Forgetting my manners, I jumped up on Sister, snatched the toy from her hand, and hotfooted it into the backyard. 

 

My fun, however, was short-lived.  That evening, I had a relapse of the digestive issues I had earlier in the week.  I wasn't really in the mood to play with my new Mini-Mecki, or any toy for that matter, for two whole days.  And on Monday, when my stomach was completely better, I spent most of the time catching up on the sleep I lost the two previous nights.

Then Tuesday rolled around.  Feeling one hundred percent better and very well rested, I found myself itching for something to do (I let my family know by barking hysterically at them while they were trying to watch television).  Sister, understanding what I wanted, got up off her chair, walked into the backroom, and took the second toy out of the bag.  This time, it was a rubber ball that dispensed food.  Sister stuffed the toy full of liver bits and handed it to me.

I had a grand time with my new toy.  The first thing I noticed was that it made a really cool suction sound when I chewed on it.  The second thing I realized was that I needed to roll the toy around in order for the food to come out.  But there's a major problem with pretty much all toys that roll:  they tend to roll away from me.  I really hate that.  So what do I do when my toy rolls just out of reach?  I bark until someone kicks it back to me.  Personally, I find this solution quite enjoyable, but I'm afraid Ma and Pa, who were trying to watch TV, found it less than pleasurable.

Here are a couple of videos of me playing with my food dispenser ball.  In addition to the aforementioned suction sound and barking, please note the modified game of catch Sister (holding the camera) and I play as well as how quickly Ma jumped in to help when the ball rolled under the couch.

Thanks, Mecki, for all the cool gifts!

My 5th Birthday

The Birthday Boy

King for the Day

Happy Birthday to ME!!!

Today I turned five years old; a milestone birthday.  What's so special about turning five you ask?  Well, when you take into account that one human year equals seven dog years, today I officially transformed from Sister's little brother to her big brother.  Yep, I'm older than Sister!  Now, I'm not saying that I plan on taking advantage of Sister seeing that I'm the older sibling, but let's just say, I expect to gain some perks with my promotion.

Now, as a birthday treat, allow me to reminisce about my very first birthday.

Right off the bat, everything about that day seemed special.  It was Monday, May 31, 2010 and, for some reason, no one in my family went to work.  They did, however, spend the morning running around the house cleaning and cooking for a BBQ scheduled for later in the day.  I was amazed at the flurry of activity.  I knew that I was a one of a kind dog who deserved an extra special first birthday, but to take a vacation day and create some elaborate meal in my honor?  Wow!  But, if my family wanted to shower me with BBQ hot dogs (I had been told that hot dogs, despite their name, are not made from dogs), hamburgers and potato salad, who was I to argue?

Shortly before 11am, Sister gave me a good brushing (she said I had to look my best) and tied a kelly green bandanna around my neck (I'm more of a forest green kind of pup, but I got it free when I submitted to a grooming session a couple of months earlier).  I hate to brag, but looked good! 

Now, over the years, I've learned that the words "do you wanna" only mean good things for me.  "Do you wanna go get dinner?"  Yes please!  "Do you wanna go for a ride in the car?"  Of course!  "Do you wanna go outside?"  To chase squirrels...sure!  So when Sister asked me "Do you wanna go for a walk?" I was more than game.  I ran to the side door, allowed Ma to put my collar and leash on (because it was my special day I was not required to wear the "snout guard" AKA Gentle Leader harness that Ken the Dog Trainer requested I wear so that I would learn how to walk nice), then I followed Ma, Pa, and Sister out the door and through the front gate.

I noticed immediately that the outside temperature was a little too warm for my comfort (I am, after all, always wearing a fur coat), but I didn't let it bother me.  I was going for a walk and, better yet, I seemed to be walking toward the park (a neighborhood place that, while lacking a dog run, does offer up a lot of interesting smells)!

It is hard to believe, but things got even better.  When I got to the park I was greeted by what seemed like half the town lining the street.  Some people stopped to give me a pet (including "Uncle Mike" who lives down the street) while those who didn't just admired my handsome good looks from afar.  Overall, it was a warm birthday greeting and quite the birthday surprise!

After making our way through the crowd, Pa found us a nice quiet (and shady) spot inside the park with a great view of the street.  I sat down and Sister sat down next to me to give my neck a scratch.  After a minute or so, Sister leaned in close and whispered in my ear: "here it comes."

"It" was a parade!  My very own birthday parade.  There were shiny cars, marching bands (each member wearing a funny looking plume on his/her head), cheerleaders carrying pom-poms (I decided then and there that pom-poms are the perfect toy...you can throw them up in the air, chase them, and then shred them into a thousand itty bitty pieces), lots of children (where there are children there are snacks), and bagpipers (also wearing funny looking feathers in their hats).

Once the parade passed by, a number of people walked up to a podium to make a series of speeches.  Now, I couldn't hear those speeches (the sound system was not that good despite a couple of high pitched interference screeches which made my hair stand on end), but I was sure that they were all wishing me a very happy birthday and commenting on my devilishly good looks.  I wagged my tail in approval each time the crowd erupted in applause.

After all the speeches were made, the crowd dispersed.  But before we left our quiet and shady spot in the park, Sister turned to me and asked:  "Did you like attending your very first Memorial Day parade?"

Wait...the parade wasn't for me?!

Reflecting on My Fourth Year

On the eve of my 5th birthday, I thought I'd take a minute, as is now tradition, to reflect on a few life lessons I've learned this year.

1. Sleepovers Are Awesome!:  Not only did I have my very first sleepover last spring, but I also got to participate in three additional ones.  First that little stray dog that Sister took in stayed over, then my pal Ralphie spent the night, then my bff Mecki stayed the weekend, then my man Ralphie spent another night!  And, despite sometimes having to give up the use of my pillow to my house guest (as any good host would do), I had a fun and spectacular time with each!  Who knows what this next year will bring.
2. Hide Your Antlers Well:  Be warned:  the simple act of a host finishing the picked over and abandoned remains of a house guest's breakfast apparently warrants said house guest to round up the host's collection of abandoned antlers and chew on them. 
3. Pizzas Don't Come From the Store:  This was quite the eye opener for me.  For most of my life I was under the mistaken impression that pizzas simply arrived at the front door, ready-made, and encased in a cardboard box.  Boy, was I wrong!  Who would have thought that a slice of pizza could grow on a seemingly ordinary evergreen tree?  I wonder if I can expect a new crop next year.
4. Don't Chip the Paint:  The luster of a black nose is not solid through and through.  It is merely a veneer covering a bright pink center.

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.