Vacation

Greetings from a devilishly handsome pup who recently returned from a thirteen day excursion to sunny eastern Long Island; a land of big back yards, interesting smells, and, most importantly, central air coupled with cool floors.

 

 

Introducing Betsy Ross!

Yep, that’s right, I was on vacation, and it was great from its very first minutes. You see, my family took two cars out east: Pa and I drove out in his car while Ma, Sister, and the newest hamster Betsy Ross took Sister’s car. This is my favorite driving arrangement—it means that I don’t have to share the backseat with Sister (nothing against the girl, but I think her continued insistence that she is allotted a full one third of the backseat can only be described as unreasonable).

But as wonderful as the ride was, it paled in comparison to the fun that was to come over the next week and a half. Here’s some of the stuff I did:

• I stole a toy sword from the little boy who lives next door. Now, before anyone thinks me a brute, allow me to explain that the sword was on my side of the fence so, legally, it was mine. Anyway, I grabbed hold of the sword by its handle and ran around the backyard with Sister in hot pursuit (I think she thought that I might try to threaten a squirrel with it—not a bad idea!). After a couple of loops around the backyard, I found a nice cool spot on the grass, plopped down, and proceeded to gnaw on the sword’s handle. Sister caught up with me shortly thereafter and took the sword away from me. She then threw the sword back over the fence into the neighbor’s yard. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.
• I defended my turf against the exterminator…wearing a bee suit. I won’t lie, the bee suit threw me at first, but I quickly recovered and barked at him both with and without a tennis ball in my mouth (I am truly gifted when it comes to barking...my family doesn’t call me a “barky boy” for nothing). 
• I tried my hand at old fashioned letter writing by sending a postcard to my friends Mecki, Bastille, and Ralphie (the problem with writing postcards is that they don’t allow for random pictures to be inserted into the text for no apparent reason). 

  

  See?!  Random is Good!

• I bunked noses with “Sausage Dog” who lives next door (I was also barked at—rather unpleasantly—by the other two dogs living next door, but I didn’t let that bother me). 
• I found a smelly chunk of fish in the backyard and, while Pa and Sister wouldn’t let me eat it, I did get a few licks in before anyone realized it was there. This marks the second time that a fish was discovered in my backyard. The first time happened a few weeks ago when Pa discovered an entire fish lying in the grass (talk about unseasonable weather!). I’m hoping the next piece of fish comes with tartar sauce and lemon. 
• I added a new variation the daily squeaky bone/squeaky football game that I play with Pa, Ma, and Sister. 
1. My playmate throws my squeaker toy as far across the yard as he can (Pa is very good at this step—he throws it very far; Sister isn’t so good, in fact, she nearly clocked me a couple of times when she accidentally threw my toy downward rather than outward).
2. I sprint after the toy, grab it in my mouth, take two steps, then throw myself down into the grass to chew on the squeaker. 
3. My playmate, who by this time has walked the entire length of the yard to my current location, tries to grab my toy, but I get up and run away, my toy clenched firmly in my mouth. 
4. And here’s the new addition to the game: I run toward the house, gallop up the ten steps onto the porch, and sit down patiently at the side door as my playmate trudges across the yard and up the stairs after me. Upon getting the toy from me, my playmate then chucks it back into the yard, and makes his way down the steps and back into the yard. 
5. Repeat steps two through four over and over and over again (and let me tell you, the look on my playmate’s face as he climbs the stairs for the sixth time is priceless). 

A Sample of My Handiwork

• I took a large branch that fell from one of the trees in the backyard and turned it into a pile of smaller branches. Now, if Ma hadn’t taken those smaller branches away from me when she did, I would have turned them into even smaller sticks and, eventually, landscaping chips.

But what was the absolute, number one highlight of the entire vacation (aside from cool floor tiles and central air I spoke of earlier)? Paws down, it was my trip to the beach.

My Beach

The day started extremely early and with a flourish of activity. Everyone was up: Ma, Pa, and, oddly enough, Sister who usually doesn’t make an appearance until much later in the morning (she shares my love for sleeping late). But even more peculiar (and distressing) was the fact that, despite everyone being up and about, no one was showing any sign of getting me my breakfast. And so, with an empty stomach, Ma, Pa, Sister, and I piled into Pa’s car and pulled out of the driveway. A few short blocks later, Pa parked the car and we all got out. As soon as I got a whiff of the cool bay breeze I knew where we were and immediately started pulling Pa in the direction of the beach.

Pa and Me

Up and down the beach I ran, kicking up sand as I went. Occasionally, I’d run a little too fast and a little too far and come to a quick halt when I ran out of leash (Pa, restricted by the fact that he has only has two legs, couldn’t keep up with me and my four legs), but even that didn’t slow me down—I’d just go right back to running. Then, all of a sudden, I got an idea. Why not run into the water?

Now, I’ve been to this beach before, but when I was there last it was winter time (there was snow on the ground) and I was not allowed to play in the water because Ma said it was too cold (though I did disobey her by running, full force, toward the water to dip my nose into the freezing cold surf—it was a less than pleasant experience).

Anyway, this time, no one stopped me from running into the water. In fact, everyone came in after me; even Ma (though not as deep as me). And speaking of deep water—I waded all the way in until the water was up to the middle of my chest. Pa and Sister tried to get me to go in further; tried to get me to swim, but, as my loyal readers know from my profile bio, I don’t like to swim (or, more precisely, float).

 

Water in My Ears

So in and out of the water I ran, snapping at the waves, sniffing the seaweed, skidding down the dunes, and occasionally, taking a breather by lying on the warm sandy beach or in the cool shallow water. And as exhausted as I was when Pa said it was time to go home, I really wanted to stay (it didn’t help that I was told that there was a bath waiting for me when I got home).

Needless to say, I slept well that afternoon.

Of course, there were a handful of places that my family went where I was not allowed to join them (why certain establishments feel the need to forbid dogs—especially sophisticated, world famous bloggers such as myself—from entering their establishments will never make sense to me). Overall, I was okay with this arrangement; we all need some time to ourselves (it’s exhausting to keep track of Pa, Ma, and Sister), not to mention, I’d happily exchange a walk through Greenport on a 90 degree day for barking at the dogs next door from within my air conditioned house.

There was, however, one place I would have liked to have gone with my family: the aquarium. Why? Because, according to Sister, a relative of Mecki’s baby brother Bastille was there. You see, Mecki has repeatedly likened his new baby brother to a piranha because he’s all teeth. And what did Sister see at the aquarium?

Is it a piranha or is it Bastille?

So, overall, it was a great vacation. I played, I barked, I (nearly) floated, I napped, I stole, I smelled stinky things, and I lounged in air conditioned comfort. I’m home now, with my extensive collection of tennis balls, plush toys misshapen from multiple surgeries and amputations (I missed you Nuclear Bunny), and a herd of bunnies in the backyard who, I’m sure, have become quite cocky in my absence.

Whew...I think I'm going to need another vacation real soon!

Greetings from Eastern Long Island!

Bastille

Every once in a while, someone in my family comes home smelling like another dog.  For some dogs, jealousy might kick in; "My [fill in the family member's name] betrayed me!  How dare he/she!"  For me, however, I feel...well...jealous also, but in a different way.  You see, whenever I detect another dog's smell on one of my family members, two thoughts go through my head:

1. Hey!  [Fill in the family member's name] went to work and met another dog there.  Why wasn't I allowed to go to work?
2. Hey!  Why did [fill in the family member's name] get to play with another dog and I didn't?

And the jealousy levels really spike when that dog my family member smells of is one of my friends.

Of all the members of my family, Sister is the one who comes home smelling of other dogs the most (I can't count the number of times she's come home from work smelling of my bff Mecki).  In fact, this happens so often that, over the years, she and I have come up with a system.  You see, originally, Sister would come home from work at lunchtime after playing with a dog in the morning and expect me to leave her alone long enough to eat her lunch before I was allowed to sniff her all over.  Well, it doesn't take a genius to know that that rarely worked.  While she would be desperately trying to eat, I'd be climbing all over her sniffing her from head to toe (and occasionally trying to take a bite out of her sandwich when she wasn't looking).  Not the best plan.  Now, with our new plan, as soon as Sister gets home from playing with another dog, she immediately lies down on the living room floor and lets me sniff until my heart's content and then eats her lunch.  Much better.

Well, when Sister came home from work today, she immediately assumed the "I Played With Another Dog So Sniff Away" position.  I ran over to her figuring that she had been playing with one of my Library friends (Mecki, Ralphie, Tink, Harry, or Zee Zee) and discovered, with just one sniff, that Sister had been playing with a new dog.

"That's Mecki's new little brother, Bastille" Sister explained while I sniffed her all over, my tail wagging furiously.  Bastille is a French Bulldog, Sister explained, with really big ears that point straight up to the sky.  She told me that he is super cute and really tiny (to view pictures and watch videos of Bastille, check out Mecki's blog).  She also told me that his Mom said that he, unlike Mecki, eats all his food (so I guess I won't be able to steal his leftover breakfast like I did to Mecki when he slept over) and has already figured out how to smack Mecki upside the head with his paw (just like me--I'm so proud).

So welcome, Bastille, to the pack!  I can't wait to meet you in person (sniffing is good, but it pales in comparison to actually bunking noses) and keep an eye on those dew claws (I'll explain when you're older).

Clean Up

It is my overall goal in life to be comfortable.  I want my tummy to be comfortable so I am always in search of a snack I can steal, beg for, or (and this is a last resort) earn.  I want my body to be comfy so I seek out the softest place in the house to sleep (and yes, that means sleeping on the furniture).  And finally, I want to be emotionally comfy which is achieved by having all of my favorite things around me wherever I go.

That is why I have toys in pretty much every room of the house.  For instance, last evening Monkey-Monk was lounging in Sister's room, Nuclear Bunny was in the kitchen, Baby and Lenny the dinosaur were hanging out in the dining room, my toy box (filled with bones and stolen tennis balls from the park) as well as my latest Mini Mecki were in the living room, and Ma and Pa's room was playing host to Lyle-Lyle, Rudy, my red dinosaur (he has no name--no one thought he would survive long enough to require one), and the hippopotamus that my friend Ralphie and his mom gave me.

Unfortunately, my family has other definitions regarding feeling comfortable and, apparently, they include a certain level of neatness, organization, and clear walking paths.

It was just before bedtime and I was doing my best impression of "Puddle Dog" or "look-at-me-I'm-melting-from-the-summer-heat-oh-please-oh-please-won't-someone-turn-on-the-air-conditioner" on the living room floor.  Now, for those unaware (mainly those lucky people and dogs who live in central air), to accomplish this impression properly, one mustn't leave one's prone state unless absolutely necessary (after all, it doesn't make sense that one can be dying of heat yet completely capable of jumping up at will and scurrying away for trivial reasons), so one must choose one's location carefully.  Over the years, I've discovered the perfect spot; a spot in the living room which allows me to keep an eye on everyone in the room as well as anyone who heads toward the bedroom with the intention of turning on the air conditioning (air conditioning is always worth getting up for).

Anyway, on this particular night, Ma got up from her spot on the couch and headed into the bedroom.  Unwilling to give up on my impression of a "Puddle Dog" prematurely (I've been tricked before and now know that I cannot assume that just because someone goes into the bedroom it means that the air conditioner will be turned on), I watched for the tell tale sign of air conditioner use (the closing of the windows, the deliberate walk to the air conditioner, and the closing of the door).  Sadly, Ma showed no indication of turning on the blessed relief that is the air conditioner.

But something was happening because a minute or so after Ma went into the bedroom, she emerged carrying Lyle-Lyle, Rudy, the red dinosaur, and the hippopotamus all the while complaining that there was no room to walk because my toys were all over the floor.  She then unceremoniously dumped all four toys into my toy box.  Adding insult to injury, she then circled through all the other rooms on the first floor and systematically picked up all my toys and deposited them all into the toy box as well.

Well, I was shocked, appalled, and dismayed by this predicament.  I was so shocked, appalled, and dismayed that I gave up on my "Puddle Dog" impression, scurried over to my toy box, grabbed my hippopotamus, and hot footed it into the bedroom.  Once in the bedroom, I tossed my toy back onto the floor and walked away.

Ma was not amused by my antics.  Sister, on the other hand, laughed and told me that I was a good boy.  Pa, however, won my favor by calling me back into the room and turning on the air conditioner.  Thanks Pa!

Another Bunny Tale

Henry

As my loyal readers know, there is no love lost between me and rabbits.  I have been hounded by them for years, especially by Henry who has been known to take up residence in my family's vegetable garden where he gnaws on the pepper plants.  Now, Henry hasn't made an appearance as of yet this year, and while most would consider this a good thing, I do not.  You see, without the constant concern and anxiety associated with the idea that a stupid little fluffy brown bunny with a white tail might wander into my yard, I've lost my touch.  And now a new stupid little fluffy brown bunny with a white tail is menacing me, and his name is Herbert.

Herbert

Herbert lives out east.  For weeks now he's been sitting outside the fence grazing on the clover in the front yard.  While I don't particularly like the idea of having a bunny anywhere on my property, I understand that a bunny needs to eat and, so long as he stays on his side of the fence (and completely out of sight), I've decided that we should be able to get along.  I call it our "Good Fences Make Good Neighbors" Policy (didn't know I was literary did you?).  But this last weekend Herbert broke our "GFMGN" policy; he ventured inside the gate.

It was a beautiful day out east and Pa and I were playing outside with my squeaker bone.  The way our game works is Pa throws the bone as far as he can, I run after it (trying to avoid trees) and grab hold of it, then I plop down in the grass and wait for Pa to come and try to get the toy away from me.  Now, early on in the game, when Pa gets to within a few feet of me, I quickly jump up and scurry off with the toy in an attempt to prevent Pa from throwing it again (which leads to a rousing game of keep away).  After chasing after the thrown squeaker toy a few times (Pa always manages to wrench the toy away from me and throw it across the yard), I move onto the second (and far less strenuous) phase of keep away which includes clenching the toy firmly in my teeth, rolling on my back, and trying to distract Pa with the offer of a belly rub.

Anyway, Pa had just wrenched the toy away from me and, from the back corner of the yard, threw the squeaker bone toward the front gate.  As is customary, I took off after it, but this time Pa also started running toward the toy and he was yelling something at the same time.

Being the superior runner (sorry Pa), I got to the squeaker bone first, but when I grabbed the toy, plopped down in the grass, and looked toward Pa, I noticed that he was still running toward me while screaming that something should "run!"  I looked around to see if I could figure out what was bothering Pa, but saw nothing but cool green grass and purplish clover.  Then, all of a sudden, I noticed a pair of bunny years pop up from within the grass.  Herbert, trying to remain unnoticed in the grass, had given away his location by twitching his ears.

I jumped up and ran toward Herbert who also jumped up and ran toward the chain linked fence that runs between my yard and the yard next door.  Trapped by the fence, Herbert turned, screeched, and then did something very strange.  He ran straight at me and right through my front legs.  When I turned around, he was gone.  It was magic!

Sister has shown me this trick before; she can make my toys magically disappear.  One second we're playing with a plush toy such as Nuclear Bunny or Denny the Dinosaur and suddenly, after passing the toy through my front legs, the toy disappears (Sister later pulls it out from behind her back).  Now, I don't know how she does it, but I guess Herbert knows the trick too.  My one concern is:  When Sister does the trick the toy reappears behind her back, but, since Sister wasn't around this time, where did Herbert end up?

Hopefully, he's on the other side of the fence (and completely out of sight).

A New Crop

When I first discovered the pizza tree growing in my backyard (see story here), I was excited.  I hoped that that one single slice of pizza would go to seed and produce hundreds and hundreds of pies.  Neapolitan!  Sicilian!  Grandma!  Deep dish!  Ahh, the choices would have been endless (and that's not even going into the different types of toppings I'd grow as well as my eventual side crop of garlic knots).

Sadly, however, I believe I got ahead of myself.  You see, I've recently come to the sad conclusion that my pizza tree is a dud.  In the five months since I discovered the first slice, no additional slices have appeared (and believe me, I've looked).  It goes without saying that I was, and still am, quite bummed over this fact.

But a few days ago something happened to lighten my mood.  I discovered that perhaps I really do have a "green thumb" (even though I don't have thumbs, per se, and the only way my fur turns green is when I run around like crazy in the backyard, trip, and end up with grass stains from skidding across the lawn on my chest).  You see, I might not be able to grow pizzas, but I can, apparently, grow burnt English muffins.

I discovered my burnt English muffin bush quite by accident.  It was late one night and Ma and I were outside for my final business trip.  Try as I might, however, I was unable to concentrate on the task at hand because of the wafting smell of burn bread emanating from the backyard.  I followed the smell like a bloodhound and tracked it to a flowering bush three spots down from the debunked pizza tree.  Seeing that the muffin was perched on top of the bush (which was quite tall), I implemented Plan A (climb the bush), but I quickly gave up on the plan because the branches were not sturdy enough to hold my weight.  Then I moved on to the ever successful Plan B: bark hysterically until someone comes to help (this plan always works, especially late at night or early in the morning when my family is afraid that I might wake up the entire neighborhood with my vocalizing).

As expected, Ma came to my rescue and, armed with a flashlight, cautiously approached the bush (she later told me that she had no idea what I was barking at and was afraid that I might have cornered an animal).   She peered into the bush and, upon realizing what I was barking at, reached in and pulled the burnt English muffin out.

Then Ma did something horrible; she carried the burnt English muffin into the house and threw it out in the garbage without even giving me so much as a crumb.  I mean, what gives?!  I found the muffin!  I tracked it!  I tried climbing the bush!  And just because I couldn't reach it I lose out?  It's just not fair.

Me and My New Toy

But I guess everything works out in the end.  I might not have gotten the chance to chow down on a burnt English muffin, but my friend Ralphie and his mom did give me a new toy which I've really been enjoying.

Wild Kingdom

There is no shortage of strange animals in this world, and I've come to the conclusion that most of them live on the east end of Long Island.  For instance, within the last couple of years I have seen, smelled, and/or barked at deer, giant chickens, bunnies, and goats.

But as strange as those animals are, they do not come close to the weird animal I encountered this past weekend.

It was Saturday morning and Ma and Pa left the house bright and early to attend a town meeting.  This meant that Sister and I were going to have to occupy ourselves for a couple of hours while they were gone.  Now, generally, whenever Sister and I are left alone, we take up our favorite joint hobby:  napping.  We're both really good at it.  I think it stems back to when I was a nasty little puppy and the only way Sister and I could get along for any extended amount of time was if we were both sleeping (fast forward five years and while we get along just fine now, we have both come to appreciate the importance of a good nap).  Anyway, by some weird twist of fate, both Sister and I were bright eyed and bushy tailed that morning (well, I was bushy tailed) and eager to go outside and enjoy the cool morning air (we planned to retreat into the central air conditioned comfort of the house the moment it got too warm).  Sister planned on reading a book while lounging in a lawn chair.  I, on the other paw, planned on preventing Sister from reading by any means necessary (some of my options included digging a hole, barking at figments of my imagination, and stealing Sister's bookmark).

As a special treat, Sister decided that we'd use the basement door to exit the house rather than the side door.  Now, I absolutely love using the side door because it means that I get to run down the flight of stairs linking the deck and backyard at top speed (and then run back up it afterward), but there is something about using the back door (which involves two steps up and directly into the yard) that is even more exciting.  I'm not sure why it's so exciting, but perhaps it's because from day one that exit was referred to as "Rigby's door" (gotta love anything with your name attached to it).

Anyway, Sister and I raced down into the basement and skidded toward the back door.  Lawn chair in hand, Sister threw open the door and three things happened simultaneously:

Turtle Knocking on the Door

1. I jumped over the two steps and dashed into the backyard.
2. A turtle tried scurrying into the house.
3. Sister almost screamed (but managed to close the door before the turtle could crawl in).

Curious as to what was going on, I quickly backtracked, but by the time I got to the door, Sister had already created a barrier between me and the turtle with her lawn chair.  She then jumped over the chair, ran toward the steps leading up to the side door (I chased after her), and into the house.  Half a minute later (though it seemed like much longer from where I stood on the outside of the door--and don't worry, I made sure to voice my displeasure for being left outside as loudly as I could), Sister emerged from the house carrying a cardboard box.  The two of us scurried down the steps and back toward the basement door.  Sister then jumped the barricade, knelt down, picked the turtle up, and deposited him into the cardboard box. 

The Release

I spent a fair part of the next hour hovering around the shady (and fenced in) area where Sister stashed the box and turtle.  Later, after Ma and Pa got the chance to admire the visiting turtle, Sister released him (he was now formally dubbed Mr. Turtle) into the front yard where he scuttled under a hostas plant.

And They Said It Might Not Happen

I'm a very lucky dog.  In fact, my entire life has been filled with me beating the odds in one way or another.  Here are a few examples:

1. Despite being a nasty little puppy with big teeth and a bad attitude, my family stuck with me long enough for me to blossom into the model citizen I am today.
2. Despite attempting, unsuccessfully, to move the house with my face, and despite being told that I might end up with a visible scar from my endeavor, my fur grew in and now you can't even tell that there was ever a wound.
3. Despite being told that my damaged dew claw might not grow back in, it did, albeit painfully crooked, and had to be, along with its toe, surgically removed.

Hey wait, that last one wasn't so lucky!

Anyway, apparently my lucky streak is still going strong.  Observe:

This is what my nose looked like back in April when I 'chipped the paint' (Ralphie's Mom came up with this very appropriate description) and exposed my nose's pink undercoating.  At the time, the vet suggested that there was a chance that that part of my nose would never turn black again (and Pa meanly suggested that the rest of my nose might turn entirely pink in the meantime).  Needless to say, I was traumatized by the entire experience.

But, with Ma's liberal use of bacitracin and the antibiotics Pa got me when he took me to the vet, my nose, two months later, looks like this:

It is practically perfect (please feel free to take a moment to shed some tears of joy)!  Sure, there's a little pink left, a small dent due to a couple of layers of skin still missing, but I'm confident that it will be 100% in a month or so and I'll be back to my normal, devilishly handsome self (as if I ever actually lost my devilishly handsome good looks).