Making the Bed

The Face of a Helpful Dog

I'm a very busy dog.  I have squirrels to chase out my yard, crumbs to snuff up, things to shed on, and people walking by my house to bark furiously at.  And then there are the naps...mustn't forget all the naps I must squeeze into an already busy day.  But regardless of my busy schedule, I always make time to help with one specific chore:  making the bed.

There's just something about the entire process.  As soon as I notice someone stripping the bed of its sheets or rearranging the covers so that they are nice and neat, I just have to get involved.

First, I saunter nonchalantly into the room.  I eye the bed.  I eye the person making the bed.  I eye the bed again.  Then I rest my chin on the edge of the mattress.  Next, I pretend to listen as the person making the bed informs me that I am not, under any circumstances, allowed to jump up on the bed.  I wag my tail when he or she finally stops talking, my chin still resting on the edge of the mattress.  Then, in the middle of the phrase "no, no, no," I leap up onto the bed.

Time is now of the essence.  I must make it to the middle of the bed and throw myself down, preferably with my belly up to the sky (I'm unmovable dead weight when I'm lying on my back), before the person trying to make the bed grabs hold of my collar and guides me off with a gentle heave-ho.  And if I make it to this point-to the middle of the bed with my belly up to the sky-then the fun really begins.

Comfy Cozy

It starts with exasperated pretend crying by the person trying to make the bed which usually results in everyone else in the household gathering around to see what all the hubbub is about.  Noting my helpfulness, everyone circles around me and starts rubbing my ears, scratching my tummy, and commenting on the fact that I'm such a troublesome and rotten dog (we all know these statements are totally false).  Eventually, someone (usually Sister) tries to make me look foolish by tucking me in under the covers, but I don't care because it's actually very cozy.

After much belly rubbing and carrying on, the person who had previously been trying to make the bed declares that he or she has had enough of my shenanigans and proceeds to try to figure out a way to remove me from the bed.  Pa's technique is to slide me over to the side of the bed and guide me off by my collar.  Ma and Sister resort to bribery in the form of a cookie.  Three guesses which technique I prefer.

Anyway, just because I've been booted off the bed doesn't mean that I'm done helping.  The bed still needs to be made after all!  Having consumed my cookie (or sulked briefly in another room), I quickly circle back to the bedroom and, with a flying leap (accompanied once again by "no, no, no"), I jump back onto the bed and assume belly up to the sky position.

Resting Comfortably

By this time (and all subsequent times thereafter), the patience of the person trying to make the bed is beginning to wane, but I don't care because I think this entire exchange is beyond fun.  In fact, I've been known to continue helping long after the bed maker has given up and stalked off angrily.

My Aunt B

Aunt B and I have had a very special relationship ever since I first came to live with my family.

It started with her rushing over to meet me when my family brought me home (I knew we were going to get on famously when she started gushing about how cute I was).  As 'Nanny B' she would check in on me during the day when my family was at work and taught me how to roll over on command.  She even rushed to my aid (and Sister's as well) when I tore off my first toenail at six months old (not only did she drive me to the vet, she also helped clean up the blood that had splattered all over the floor and walls).

Of course, over the years, we've had some disagreements.  You see, she and I have very different thoughts regarding drool.  She doesn't want me to drag my sopping wet chin across her nice clean pant legs; leaving "slug trails" in my wake.  I, on the other paw, see "slug trails" as a sign of affection (but I would like the record to show that I did make some attempt at reaching her half way by giving her a homemade "Sham-Drool" one Christmas and I swear, when I spent the rest of the day trying to steal it back, I was only doing so so that I could wipe my mouth and not because I wanted to rip off each individually glued on "Sham-Drool" letter that Sister had so carefully cut out of felt and glued on).  But despite our differences in opinion, Aunt B and I get along great.  So great, in fact, that a couple of days ago, when she and Sister were out shopping, Aunt B bought me a new toy--a bright orange monkey named George.

George and Me

I love my monkey toy.  I love him so much that he and I have pretty much been inseparable over the last two days (I even managed to sneak him outside this morning though Pa eventually took him away because he didn't want George to get all wet in the snow).  And speaking of getting wet, George is extremely absorbent; he's already seeped up three times his weight in drool (hey, that's what happens when you carry a toy around in your mouth all day).  Even more surprising, however, is that, despite having to be reminded repeatedly not to gnaw off his ears or tail, George is still in one piece and has not required a trip to the dreaded toy hospital.

So thank you Aunt B for buying me this awesome toy and hopefully it will still be in one piece the next time you come over (though I can't guarantee it)!

Photographic Proof

Sister and I have had this argument before.  She insists that I'm a bed hog and I think she just doesn't want to share with her sweet little baby brother.  In the past, there has never been a way to definitively prove which one of us was telling the truth (though we all know that I am beyond trustworthy and Sister has shifty eyes); it's always been a he said she said situation.  Last night, however, that changed.  I now have photographic evidence that proves, without a doubt, that I am in no way a bed hog.  Consider the following image:

This was taken at 12:30am when Sister decided that it was time for bed (I had already been snoozing for a good hour having claimed my spot early in the evening).  As the picture clearly shows, there is a good eleven or twelve inches of mattress on either side of me--more than enough room for Sister to squeeze in.  And please note that she also has access to the blankets in both sides, so she can't complain about being cold!

But she did complain (and not about being cold...her complaint was about the lack of room) and do you know what she did?  She moved me out of her way!  First, however, she had to wait until I rolled back onto my side (I learned early on that if I'm on my back no one can lift or move me--and believe me I've use this to my benefit many a time).  Once I had finally flipped over, she started shimmying me over toward one side of the bed, first by moving my front half a few inches, then my back half, and then my front half again (yeah, it's as undignified as it sounds).  Sometimes I sleep right through this process, but on this particular night I got up, jumped off the bed, and stalked off to find another place to sleep.

So tell me, who is being selfish here?

Rigby M.D.

Over the course of my life, I've had numerous bumps, scrapes, tummy troubles, and general bouts of feeling blah (usually brought on by the anesthesia used to calm me down so that someone could treat my countless bumps and scrapes).  And every time I wasn't feeling well or was hurt, my family was there to take care of me--scratching my ears, rubbing my belly, and sitting with me on the floor.

Well, this week I got to return the favor.  You see, Sister was home sick with a cold and I made it my personal mission to show her the same support and excellent bedside manner that she (and the rest of my family) has shown me in the past.

Here's some of the stuff I did for Sister:

• I kept her warm by curling up next to her in bed while she slept or watched television.  Every once in a while, to show my support and sympathy, I either rest my head on her stomach or give her hand a kiss.
• I made sure she didn't over exert herself when she tried to get some homework done between sneezing fits by inserting myself in between her and her laptop and refusing to move.
• I didn't take offense when she sneezed on me (though one sudden sneezing fit woke me up from a dead sleep and I might have glared angrily at her for a brief second before remembering why I was there).
• I periodically checked the garbage can she was placing used tissues in to see if it needed emptying.  At one point, I tried emptying the can myself by grabbing a mouthful of tissues, but Sister, out of the blue, pounced on me and made me spit them out.  It's okay though, I don't blame her for her actions.  Her head was all foggy with cold medicine.
• I repeatedly checked in with her during the evening, regardless of whether she was awake or sleeping, by resting my head on her chair's armrest and staring up at her with my big brown eyes while wagging my tail.
• I kept quiet and barked only when I really, really, really, really needed to go out.

Yessiree, Sister is one lucky girl to have a brother like me to look after her.  

Snow!

My First Snowstorm, 2009

It snowed!  And not just a little bit.  Over the course of about twenty four hours, a blizzard dumped just over one foot of snow onto my backyard.  I love it; always have.  I've loved snow ever since I was a little bitty puppy experiencing my very first snowstorm (which happened to be a substantial one like this).

Sister documented my adventures outside once the blizzard finally ended and I'd like to share the photos with my loyal readers.

1-2 Inches Accumulation

First, I helped everyone shovel--by barking out instructions of course!  In fact, I was so absorbed in my job of pointing out spots people missed and reminding everyone to lift with their legs and not with their backs, that I started developing a few inches of accumulation myself. It was well worth it though.  My family did a spectacular job of clearing the snow.  But I didn't just bark out instructions while I watched from behind my front fence.  I also spent some time gnawing on chunks of ice.

Searching for Intruders

Next I did a perimeter sweep of my backyard.  First, I bunked noses with Honey, the dog next door, and then I ran (or bunny hopped as Sister calls it) across the yard to chase down (and bark at) a woodpecker pecking at the neighbor's tree.  After scaring the woodpecker off, I started checking for bunnies and squirrels, but luckily, the snow seemed to have kept them away.

Where Did That Ball Go?

After that, Ma and I played ball, or at least tried to.  As I've said in the past, I'm not a big fan of the game.  But snow, I figured, makes everything better so I thought I'd give it another try.  However, as soon as Ma tossed me the ball, I quickly discovered that there was a big problem with the game.  As soon as the ball landed in the snow, it was gone.  I stuck my head in some footprint holes and dug a few new ones, but I simply could not find the ball.  Eventually, Sister took pity on me, located my ball, and handed it to me.  My final verdict:  the game of fetch is about as pointless in the snow as it is on dry ground.

Lounging on the Mountain

Exhausted from searching for my ball and correcting people's snow shoveling techniques, I decided to take a break by lounging on the giant mountain of snow Ma was building for me from what had accumulated on the driveway.  Later this week, when it gets a little harder as a result of melting, I'll start "dig, dig, digging" my way through it, but for now, since it was nice and soft, it made for a comfortable place to rest and take in the world for a couple of minutes.

Ripping Snowballs Out of My Tail

Now, my family knows it's time to go inside when they start getting cold.  Me?  I know it's time to go in when I start developing snowballs in my fur.  It's really quite embarrassing.  One minute I'm running around the backyard without a care in the world and suddenly I notice that my chest, legs, and tail are covered in miniature snowballs and there are ice pellets stuck in between my toes.  I do my best to rip them out myself, but the best tool for the job is easily the hairdryer.

And do you know what the best part of this entire event was?  It's the fact that the snow, because of its volume, will be around for days, if not weeks, to come.  The fun will literally go on and on!

Breed Standards

Sister said something really insulting to me today.  She said that there are times that I am a disgrace to my breed.

Needless to say, I was shocked (and a little bit hurt...I might have to chew up another pair of her shoes later today).  How could I be a disgrace to my breed when I can...

• effortlessly strike a show dog quality pose (especially impressive when I face into a gentle breeze).
• execute a whole host of tricks from adorable ("say your prayers" in which I put my head down on my paws) to humorous ("BANG!" in which I drop to the ground and play dead) to agility driven ("eights" in which I do figure eights between someone's legs).
• make someone laugh with my zany antics and fun loving attitude.
• comfort someone who is having a bad day by offering them my belly to rub.
• stun someone with my devilishly handsome good looks (sparkling brown eyes, shimmering gold coat, and dimples--actual dimples--when I smile).

Sister couldn't help but agree that, in many, ways I am a perfect example of my breed, however, she continued to insist that her previous statement was still valid.  And to prove its validity, she showed me the following picture:

Okay, fine, I admit it--all the dimples, tricks, and poses in the world wouldn't be able to negate the fact that I had a giant string of drool wrapped around my snout.  So much for class.

Ping-Pong

Welcome to my first post of the new year.  Hopefully 2015 will be filled with lots of belly rubs, squeaky toys galore, a limited number of funny looking outfits to wear, and a boatload of yummy treats.  And speaking of yummy treats, I'd like to give a shout out to Ralphie's mom who gave me some seriously delicious homemade cookies (my family was so impressed with how good they smelled that I'm afraid I might have to keep a careful watch over them to make sure they don't take to sampling).

And now, on to my story.

New Year's Eve ended with a bang in my house.  Just hours before the big shiny tennis ball dropped in Times Square marking the start of 2015, I was invited into the basement Land of No to partake in my family's New Year's Eve tradition:  a rousing game of ping-pong. 

Truth be told, I wasn't very interested in the whole ping-pong game experience when I first climbed down the stairs that evening.  After all, I suddenly had full access to a rarely explored Land of No and needed to devote all my time and energy investigating every nook and cranny.  But, after checking out all the storage boxes filled with toys, house wares, and papers, after barking at a counter top on which a supply of squeaky bones were stored, and after being unceremoniously tossed out of the laundry room for trying to steal some dirty socks, I was finally able to devote my full attention to the game.

First, I dedicated myself to learning the rules of the game.  I did this by resting my slobbery chin on the playing table and watching while Pa and Sister batted a tiny ball back and forth to each other using paddles.  Try as I might, I must admit that I didn't really get the point of the game.  It seemed to me to be a modified version of playing fetch which I don't get the point of either (people trying to put as much distance between themselves and a ball only to expect it to be returned to them--if you wanted the ball that bad, why did you throw/bat it away?).

Bored with my court side view, I decided to try my hand at the game itself.  But which team should I join--Ma's, Pa's, or Sister's (they were taking turns playing one-on-one)?  I circled the court a couple of times and decided that the best team for me was all teams.  As a result, I spent the next couple of rounds playing doubles with all players--being careful to stand directly between the player and the court.  And let me tell you, my teammates were always very pleased with my assistance.

It was a missed return that introduced me to another thrilling aspect of the game of ping-pong.  There I was, helping my teammate kick butt, when the small white ball went whizzing past my head.   Now, as I mentioned earlier, I'm not a fan of playing fetch, but this was an opportunity I couldn't pass up.  Skidding on the tile floor and slowed down by the back and forth hip checking between myself and my teammate (who apparently had the same idea I had), I made a bee line for the escaped ball and scooped it up in my mouth.  I was just about to bite down through the relatively thin plastic, when my entire family pounced on me and began to pry open my mouth.  I was no match for them.  I relinquished the slippery slobbery (and intact) ball into Pa's hand.  Over the course of the evening, I got hold of the ball a few more times, but, sadly, I was never given enough time to thoroughly destroy, I mean, investigate it.

When the game was over, the ball and the paddles were put away (I tried to grab the paddle out of Sister's hand, but apparently she can read my mind and moved it away before I got the chance), I was escorted back upstairs, and the baby gate blocking me from the basement was returned to its spot.

The Land of No was once more the Land of No.