Four Days

Four.  That's the number of days I went between baths last week.  Personally, I think it's an all time record!

My first bath occurred a week ago today after I got home from being out east.  The timing of the bath was not lost on me.  You see, after spending an action packed weekend patrolling the yard's perimeters, chasing squirrels, tracking deer, and supervising the workers who were building a pool in the next door neighbor's yard, I was totally and completely exhausted.  And that's why my family hosed me down and lathered me up when we got home.  They knew that I would be too tired to fight them (I don't appreciate smelling like shampoo...I want to smell of the great outdoors).  So I snoozed through my ear cleaning and calmly stood in the driveway when I was doused with water (yeah, that's right, I wasn't even afforded the privacy of a trip to the spa).  Sure, I howled and carried on once I got back into the house, but, believe me, my heart just wasn't in it.

So from Sunday afternoon until Wednesday evening, I smelled, as Ma likes to point out, like a rose.  I hated it.  In fact, I spent a large portion of those seventy-two hours dreading the possibility of a chance encounter with a neighborhood dog.  How would I ever live down my less than masculine aroma?  I'd be the laughingstock of the neighborhood park.

But then, on Wednesday evening, I ran into a bit of a stinky situation.  Without going into too much graphic detail, I had a little trouble with my back end and, well, it kind of got stuck in my fur.  Ma did a very good job cleaning me up, but being less than helpful in such emergencies, I kind of rushed off before Ma could complete her inspection.

By Thursday afternoon I smelled, according to Sister, fairly ripe.  I wagged my tail in thanks, but I got the distinct feeling that Sister did not mean for the statement to be taken as a compliment.  Anyway, all while making and eating dinner, Sister complained of my aroma.  She even complained while she and Ma ate their frozen yogurt desserts (on a side note, Sister offered Ma a taste of her Nutella yogurt and I jumped up so quickly and lunged for the cup with such dexterity that I very nearly snatched it from her).  Then, when they were done eating their desserts, Ma said the unthinkable.  She suggested that she and Sister take me outside for another bath (the conversation that preceded this decision was Sister's concern of being stuck in the back seat of the car with me when we drove out east the next evening).

So, once again I was unceremoniously ushered back into the driveway.

Now, one might think that since it was mid week and I was fully recovered from the previous weekend's excursions that I would have been able to put up a fight against Ma, Sister, and their icky smelling shampoo.  Well, I wasn't.  You see, while I was not tuckered out, I was completely caught off guard and that seriously affected my ability to make their lives difficult.  I never would have guessed that Ma and Sister would have dragged me outside for a bath so late in the day.  Once dessert is over in my house, there are no last minute chores and definitely no last minute dog washing sessions.

So, I once again smell like a rose.  And you know what?  I hate it!

There Was a Dog Rigby Who Swallowed A Moth...

The following is from an e-mail that Sister sent to Ma and Pa after spending one recent lunch hour with me:

Subject:  Sonny Boy.

Your son caught and ate a giant moth today at lunch. Aren't you proud?!

It goes without saying that I was not particularly fond of Sister's tone.  Regardless, the statement (minus, of course, the sarcasm) was one hundred percent correct.  I did catch a moth and I did eventually eat it.  And you know what?  I'd even go so far as to say that I was kind of proud of myself for my accomplishment.  After all, it's not every day that a pup, even a world class athlete such as myself, can say that he:

1. stealthfully tracked a moth as it fluttered about the backyard.
2. skillfully caught said moth.
3. gently carried the moth around in his mouth without crushing it (with his teeth) or drowning it (in his drool).
4. playfully engaged in a game of "Whack a Moth" (which, incidentally, is where I believe the moth obtained its fatal concussion---apparently moths aren't cut out for being thwacked repeated over the head with a large furry paw).

Now I know what you're thinking.  You're asking yourselves:  "But why did he ultimately eat the moth?"  Honestly, I don't know.  It just seemed like the right thing to do at the time.  I will say, however, that the moth didn't taste particularly good; it was a bit on the dry and chalky side.  That being said, would I do it again?  Of course I would!

My 6th Birthday

The Birthday Boy!

Happy birthday to the smartest, most handsome pup I know:  Me!  

As my loyal readers know, last Sunday was my birthday.  I am now six years old and let me tell you, as time goes by, my family and friends have really impressed me with their ability to make each birthday more spectacular than the last (though I don't believe they'll ever be able to surpass my first birthday in impressiveness--it's not every day that the entire town holds a parade for you (for those who don't remember, a summary of that day can be found here)).  So, as I was saying, this year's birthday was a real hoot.  Here's what happened:

My special day started with some quality time lounging on the deck out east.  I love deck time—lying on the wooden planks soaking in the nice warm sun and watching the world go by.  I love it so much that I’ve even worked it into a kind of tradition when we're out there.  You see, when Pa goes out first thing in the morning to buy the newspaper, I insist that Ma and I go outside onto the porch and wait for his return.  It’s a great system (and a great start to the day).

Later in the day, after Pa, Ma, and I drove home, Sister greeted me with a pretty package that Mecki and Bastille’s mom had dropped off that morning (I was a bit bummed to learn that I had missed Karin because a) she’s really nice and b) she always has a pocket full of treats).  Like the good boy I am, I waited patiently as Sister took her sweet time removing the tissue paper from the bag (I might have jumped up on her a couple of times to speed her along, but I honestly don't remember...the whole event is a bit of a blur to me now).  Anyway, once she finally got through the tissue paper, Sister reached into the bag and pulled out my birthday present!

That's right!  Mecki and Bastille gave me TWO brand new Mini-Mecks (for those not in the know, Mini-Mecks are plush squeaker toys that bear an uncanny resemblance to my bff Mecki).

Wait, Where's the Other?

My and My Mini-Meck

Sister immediately gave me the orange Mini Meck which I quickly carried into the backyard to gnaw, roll, and slobber on.  But, despite all the fun I was having, I knew that there was a second Mini-Meck waiting for me and I eventually hurried over to Sister (with the orange Mini-Meck still securely in my mouth) to retrieve it.  That's when my perfect day became a little less perfect.  Sister said I couldn't have the second Mini-Meck right then and there; she said that I'd have to wait until the next time we went out east because it was a special toy that required a big yard for an optimal playing experience (its neck is a slingshot of sorts which means Sister can send it flying across long distances).  I wasn't fond of this explanation, but I managed to get over it by concentrating on the Mini-Meck I had and my task of ripping out its squeaker which I managed to do just about 12 hours later (it's currently in the toy hospital drying out and awaiting surgery).

My Purple Hedgehog

A few hours later, Sister presented me with the birthday gift that she bought:  A purple hedgehog squeaker toy with a tennis ball stuck in its belly.  Just as I had with my orange Mini-Meck, I carried the hedgehog into the backyard and proceeded to gnaw, roll, and slobber all over it.  And let me tell you, I can't express how surprised and pleased I was when I finally managed to pry the tennis ball out of the hedgehog's belly.  My one toy had morphed into two!

Needless to say, after all that had happened, I was dead tired by the time evening finally rolled around.  But to my surprise, my birthday celebration was not over yet.  You see, after my family ate their dinner, Pa cut up some of their leftover roast beef and gave it to me along with the leftover juices and a little bit of gravy.  It was so tasty, but I couldn't help but notice that he had forgotten to give me some of the potatoes they had also had with the meal.  I'm sure it was an honest mistake.

So, like I was saying, this birthday was a particularly good one.  I got great presents, I got tasty food, and I was even given the opportunity to lounge on my porch out east.  The one thing is, I think I might have had a little too much fun as evident by the following pictures Sister took of me wearing my party hat.  What do you think?

Guess What Day It Is!

Can you guess whose birthday it is today?!

Mine!

Outdoor Enemy Number One

Overall, I'm a very tolerant pup.  I get along splendidly with most dogs and I'm fabulous with people (especially if they have food).  Sure, I have a bit of a history with lizards, squirrels, and stupid little bunny rabbits with their fluffy little white tails, but I consider them interlopers; creatures who did not ask my permission to co-exist with me in my backyard--trespassers.  But there is one animal that I've never gotten along with regardless of where our paths convene.  My outdoor enemy number one is none other than the robin.

Now, allow me to clarify for a moment.  I do not have a problem with birds.  Sure, I've been known to chase a mourning dove or two out of my yard from time to time (trespassing), but, by and large, I pretty much ignore all other birds including sparrows, cardinals, orioles, and finches.  But robins?  I just can't stand them.

Why can't I stand them?  Well, there are three reasons:

Reason One: 
They don't act like other birds.  When you cross paths with any other species of birds they take off and fly away (and I don't necessarily mean far away...just out of my way).  When you cross paths with a robin, however, they just jump and skip a couple inches away from where they initially were standing.  And when you match their movement by taking another step toward them, all they do is jump a few inches further away.  So annoying!

Reason Two:  
They have beady little eyes.  After jumping and skipping away, they turn and look at you with their shiny button eyes as if to say "I'm not afraid of you!"

Reason Three: 
They can't take a hint.  I can't tell you the number of times I've chased an individual or a pack of robins out of my backyard only to have them return a minute later.  And when you have to repeatedly chase them out of a large yard like the one I have out east, well, let me tell you, it is a thoroughly exhausting experience.

So, to summarize:  Robins are obnoxious little jumping creatures with beady eyes just daring you to chase them (and chase them I do) again and again and again.

As a matter of fact, I've never been able to ignore robins.  When I was a little puppy, I actually used to try to chase them when I was out walking with my family (much to the dismay of whoever was holding my leash--apparently human arms are not cut out for the sudden jerking motion of me lunging for a bouncy little bird).  But for some reason, no one else in my family ever showed any sign of exhibiting the same level of hatred for robins as I did.  Frankly, that made me hate them even more.  Not only are they evil, but they also managed to trick my humans into believing that they were innocent little birds.  What fiends!

Payback

We've had this argument a thousand times over.  When we're riding in the back seat of the car, Sister insists that she is entitled to a full one third of the seat.  I, on the other paw, believe that I am entitled to way more of it (like all of it).  Now, it is painfully obvious that I am one hundred percent correct in this argument, but that doesn't stop Sister from whining and carrying on whenever we ride in the car together.  Being the good boy that I am, I generally put up with all the whimpering and shoving on Sister's part (she particularly takes offense to me digging my elbow into her leg), but every once in a while I decide to get even and I discovered recently that Pa is more than willing to help my cause.

It happened last weekend:  The four of us (Pa, Ma, Sister, and I) were driving out east and Sister and I were sharing the backseat.  Now, Sister was in a particularly bad mood that evening.  She said it was because she was suffering from feelings of motion sickness and that all the pushing and shoving she was doing to get me back onto my side of the car was exacerbating it.  I, on the other paw, was my usual chipper self.

After miles and miles of putting up with Sister's elbowing, I suddenly came up with a most brilliant idea.  I knew right away that this plan I was hatching wouldn't stop Sister's whining, but it would, however, annoy her to no end (which, in many instances, is way more satisfying).  Nonchalantly, as though merely shifting in my seat, I got up, pivoted slightly in place, and put my foot firmly down on the release button of Sister's seat belt.  As soon as I heard the click of the clasp, I quickly sat down as the seat belt retracted back into the side wall of the car.  Sister protested with an indignant "Hey" and tattled to Ma and Pa about what I had just done, all while struggling to re-buckle herself in (I had strategically planted myself firmly on top of the buckle making the process next to impossible).  And that's when Pa stepped in.  Upon hearing Sister's complaint, Pa unlocked the car's doors with a click.  I laughed silently to myself as Sister once again let out a disgruntled "Hey!"

Now, I had had so much fun unbuckling Sister's seat belt and watching her reaction that about ten minutes later I once again firmly planted my foot on the release button of her seat belt buckle.  Just as before, the seat belt released with a click and retracted back into the wall.  Then Sister cried out, Pa unlocked the car's door with a click, and Sister cried out again.  And what did I do while all of this was happening?  You guessed it, I laughed silently to myself.

This happened two more times before we reached our destination and let me tell you, it never got old.

Perks of Being Sick

No one likes being sick--humans, dogs, and, I imagine, squirrels though I've never stopped chasing them long enough to ask.  But as miserable as people and animals feel when they're sick (believe me, nothing makes me more miserable than when I have an upset tummy), I have discovered that there are some definite benefits of sickness, provided you are not the one feeling ill.  Allow me to explain.

Over the last three weeks, my entire family has come down with a nasty long-lasting cold introduced to the household by Sister.  As a result, all three have, at some point, taken a day or two off from work to recover.  And that's where the silver lining lies--for me at least.  You see, when...

....Sister stayed home we spent the entire day lying in bed watching TV.

...Ma stayed home we spent the entire day lying on the couch watching TV.

...Pa stayed home we spent the entire day lying in bed sleeping.

Yep, that's right, I spent most of each day lounging on a nice, soft piece of furniture--occasionally rolling over to collect the odd belly rub (I know what you're thinking...even Pa, the last holdout of the "Dogs Aren't Allowed on the Furniture" constituency allowed the rules to go lax the day he stayed home sick).  And let me tell you, they were the best days ever!  Sure, I really could have lived without being called a bed hog by Pa and a couch hog by Ma (they weren't themselves so I'll let those hurtful statements pass this time) and I really would have preferred not to be continuously woken up by all the hacking and coughing, but the way I see it, any day I get to curl up on a bed or a couch with a member of my family is okay by me.