Spring Dog Days 2018

It's been a while since I've been able to partake in the fun and frivolities that is Dog Days at Old Westbury Gardens.  I'm not even one hundred percent certain when I was there last.  I know I didn't go last year.  In the spring I was supposed to meet up with Karin, Joan, and Mecki, but I ended up with an angry belly and not really feeling up to going.  There was another Dog Days event in the fall, but I must have been busy that weekend because I didn't make it there either.  Looking back into my blog's archive, the last time I appear to have gone was back in 2016.  Is that possible?!  Wow, time really flies!  But anyway, no matter when I last went to Dog Days, I went twice last weekend and had the time of my life both days.

The Moment I Found Out

Going into Saturday morning, I had no idea that it was a Dog Days weekend; Sister had managed to keep it a secret from me.  In fact, I only figured out that we were going somewhere about a half hour before we left the house when I witnessed Sister packing Ma's car (because Ma's car is the official "Rigby Road Trip Car" as it is permanently stocked with a seat protector and doggy seat belt system) with cookies, newspapers and bags, leashes, her camera, and multiple bottles of water.  While I watched her pack the car (and occasionally tried, unsuccessfully, to force my way into the front seat), Sister told me where we were going and that my bff Mecki and his mom were going to be there too.

I don't think I need to describe how excited I was.  I think all my loyal readers know me well enough to anticipate my reaction to being told that I was going to go for a car ride, visit with my bff Mecki, and wander through my estate so I won't describe my reaction to you.  Instead, I'll show you a video of what I did for the entire half hour between realizing I was going somewhere and when I actually got in the car.

In the Car

So, after what felt like ten years of barking and carrying on, Sister slipped my collar on over my head, attached my leash, grabbed the car keys, and opened the side door.  A moment later, we were strapped into the car (I rode in the back seat--sadly, Sister did not let me ride shotgun) and driving towards Old Westbury Gardens.

Usually, Mecki and I meet at "Rigby's Wall" which is an outdoor stone wall located right outside the mansion's front door (and where my profile picture was taken years ago).  He usually gets there first and I can hear him howling and carrying on all the way back in the parking lot.  This time, however, we met in the parking lot which meant we could start our pack walk even earlier.

My bff Mecki!

We met tons of dogs on Saturday, Mecki and I, including a half dozen Golden Retrievers of various ages (one was only five months old!) and a pup who looked a lot like Bastille (Bastille stayed home during this adventure because he can be a bit of a handful).  In all, Mecki and I spent almost two and a half hours walking around the lake, up and down the stairs, and through the Rose and Walled Gardens which are usually off limit when it comes to my species (sadly, the Woodland Walk, home of the tree that Mecki and Bastille are always pictured in, was closed due to storm damage).  As is our custom, Mecki and I spent a fair portion of the day vying for pack leader status--scooting in front of each other at every bend of the path.

Surveying My Estate

But then something funny happened.  Mecki, Karin, Sister, and I had made our way to the vendor booths to check out all the bandanas (thankfully, Sister didn't buy me one...she did once and, let's just say, it didn't go over well), dunk our snouts in all the complementary water bowls, and glom pets from anyone who would give them.  Suddenly, a nice lady from behind one of the booths stepped forward and asked Sister if she could give me a sample of one of the home made treats she was selling.  Sister said "Sure," but warned her that I was a bit of a picky eater.

I know, I know, you just did a double take on that sentence.  You might have even heard an old timey record needle scratch.  Yours truly is a "picky eater"?!  Well, in a way, I am, but it's complicated and rather than explain my issue, Sister usually just leaves it at "he's a picky eater."

Smelling the Flowers

Undeterred, the nice lady went back to her booth, picked up a cookie, and handed it to me.  I sniffed it once then turned my head away refusing to take it.  Sister then expanded on her initial statement and explained to the lady that I'm just not a fan of taking food from anyone but my own family. 

And that's where it gets complicated.  You see, I rarely take food from anyone who is not a family member.  I've even been known to spit out carrots (which I love) given to me by Mecki's mom (though I've also been known to root through her bag in search of cookies which I then inhale).  I don't mean it to be impolite or ungrateful when I do this; I guess it's just a little quirk I have.

"Okay," said the nice lady trying desperately to save her sale, "you give it to him then" and she dropped the cookie in Sister's hand.  Sister took a deep breath and placed the cookie in front of my nose.  "Hey Rigs, want a cookie?" she asked though I know what she was really saying was a simple chant of "Please eat the cookie...please eat the cookie."

I tried my best.  Really I did.  I tried to convince myself that the cookie was from the bag of Milkbones Sister had her in her pocket.  I even managed to take the cookie and bite it in half, but that was it.  I ended up spitting it out and sniffing at it suspiciously before walking away while Sister apologized profusely to the nice lady.

Mecki Rollin' In the Grass

Shortly thereafter, I said my goodbyes to Mecki and Karin and climbed back into the car.  While Sister drove, I snoozed in the backseat.  When we got home, I threw myself down on my pillow, fell into a deep sleep, and only got up when it was supper time.

Sunday morning came bright and early the next day--maybe even a bit too early for me who was still recovering from the fun and frivolities of the previous day--but even still, I was up and raring to go when Sister told me that we were going back to my estate.  Into the car I climbed and off we drove, but this time, Sister went the wrong way.  Instead of turning right at the end of the block, she turned left.  Immediately, I became concerned.  Where were we going?

Posing

A minute later, Sister pulled over to the side of the road and the passenger side door opened.  Much to my surprise, my friend Joan climbed into the car.  Now, I haven't seen Joan in a really long time (not since that BBQ at Mecki's house) so I was super excited and by the time we pulled into the Old Westbury Gardens estate, I was pacing back and forth in the back seat with anticipation.

Sleeping in a Pool of Drool

Like Saturday, my estate was packed with dogs and once again, there was a plethora of Golden Retrievers to bunk noses with.  I even got to say hello to my old friend and fellow Golden Retriever Emma Rose and her mom and grandma.

Needless to say, by Sunday evening I was completely and totally exhausted.  Once again, I only woke up long enough to eat meals and I'm not ashamed to say that I was kind of looking forward to my family going back to work the next day because it meant that I would have a good seven hours to really catch up on sleep.  But as tired as I was afterward, I wouldn't have missed Dog Days for the world (and I probably would have still passed on that cookie). 

Outtakes:

Easter 2018

 

 

 

 

Happy Easter!

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(-.-)

o(")(")

(Watch out for stupid little bunnies masquerading as the Easter Bunny!)

Just As Good the Second Time

Cheerios have played a significant role in my life since I was a pup.  Early on, Sister clicker-trained me (kind of) by rewarding me with Cheerios.  I learned how to play "Get, Bring, Toss" (my equivalent of fetch) with the promise of those tiny little "o"s motivating me.  I've been given them in my puzzle Kong toy and scoffed them up when I inexplicably became freaked out at stairs and needed to be bribed to climb them again.  And when Pa eats a bowl of Cheerios for breakfast, he always makes sure to give me a couple to test.

But the problem with Cheerios is that they are very tiny.  I mean, I don't even have to chew them (in fact, I'd probably bite my own tongue if I tried).  But not chewing food is dangerous and occasionally those tiny little "o"s have turned into attack cereal.

For instance, last week I was outside with Pa and he was running me through my list of tricks.  I came, I sat, I said my prayers, I played dead, and I did figure eights in quick succession despite the fact that Pa had only asked me to sit.  As a reward, he tossed me a Cheerio which I inhaled before immediately begging for more.

But something went wrong as I looked up at Pa expectantly; the Cheerio he had given me did not want to go down.  In fact, it seemed as though it was fighting to come back up.  Pausing, I looked down at the floor and with a mighty hack the Cheerio went shooting from my mouth and landed a foot away.

Amused by the concept of an endless food supply, I strolled over to the attack Cheerio, scooped it up, and swallowed it for a second time.  It was just as tasty. 

Oh My God, I Bit Pa...Again!

A couple of years ago, I told the story of the time I accidentally bit Pa (the story can be found here). As you might remember, I was absolutely horrified at what happened that day--it was Pa, the boss, the head honcho, the top dog, the guy who “gets” me and I bit him! And as horrified as I was, I can only image that you, my loyal readers, were equally if not more horrified and disappointed in the misdeeds of yours truly. I’m just not that kind of dog anymore (as you know, I was quite the juvenile delinquent when I was a pup).

Well, I hate to report it, but it happened again.

I know, I know! How could this happen, you ask? How could I possibly make the mistake of biting Pa a second time? Well, as before, I blame him.

It was Sunday morning and I decided to help Pa make the bed and by that I mean I got in his way and prevented him from making the bed. How? After he pulled the sheet up on one side of the bed, I took a running leap and threw myself down onto the middle of the mattress. Assuming the “dead weight” position (going limp while lying on my side), I turned my head and smiled up toward Pa. He tried to act angry. He tried to make it look like he didn’t find my shenanigans 100% adorable. But he was unable to fully suppress the laugh that started emanating from his throat as soon as I collapsed on the mattress. So, Pa did the only thing he could think of: he decided to rough me up.

Now, I’m not sure if I ever mentioned this before, but my family has always said that I don’t know how to play like a normal dog. I don’t play with my toys, I kill them. I don’t retrieve a thrown ball, I just look up at you as if asking “why did you throw it if you wanted it back so bad?” I also don’t roughhouse like other dogs nor play a game that my family refers to as snarly face (a game in which I'm expected to playfully show my teeth and gently nip at hands which sounds so completely wrong, but apparently is not as violent as one might think).

So, long story short, I don't normally roughhouse, but Pa was so annoying and so insistent that day (rolling me over, giving me a gentle shoves, and pulling the blankets over my head), that eventually I cracked. Without even thinking, I turned my head sideways and grabbed hold of Pa’s shirtsleeve.

Suddenly, time stopped. I had Pa’s shirtsleeve in my mouth. Did he notice? Did he realize that I bit him again? Granted, the first time, all those years ago, I actually caught flesh and this time I only caught his sleeve, but a bite’s a bite, right? I quickly spit the fabric out and sheepishly looked up at Pa, my ears back in shame.

“What did you do?” he asked, but not in an upset or angry sort of way. He looked like he did before when he was trying to scold me for jumping on the bed—he was barely able to suppress his laughter. Despite the fact that I didn't appear to be destined for a hollerin’ at, I must admit that I was a little shook up from the entire experience. There would be no more roughhousing from me.

So there you have it. As you can see, Pa was fully to blame. He caused me to bite him and nothing is going to change my story.

What the Nor'easter Brought

I have mixed feeling about storms like the nor'easter we had last weekend.  On the one paw, the strong winds often bring down branches and pieces of bark from high up trees which, as my loyal readers know, is key to my hobby of making small branches into smaller branches and gnawing on bark like it's chewing gum.  Then of course, there is the fact that my model-like poses are way more effective when I'm facing into the wind, my glamorous fur rippling behind me.  On the other paw, however, high winds tend to make already scary things (like garbage cans) scarier by making them move and there are few things I hate more than the wind blowing on my tail feathers when I'm trying to do my business.

Like past storms, this recent one brought both good and bad things to my day.  But the key to this entire story, which I will relate now, however, is that I came out on top.  Here's what happened.

The bulk of the storm occurred on Friday.  By Saturday morning, when my story takes place, the driving snow, sleet, and rain had dried up leaving only cloudy skies and occasional gusty winds.  Bright eyed and bushy tailed from a good night sleep, I was out first thing in the morning wandering through the backyard scoping out the damage which consisted of only a meager number of felled twigs and branches.  I started out near the garage on the right side of the yard.  Then I moved to the middle of the yard where I sniffed suspiciously at a roof shingle which had blown in from who knows where.  I jumped slightly when the fabric cover on the next-door neighbor's grill billowed in the wind, then, after checking to see if anyone noticed my start, sauntered over to the forsythia bush located in the far left corner of the yard. 

I was absentmindedly sniffing behind the forsythia bush when I came across something strange.  It was roundish and bright yellow and when I picked it up in my mouth I discovered that it was squishy, tasted of plastic, and had a slightly rigid outer shell.  Hoping to get a better handle on the entire situation, I dragged this strange object out from behind the bushes and spit it out in the middle of the yard.

A Visiting Beach Ball

The storm had brought me a slightly deflated beach ball!  

Happy with my discovery, I picked up the ball and guffawed my way across the yard and onto the driveway.  I needed to show Pa what I had found. Needless to say, he was quite impressed with my discovery.

I stood there in the middle of the driveway for a couple of moments holding my new found toy, but then I got tired and put it down.  It was then that things got a little scary.  Out of nowhere, a sudden gust of wind took hold of my beach ball and blew it toward me.

I backed away quickly.

Pa laughed and suggested we go inside to eat our breakfast.  I thought it was a good idea, so I quickly sidestepped the beach ball--careful never to take my eyes off it just in case it decided to attack again--and ran inside.

A couple of hours later, Sister took me outside again.  At first, I forgot all about the beach ball and walked right by it (it was now hiding to the right of the side step).  It wasn't until after I had checked the perimeter of the backyard for squirrels and made up my mind to go to the front gate and bark at nothing at all that I happened to come across the ball in passing.  Completely forgetting about my noisy plans, I scurried over to the ball, picked it up, and ran into the backyard.

Burying my Head

Attack!

For the next forty-five seconds I had a grand time.  I ran.  I jumped.  I guffawed.  I shook the yellow beach ball way up high over my head and from left to right allowing it to thump against my sides.  I even buried my face in it and attempted to roll on it (which didn't work).  But the fun was short lived.  While running with the ball in my mouth, I suddenly heard the whooshing of escaping air.  My tooth had punctured the thin yellow plastic shell.

So, with the beach ball punctured, there was only one thing left for me to do.  I had to kill it.  I stopped in my tracks and, with my foot firmly placed on the deflated ball, began picking at it with my razor-sharp teeth.  Within seconds, the ball was no more.

A Short-Lived Friendship

Chasing Bunnies

Popcorn!

Popcorn.  It's one of the best things in the world.  Fluffy, salty popcorn.  Sister and I have a game whenever she makes popcorn: it's called "Popcorn from Heaven."  Here's how it works.  I lay at Sister's feet and every time I look away (as in not begging), a piece of popcorn flies through the air and lands right in front of my snout.  I scoff it up and look up toward Sister who is silently munching on a handful of popcorn.  She doesn't make eye contact with me and appears unlikely to accidentally drop the rest of the bowl on the floor, so I turn away.  And what happens?  Another piece of popcorn appears at my feet.  Now before you think that Sister is hogging the popcorn (one piece for the dog, five pieces for her) rest assured that I collected plenty of kernels as they shot uncontrollably out of the air-popper and across the room when Sister popped the bowl.

But as delicious as popcorn is, it's not the reason why I'm writing today.  No, today's story is about a stupid little bunny and why Pa is such a cool guy.

This story takes place out east.  Pa and I were outside patrolling the backyard which was ripe with the smell of passing deer, squirrels, and bunnies.  I was annoyed.  How am I supposed to keep interlopers out of my yard when I'm only there on weekends?  I mean, I do my best, but I've got other responsibilities (the other house, ripping toys, causing general havoc) and I can't reach the pedals on the car to drive myself out east. 

Anyway, I was stewing in my anger when I turned toward the bulkhead and saw one of those stupid little bunnies standing in the grass.  He turned toward me and wiggled his stupid little nose and I stared back at him.  Then he turned and ran north across the yard.  I followed after.

For the entire length of the yard, I was about five feet behind his stupid little fluffy tail.  But the yard did not go on indefinitely.  In fact, it ended with a stockade fence.  When the stupid little bunny reached it with me still five feet behind him thinking "Now I've got him," he made the mistake of counting on there being a little dugout hole in which he could slip under the fence and get away.  Well, there wasn't a convenient cutout and with a dull thud, the stupid little bunny bounced backward into the yard.

Without hesitation, the bunny shook off the failure, made a hard right, and started running toward the east side of the property.  After turning right as well, the chase continued with me now about ten feet behind his stupid little fluffy tail.  But, as before, the yard did not go on indefinitely, and this time it ended with a chain link fence.  When the stupid little bunny reached it with me now fifteen feet behind him thinking "Now [gasp] I've got him [gasp]," he made the mistake of counting on there being a little dugout hole in which he could slip under the fence and get away.  Well, there wasn't a convenient cutout and with a metallic clink, the stupid little bunny bounced backward into the yard.

But the bunny shook off that failure as well.  He made another hard right and started running toward the south side of the property.  After turning right as well, the chase continued with me now about twenty feet behind his stupid little fluffy tail.  But the yard has boundaries and the south side ended with a picket fence.  When the stupid little bunny reached it with me now twenty-five feet behind him thinking "This [gasp] time [gasp] I've [gasp] got [gasp] him [gasp]," he once again put the fate of his furry little tale in the belief there was a little dugout hole in which he could slip under the fence and get away. 

This time, he was right.  He slipped under the fence and scurried away.

With the bunny gone, I came to a stop alongside Pa who had been watching the chase unfold.  He patted my heaving side and said "It's okay Squirt, you let him go.  If you wanted to catch him you would have."

And that's why Pa is so cool.  He always knows what to say.

Shot-Gun

A long time ago, I used to ride shot-gun in the car.  I used to ride with the tip of my nose stretched out toward the partially open passenger side window, taking in the smells that were whipping by me.  I used to relish in the gentle breeze that used to fluff my fur while I watched the world fly by.

But that changed one fateful day years ago; the day I decided to jump out of the window of a moving vehicle (the story can be found here).

Since that fateful day, I've been not only relegated to the back seat (forced to occasionally share the area with other travelers) but I've also been forced to wear a seat belt which, obviously, severely limits my ability to roam about and drool on the driver's neck.

But something changed a few weeks ago.  Not only did Sister take me for a ride in her car (a rare thing given her desire to maintain a fur free zone in there and my on again off again willingness to climb into her car (remember when Karin and Sister tossed me into Sister's car at the end of a summer BBQ?)), but she also let me ride shot-gun.

Shot-gun!

Here's what happened.

Wednesday mornings generally go one of two ways--either Sister runs around like mad doing errands before going to work or she and I plop down on the couch for a morning of napping and television watching.  That particular Wednesday started as the former, however, after she got home early from her errands, Sister said one of my favorite phrases:  "You wanna go for a ride in the car?"

Well, you know what my answer was.

Minutes later, we were both sitting in the car; Sister in the driver's seat and me in the passenger's.  Immediately I became aware that Sister was requiring me to sit on a bed of towels--most of which were strategically placed directly under my chin--but a car ride is a car ride so I let it slide.  Besides, I was too busy trying to upgrade my seat to dwell on the offensive drool towels.

You see, Sister and I were engaged in a bit of a disagreement regarding who was going to drive.  I wanted to give it a go, but Sister didn't agree.  Throughout the argument, I kept trying to muscle my way onto Sister's lap, but each time I was met by an elbow and a hollered combination of "sit," "no," and "stay."  Eventually, I decided to be the bigger dog/person and allowed Sister to persevere.  It's okay; I'll drive next time.

As exciting as a car ride is by itself, the true thrill is in the destination and Sister did not disappoint me that day.  We didn't drive far, but we drove far enough to visit one of man's most ingenious inventions:  the drive-thru window.

I was an itty-bitty puppy when I was first introduced to the concept of the drive-thru window and it was love at first site.  How could it not be?  You get in the car, drive around, park in front of a window, then someone hands you a bag of food.  Ingenious!

My withdrawal

Sadly, Sister didn't take me to a hamburger dispensing drive-thru window that day.  She took me to the bank.  But even though it quickly became apparent that I wasn't going to be going home with a large side of french fries and a couple of ketchup packets, I didn't go home with an empty stomach.  When the teller gave Sister her money, she also gave her an envelope filled with dog biscuits.  Needless to say, as soon as that envelope appeared alongside Sister's window, I pushed forward and, standing (and drooling) on Sister's lap, I made sure that I was given a sample of my bank withdrawal right away.