Find the Loophole

Lizard Sans Tail

I've learned a lot over my ten human years on this planet.  I've learned that if you insist long enough and persistently enough, even Pa will let you sleep on the furniture.  I've learned that it's far easier to go through your entire repertoire of tricks rather than listen for the one that's requested of you.  I've learned that every once in a while a perfectly normal looking bush will suddenly sprout pizza slices, that if you jump out of a moving vehicle once you will never live it down, and that you can never trust a creature that is missing its tail (Stumpy) or willing to jettison its tail at will (those annoying lizards).  But all of these important lessons (plus scores of others) pale in comparison to the number one thing that I have learned:  for every rule there is at least one loophole.  And it has been my goal in life to discover each and every one of those loopholes and take full advantage of them.

Below are two examples of my favorite loopholes and how I use them to my advantage.

Example One:
Begging for Food

I'm a big fan of food.  I like all types.  I love my kibble and I love Milkbones.  I love smelly disgusting treats and I love all types of human food from cheese to Cheerios to steak (except lettuce...I just don't get lettuce).  But one of my all-time favorite foods is ice cream and lucky for me, not only does my family have ice cream most evenings, but they always save me a little taste.

But the thing is, I’m not allowed to beg for food. It’s a rule that has been in place since I was a tiny little ball of fur with large gnashing teeth.  First of all, I've been told that it’s impolite to beg. Second, my drooling problem is exaggerated when food is involved.  In fact, my drooling is such a problem that I have been taught the command “go someplace absorbent” (meaning to get off the hardwood floor and go sit on a rug).

Of course, I often ignore the "no begging" rule, but when I'm not blatantly ignoring it, I take full advantage of an obvious loophole which marries my love of food and my love of being comfortable.

You see, each evening I wait patiently for my taste of ice cream by laying on my spot on the living room couch, not one foot away from where Ma is sitting.  To all the world, I am just resting in my spot; curled up into a ball with my head down on the sheet used to keep all the fur, dirt, and drool off the couch.  In reality, however, I am staring intently at Ma’s bowl of ice cream, willing her to drop it, while drooling with gusto into my blanket.

Example Two:
Dig, Dig, Digging

Another big “no, no” in my life is digging.  Sure, I’m allowed to dig in the doggy pool or in a man-made snowdrift, but other than that, the action is seriously frowned upon.  But, like begging, I’ve never completely cut digging out of my life.

I “dig, dig, dig” under the forsythia.  

I “dig, dig, dig” under the cherry tree by the fence. 

I “dig, dig, dig” in the vegetable garden.  

I “dig, dig, dig,” in the flower garden.  

I even “dig, dig, dig” inside the house on the rug.  

But like I said, I’m technically not supposed to dig, so, when I feel like digging, but don’t feel like getting in trouble, I switch over to the loophole:  rolling in the grass.

I love rolling around in the grass.  First, I plow my head into the ground.  Then I slide along on my shoulder--propelled forward by my back legs--for a time.  Next, I drop my back end onto the ground with a thud and start rolling back and forth over and over again in the dirt, dust, and grass.  My recorded record for rolling has been thirteen back and forths, but for me, the record is actually determined by how muddy my nose gets and whether or not I end up with a grass stain on my head.

Me and My Work

But while I’m rolling back and forth, I'm also stretching my legs out, digging my claws into the grass and dirt, and raking my legs back and forth.  This action pulls up large amounts of grass and dirt (which usually gets thrown up into the air when I roll over) yet I cannot be reprimanded for digging because, technically, I’m not (the barren earth, displaced grass, and hole are merely casualties of my enthusiastic rolling).

So, my word of advice, garnered from years of experience is:  look for and take full advantage of the loopholes in life.

A Missing Pack Member

I am part of a pack. We're a weird looking pack; I mean, I'm devilishly handsome and furry and the rest of my pack are decidedly not on both counts. I walk on four legs while they teeter around on two.  And of course, there's the fact that we're completely different species. Still, a pack is a pack and we are meant to stick together and stick together we do, unless, of course, we don't.

You see, every once in a while, a member of my family disappears for a day or two. Sometimes he or she is on vacation and sometimes it's a business trip, but regardless of the reason for the temporary split, I always find the event traumatic because:

1. I never know when my family will be reunited
2. For each missing family member, my snack intake shrinks by a third
3. I’m never invited on the trip (which is both traumatic and incredibly rude).

Anyway, the most recent disappearance happened a couple of weeks ago and this time it was Sister who vanished.

Now, at first, as with most disappearances, I was blissfully unaware that Sister was planning on abandoning me. Sure, she left the house bright and early with her overnight bag in hand, but that usually meant that I was going out east and that she'd meet me there after work. But, when 5pm came and went without a trip out east, I started to become concerned. When she didn’t come home for dinner, I became suspicious. And when everyone else went to bed and she still wasn’t home, I fell into complete and utter despair.

That night, I was restless. I paced and paced and, when I eventually fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, I did so with my head resting under Sister’s chair. Pa theorized that I had fallen asleep looking for food that Sister had dropped.  He was wrong.  While snuffling around for food was an added bonus, the real reason why I camped out under Sister’s chair was that I knew that that would be the first place she would go once she got home. You see, her chair means that much to her (I can relate, I feel the same way about my spot on the couch).

The next morning, I was distressed to find that Sister was still missing.  During the afternoon, while Ma and Pa were at work, I briefly toyed with the idea of storming Sister's room and claiming her spot on the bed as my own (hey, if she's not going to be around to use it, someone else should), but I quickly felt bad about plotting to take advantage of the situation and fell back into a state of depression. 

I slept under Sister's chair again that night.

An Ithaca Waterfall

Around 5:30pm on the third day, Sister returned home and I was beside myself with excitement. My pack was back together and Sister had a lot of strange new smells on her that I needed to investigate (I found out that she had been in Ithaca, New York and, aside from going to a conference and meeting lots of people, she also went hiking).

That night I slept soundly on my pillow for the first time in two days.  All was right with the world (except for the part about not getting Sister's bed).

Hot, Hot, Hot

And the Costumes Continue

Last week, according to the big glowing screen in the living room that every in my family seems to worship, over two thirds of the country was under an extreme heat advisory stemming from a multi-day heatwave.  Now, my loyal readers are very much aware of how I feel about hot weather, but for any new additions to my online family, allow me to express them right here and now:

I DO NOT LIKE TO BE HOT!!!!

Did I make myself clear?

Anyway, because it was so hot for so long and because I have a permanent fur coat on (though Pa’s always threatening to give me a puppy cut), my family was nice enough to always leave the air conditioners on for me when they went to work each day.  So, while they were chasing squirrels or making peanut butter for my PB&K as I imagine all humans do when they go to work, I was living the life of leisure basking in air-conditioned comfort.

On Monday, the heat finally broke and by Tuesday morning, the temperature had decreased significantly compared to the previous few days of triple digit temperatures.  Riding the wave of slightly cooler air (or still crazy from the heat), Ma decided that the air conditioner would not be necessary that day.  “It’s supposed to only reach 80 degrees” she told me as she walked out the door.  I merely stared at her with a quizzical look, blinked, then gave her a weak tail wag as if to say: “yeah, sure it is.”

Well, the temperature did reach 80 degrees, then steadily climbed throughout the day to around 90.  And the humidity!  Let’s just say that it had rained heartedly that morning so the air was nice and wet in addition to hot.  So, to summarize, it was sauna-like that day and I was stuck in the house with open windows letting in the hot sticky air and absolutely no way of turning on the air conditioner (damn my lack of opposable thumbs!).  

Well, nine hot and sticky hours later, Ma rolled up to the house in her comfortably air-conditioned car.  I met her at the door (which I rarely do), pushed past her when she opened it, and scurried into the backyard to seek relief (and possibly revenge if I could find a nice flower to crush or pee on). After a quick scan of the yard, I found what I was looking for:  the doggy pool which had filled completely to the brim with rainwater from that morning's storm.  I hot footed it to that pool and climbed in.  And then, I stood there.  

Ma asked if I wanted to do my business.  

I stared at her from within my pool.

Ma asked if I wanted my dinner.  

I stared at her from within my pool

Ma asked if I wanted to say hello to Pa who had just arrived home. 

I stared at her from within my pool.

After a very long time, I finally managed to cool down enough that I was able to leave my pool (plus Ma had admitted the error of her ways and promised to turn the air conditioner back on).   And from that day on, Ma made sure that the air conditioner was left on for me regardless of how hot or cool it was supposed to be.

A Bad Month

Snoozing

Did you ever have one of those months?  You know, one of those months where you suffer from two different injuries, one hot spot, three trips to the vet, a dead air conditioner in a heat wave, a bath, and then find out that you haven't even reached the lowest point yet?

No?  Well, that's been my month.

Let's recap briefly.  In the injury department, there was that leg injury Sister caused when she took me outside to play and a week after that my neck started bothering me which resulted in a trip to the vet and some medication (a strain possibly brought on by the leg injury).  Prior to both injuries, I ended up with my first hot spot (an itchy oozing sore on my neck) which  took a shave, medication, and two separate trips to the vet to treat.  The central air conditioning system out east is dead so I spent the last two weekends out there in a perpetual state of hot and sweaty which resulted in Ma and Sister giving me a bath on Sunday afternoon when I got home.

But like I said, I haven't even reached the month's rock bottom.

What, you ask, is worse than multiple trips to the vet, multiple injuries, no AC, and a bath?  It's truly dreadful.  Nightmarish one might even say.  Maybe even chilling, grisly, hair-raising, hellish, traumatic, and alarming.  You see, according to the vet, yours truly has packed on a couple of pounds over the last few months and something needs to be done about it.

Now, right off the bat, I have two issues with this diagnosis.  First, I question the validity of the vet's scale.  Either the scale's calibration was way off or he was leaning on the table when he took my weight.  Second, how can I be overweight when I'm fed so infrequently?  I mean, all I get each day is my breakfast kibble, two pretzels, some cereal samples from Pa's breakfast, some blueberries, a giant Milkbone cookie when Pa leaves for work, a small Milkbone cookie when Ma leaves for work, my dinner kibble, grass from the backyard when no one is looking, a cookie to leave the humans alone during their dinner, a cookie for going out and doing my business after the dishes are cleaned, a PB&K, a sampling of my family's dessert (I love ice cream!), another cookie to get me up for my final business trip of the night, and a liver treat on my pillow when I go to bed.  And to make up the difference between the aforementioned approved food sources and the empty areas in my tummy, I rely on the scraps I find when my family cooks or snacks and those "good dog" treats I earn for acting cute and coming when called.  So basically, I'm wasting away as it is.  How could I possibly need to lose weight and what could I possibly cut?

Well, Ma stepped in and declared that I wasn't going to get nearly as many "good dog treats" (Pa, trying to help, took to replacing my "good dog treats" with Cheerios which I can't entirely say is worth the trouble of being good for) and that my two daily bowls of kibble will be a little less full.

But that's not all.  Now I'm being subjected to nightly walks!  I hate walks.  I've hated them since I was a little pup being taken on punishment walks (long walks around town with the purpose of wearing me out so I wouldn't be such a bitey, jumpy, miserable-to-live-with-juvenile-delinquent at home).  I'd much prefer to be romping around the backyard, chasing squirrels and digging holes rather than pounding the pavement.  And speaking of pounding the pavement, my family has decided that these walks, like the punishment walks, need a catchy and descriptive title.  Right now, the front runners are "fat dog walks" and "pudgy pooches pounding the pavement walks."  I don't approve of either of them.  The only good thing with this arrangement is that if my family wants me to go on walks then they have to go on walks.  If I have to drag about town in the sweltering heat then they do too.  I'm hoping their better judgment, not to mention their love of air conditioning and general laziness, wins out and soon.

Sister Broke the Dog (and Pa Tried to Finish Him Off)

On Saturday, I got hurt.

Sister and I were relaxing in the living room out east when all of a sudden, she jumped up and suggested that we go outside and play squeaky bone.  I was game (I love playing with my squeaky bone), so I followed her out the door and ran down the back stairs as fast as I could wanting to get a head start on whichever direction Sister chose to hurl the squeaky bone in.

Not wanting to fall down the stairs in the process, Sister waited until she reached the grass before winding up and turning toward the left side of the yard.  Anticipating her throw, I took off in the direction she was facing, but the squeaky bone never followed. I turned around and looked back at Sister. She gave the squeaky bone, still in her hand, a squeak. She then turned to her right and wound up again. I took off in the direction that she was aiming, but the only thing that landed was a bunch of leaves falling from the trees above me. I pounced on those leaves, then turned back expectantly toward Sister who was still holding the squeaky ball.

“Okay, okay,” she said, “I’ll throw it this time.”

For the third time, Sister wound up, but this time let the squeaky bone fly. I went after it at top speed and came screeching to a halt to pick it up.

But something happened to my left front leg in the process. Squeaky bone in my mouth, I took two painful steps, then plopped down in the grass to evaluate the situation. Sister came running over, but by the time she reached my side, I had already decided that I was definitely hurt and, as a result, wanted to go inside. Toy in mouth, I got up and limped my way across the yard and up the stairs to the deck.

Sister followed right behind me and called over to Ma and Pa who were working in the front yard.  They came over immediately and the three of them, Pa, Ma, and Sister, assessed the situation.  I was refusing to put weight on my front left leg, but it wasn't broken and there didn't appear to be any cuts on my paw.  The conversation quickly turned to "what should we do?"  Drive home and go to my vet?  Find a vet out east?  Give me time to walk it off?  Ultimately, my family decided that I should take some aspirin (encased in pound cake and peanut butter), take it easy for the rest of the day, and that they would re-evaluate the situation in the morning.  I accepted my pound cake with pleasure, and remained gimpy for the rest of the day.

Now, what I've written thus far is true, and Sister and I both agree with the breakdown of the events.  We also agree on other aspects related to that day including:

1. I have a propensity for getting hurt:  There were those scrapes I got from jumping out of the car window. Then there was the time I tried moving the house with the side of my head. We mustn't forget the whole dew claw fiasco, and of course there is my bad back which flairs up every once in a while. I’ve tripped up the stairs, stumbled while playing with Pa, Ma got tangled in my leash one time and fell on me, and I've bruised my ankle after banging it against the rocking chair leg.
2. Sister suggesting that we go outside was, in hindsight, a bad omen:  I mean, Sister is not really the “let’s go in the backyard and play” kind of person. “You want to go take a nap?” or “let’s find something to eat,” or even “let’s hang out in the air conditioner,” is more Sister’s speed and I’m okay with that because those are three of my favorite things to do. 
3. I'm pathetic when I'm sick or hurt: I'm not sure I really need to expand on this, but let's just say I spent a good amount of time trying to sit on Ma's lap in an attempt to find comfort.

What we don't agree on, however, is the severity and longevity of my injury.

Don't get me wrong, Sister was very sympathetic and felt bad for "breaking the dog."  She rubbed my tummy, she gave me apology cookies, and she even went outside in my stead to investigate what Bruno, the Boxer next door, was barking at.  However, as the day progressed, I started hearing little comments from her such as, "wow, he certainly moves fast when food is involved," "hey, did you see him pull Ma up the stairs?" and "wait, is he limping on the wrong leg?"

The following morning was getaway day and despite the fact that I had made a miraculous recovery overnight, there was some concern that I might re-injure myself if I wasn't careful.  The biggest threat, it was determined, was me jumping out of the car when we got home.  Wanting to be proactive, Pa decided to step in.  The result was less than pretty.  Pa decided to pick me up and carry me out of the car. 

Right away, I knew that this was not a good idea for the following reasons:

1. I was in the car with limited headroom.  Lifting something (or someone) usually involves an upward motion.
2. Because I was in the backseat, Pa could not approach me from my side where he could, in theory, scoop me up easily.  Instead, he was forced to approach me head first.
3. I'm naturally an awkward shape to pick up.  I've got heavy front and back ends, four legs to keep track of (plus a tail), and a middle which droops down if not properly supported.
4. I've never liked being picked up, even when I was a little puppy.

So, despite these hurtles, Pa persevered and he somehow managed to pick me up and carry me out of the car.  I wasn't happy about it though--in fact, I was downright horrified--but we both made it out in one piece.

Double Digits

Look who turns 10 years old today!

Yep, that's right!  Double digits!  I've reached the big time!

There were many who didn't think I'd make it this far.  Looking back on my puppy-hood, I can't say I blame them.  I was a terror.  I was stubborn.  I was a biter.  I was incorrigible.  But even so, my family had faith that my amiable Golden Retriever genes would eventually kick in and their perseverance ultimately prevailed.  Slowly but surely, I turned into the pup they (and you) know and love today.  Yeah, I've still got a stubborn streak a mile long and I traded in my bite for my bark (and boy, do I bark a lot), but I'm also goofy, faithful, cuddly, and often too smart for my own good.

Happy Birthday to Me! 

Me at 8 weeks

My Night of Terror

If you were on the North Fork of Long Island around 1:15am last Saturday morning, you might have been startled by the rumbling of the longest thunder clap I have ever heard in my life. Hopefully, you weren’t frightened by it. I wasn't so lucky.

But allow me to take a step back for a moment. I’m generally not frightened by thunderstorms. I know some pups are, but I'm not one of them.  I am, however, often annoyed by them. You see, thunderstorms are most noticeable at night when everything is quiet and dark and I'm trying to sleep.  The loud "booms" and flashing lights often disrupts that sleep which is completely unacceptable given how much I enjoy my 40+ winks.  In fact, I have even been known to give an annoyed "woof" whenever a particularly loud “boom” wakes me up; a sort of "do you mind?" statement from me to the thundercloud.  My displeasure made known, I then close my eyes and go back to sleep. Simple as that.

Well, like I said, last Saturday morning's thunderclap was particularly long (it lasted for a number of seconds) and particularly loud (it woke everyone in the house including Sister who can sleep through most everything) and I did not respond to it with my usual technique. No, I had a very different reaction that night.

When I woke up to the sound of the thunder clap, I immediately went into panic mode. And I don’t mean look-around-nervously panic. No, I went into full out the-smoke-detector-went-off-and-I-need-to-grab-my-favorite-toy-and-leave-the-house panic.

For those who do not know, I take fire safety very seriously.  So seriously, in fact, that as soon as that scary disembodied voice of the smoke detector says “fi-er” (or if Sister mimics it), I grab my favorite toy and begin herding my family toward the door. If my humans refuse to budge (oh, if only I was a sheep dog--I wouldn't have these problems then!), I give up on them and cry piteously at the door until someone lets me out (my kingdom for a thumb!). You know, if it wasn’t such a terrifying and exhausting ordeal, I would take my fire safety act on the road. I’m sure some fire department would pay me in plush toys and cookies to demonstration the proper way of leaving a building in an emergency. 

But instead of trying to flee the house, I went for a different approach that morning.  I got up, grabbed my Nylabone, and jumped up onto Ma and Pa’s bed. Standing between them, I stared at them, my eyes wide with fear and panting with distress, hoping for some guidance and comfort.

Recognizing my fear, Ma and Pa did not boot me off the bed like they normally would. Instead they tried to assure me that everything was okay. Feeling a little better (and a touch annoyed that neither Ma nor Pa got up and moved to the floor to allow me room to stretch out on the mattress), I jumped off the bed and settled down on the floor next to Ma's side. She started scratching my head which was nice, but the continued flashes of lightning from the nearby window kept me from completely settling down.  After flinching at a few flashes of light, I decided to get up and seek safer lodgings.  I ended up wandering over to Pa’s side of the bed which did not have an adjoining window.  Determining it to be a far safer place to sleep, I laid down on the floor and permitted Pa to scratch my side for a while.  Eventually I closed my eyes and fell back asleep.