Like Father, Like Son

There are moments when I think I surely must have been adopted and then something happens and I find myself saying “nope, I’m definitely one of them.”

Today, I was in a big hurry to return home from my morning walk with Pa.  You see, when I come home from a walk, I get a “good boy treat” and some days I can hardly wait to collect (I suspect that on those days I’ve been short changed on my breakfast, but I’ve never been able to prove it because I gobble it all up before I can count the individual kibble).   Anyway, I was so excited about my “good boy treat” that I pretty much dragged Pa past the last few houses and up the driveway.  Once I got past the side gate and was released from my leash, I ran full force toward the side door.

Now the problem with rushing, I’ve found, is that sometimes, in one’s haste, one starts to lose track of important things.   For me, there were four important things that I forgot about: my four feet.  In racing toward the door, my legs got all tangled up with each other and I ultimately ended up in a heap on the side step. 

This isn’t the first time I’ve ended up in such a state.  In fact, I’m frequently reminded by my family that I need to take it slow going up those stairs (“You’re a hundred and seven years old” they tell me).  Yet time and time again, I take a good long runup, leap in the direction of the landing, and either trip over the steps or clear the steps completely at such a speed that I end up skidding into the door with a mighty bang.   After checking to make sure I’m okay, my family then proceeds to remind me of the mistakes I’ve made.

So, there I was, lying in a heap on the steps.   A moment later, Pa came over, hoisted me up, and opened the door to let me in, all the while reminding me that I’m over 100.  As I walked into the house, Pa proceeded to follow but, in the process, managed to trip over his own feet (and he only has two of them).  Having cleared the door, I look back over my shoulder to see Pa in a crumpled heap on the side steps exactly where I had been moments before. 

Pa was alright; he was no worse for wear.  He got up, brushed himself off, and followed me into the house.  I won’t lie, I found the entire event rather funny.   Like father, like son, I thought.   Ma and Sister?  They laughed at “their boys.”

Thanksgiving 2023

Wishing all my readers a Happy Thanksgiving!

Anyone else getting "American Gothic" vibes?

Bob Ross

Some days, I have trouble falling asleep. I don't know why.  I mean, evenings are the same as always around here: I bark and carry on as soon as my humans sit down in front of the television after dinner and refuse to stop until I'm given a new toy (which I kill) or a PB&K (which I eat).  Once done, I rub my snout in approval, demand to go outside to do business, then insist that Ma give me a hoist up onto the couch where I snooze until dessert time.  After dessert, I curl up on my pillow and nap until it's time to go to bed at which point I collect my good boy treat and, ideally, go to sleep.  

But over the last few years, I've found myself occasionally feeling quite manic after my good boy treat and, as a result, just can't seem to lay down and go to sleep.  Instead, I start pacing and panting and, if left to my own devices, barking.

At first, my family had no idea how to curtail my restlessness and tried everything they could think of including limiting my roaming area, offering to sit/sleep on the floor with me, tiring me out with activities, trying to sneak into the bedroom without waking me up from my post desert nap, and sedatives.  None were successful.

Then one evening, Ma discovered the secret to soothing the salvage beast:  Bob Ross.

Now, whenever I feel restless at bedtime, Ma brings me out into the living room and has me lay down on my pillow (she, meanwhile, stretches out on the couch).  She then turns on the TV and sets it to the 24/7 Bob Ross Channel.  Within minutes, I'm out cold.  After waiting about thirty minutes just to be sure that I'm not faking, Ma quietly gets up, turns off the TV, and sneaks off to bed.

And there I spend the night, dreaming of happy little trees and wondering why Bob had such a fondness for pocket squirrels.

Halloween 2023

 Do you know what today is?

That's right...

HALLOWEEN!!

 

I'm on the left.

Still Running

The simple act of me running has been striking fear in the hearts of my family for years now.

I suppose it all stems back to the time I was running with abandon in the backyard and crashed into the side of the house.  It left me dazed and bloody, but as my longtime readers will recall (and for those who don’t remember, here’s a link to the story), blame for that entire unfortunate and scar-inducing event fell squarely on Ma’s shoulders.  I was in total control when I bolted for the front gate; it was she who took that fateful step toward the house drastically reducing the size of my intended throughway. 

The years have passed, but the memory of that day continues to haunt my family.  Anything faster than a trot brings forth cries of “whoa!” and “slow down!” and “no running!”, but of course that doesn’t stop me.  Why should it?  Sometimes you’ve just got to run (even when you’re over fourteen years old).

"Don't you dare!"

"Whoa!"

"Slow down!"

"No running!"

 

Rashomon Rigby

Everyone knows that there are two sides to every disagreement: the wrong side and my side.  The following are two accounts of a highly dangerous and potentially traumatic event that happened a few days ago.  One is from my family’s perspective (AKA the wrong side).  The other is from my point of view (AKA the right side).  Let’s see if my loyal readers can figure out which is which.

Account One:  Rigby was in the middle of his hourly rounds; making his way through the house checking for unwanted interlopers, food which had yet to be taste tested, and the working status of the air conditioners (he made note that while all the air conditioners were on, they were not cooling the rooms down nearly enough…obviously an OSHA issue in the making).  Having checked the kitchen and dining room, Rigby made his way into the living room, cycling past Sister’s chair.  It was then that he was suddenly ambushed; something jumped off the chair and attacked him.  There was only one course of action: Rigby had to fight.  He pinned the attacker down with his paw, grabbed a mouthful of stuffing, and began to pull.  The attacker fought back, but it was no match for Rigby, Security Extraordinaire.

Account Two: Rigby was mooching for food and looking for trouble.  After getting kicked out of the kitchen for excessive drooling, he slunk into the living room where he noticed that Ma had left a couch pillow on Sister’s chair.  As he approached it, he discovered that the zipper pull on that pillow was facing out toward the room.  Being physically unable to ignore anything that is metal and shiny, Rigby sauntered over to the pillow, grabbed hold of the zipper pull, and started gnawing at it with his large gnashing back teeth.  Eventually, Rigby tugged the pillow off of the chair and onto the floor at which point, using his foot for leverage, he started pulling on the zipper pull in earnest. 

Now tell me, loyal readers, which account sounds more plausible? 

Today's My Birthday!

 

Look who's 14 years old today!  

That's right, it's me!

Blooper Reel:

(a display of funny faces, grumpy faces, costume problems, and poor catching skills)