But Where Do Pepperoni Come From?

Over the years, I've discovered quite a few odd things in my backyard including:

• half eaten peaches that the squirrels steal from the peach tree growing in the yard next door
• hammocks
• bunnies

But none have compared to the strange (and wonderful) thing I found on Monday morning.

It was a standard Monday morning.  Bright and early I woke up, stepped on Sister as I climbed off the bed, scurried downstairs, and demanded that I be let out to check the perimeters.  Into the backyard I galloped and joyfully jumped over the mountain of snow Ma and Pa have been building me from the weekly seven inches of snow that keeps blanketing our driveway.  Having stuck the landing (a perfect 10.0 if you ask me), I came to a complete halt in the middle of the yard and took a deep breath of morning air.

It was then that I smelled it; a wonderfully delicious smell wafting from the little Christmas tree in the corner of the yard.  Ever inquisitive (and always looking for a free meal), I scurried over to the tree, my nose high in the air, and determined that the smell was definitely coming from the top of the tree--a tree that, despite being short, was still taller than me.  I weighed my options and decided that, if I couldn't reach the top of the tree from where I stood, I would climb it instead.  There was just one problem...the branches would not support my weight.  Undaunted, I considered my options once again and came up with a plan B:  bark hysterically until someone comes to help.

Seconds later, I heard, a banging on the window and saw Pa motioning for me to stop barking and come in.  Seeing that it was breakfast time, I acquiesced and hurried in.

About an hour later, I was let outside again.  Immediately, I hot-footed it to the little Christmas tree and re-evaluated the situation.  I decided that, if I couldn't climb to the top, I'd rear up on my hind legs and investigate from a standing position (hey, it works for the humans).  Slowly, I rose off my front legs and--BANG--I hit my head on a low-hanging branch from the cherry tree growing a few feet away.

I was busy counting the little bunnies and stars that were circling around my head when I suddenly became aware of the familiar sound of laughter and discovered Ma and Pa standing in the window guffawing at my expense; they had seen the whole thing.  Annoyed, I decided to return to plan B and started barking hysterically until Pa enticed me back inside the house with the promise of a cookie.

A couple of hours later, after breakfast, Ma went out to investigate what was bothering me.  Cautiously, she approached the tree and discovered, right there on the top branches, was a half a slice of pizza (and here I was under the impression that pizzas came from some rude person who banged on our door ever Friday night but never stopped to say hello to me).

Despite making the initial find, Ma refused to share the pizza crop with me.  In fact, she had the gall of throwing the slice away without so much as a taste.  Still, now that I know where pizzas come from and that I have my very own pizza tree growing in my back yard, I know that, if I check every day, someday a new crop will grow and I'll be there to sample it.

Best In Show

Tonight was the second and final night of the AKC Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show.  It was also, in my humble opinion, the most important night.  Why?  Because the second night always includes the Sporting Group--the group that the Golden Retriever is featured in (though of course I always root for the Mecki dog in the Hound Group and the ZeeZee and Tink dogs in the Working Group).

Unfortunately, despite being the obvious star of the group, the Golden rarely wins (according to Sister's research, the Golden has only won the group once and has yet to win Best in Show).   Now, when I was a little puppy, I was highly troubled by this trend.  But, as the years have progressed, I have come to realize, understand, and appreciate the yearly snub of first place.  Here's the secret...

My Best Show Dog Pose

You see, as a breed, us Goldens are overwhelmingly concerned for the mental well-being of other breeds.  We know we are the number one dog, and, given the opportunity, could win each and every award and prize with one paw tied behind our back.  But, how would all those other dogs feel if we claimed the top prize year after year after year?  Therefore, in the interest of fair play and good sportsmanship, we routinely even the odds: we stumble when we walk by the judge, we turn at an odd angle to disrupt our silhouettes, we slouch (but of course, it goes without saying that we do these things very subtly so as not to allow the other dogs to catch on).

So, good job, Will (this year's Best in Breed Golden Retriever)!  Not only did you win a highly respectable 3rd place in the group, but you've maintained the generous and caring tradition of the Golden Retriever:  to allow other breeds, if only for a day, to feel that they are superior.

A Missed Opportunity

Little Girl

Ralphie

Mecki

Last year, I hosted a lot of friends and strangers at my house--Sister took in Little Girl, a little stray dog, back in June, Ralphie came over for a sleepover in September (though I only got to play with him for a little while), and Mecki spent two days and nights at my house back in December--and I had a ball doing it.  In fact, I had so much fun that, frankly, the last couple of months, completely devoid of four legged visitors, have been a bit of a drag.  But the really depressing part of the entire situation is the fact that my family, especially my Sister, appears to be totally oblivious to how bummed out I've been.  Consider what happened on Saturday:

It started off badly.  Sister was going out to do some errands and, despite the fact that I really wanted to go with her, she tricked me into scurrying out the side door while she slipped out the front.  Wildly annoyed, I rushed over to the fence and prepared myself for the longest and loudest barking session I've ever had, but stopped when I noticed Sister pause outside her open driver's side door and stare intently down the road.  A second later, Sister closed the door, hurried toward the gate, pushed her way past me (without apologizing for trying to leave without me), opened the side door, and asked Ma if she knew anyone on the block who owned a Boston Terrier.  Then, Sister pushed past me again (without an apology) and hurried down the street with Ma, carrying my leash, following close behind her.

Royally miffed, I watched as Ma and Sister converged on a house just shy of the corner.  I gave out one warning bark (you know, to inform them, and the entire neighborhood, of my displeasure) and prepared myself, once again, for that longest and loudest barking session ever.  But before I could begin, I noticed Sister bend down and scoop up a shivering black form.

It was a dog!  Sister was bringing me a friend to play with!  What a good Sister I have!

But then something strange happened:  A woman came running out of the house Sister was standing in front of and Sister--get this--handed the Boston Terrier over to her.  Then, without my new friend, Ma and Sister started walking back to our house.

Well, I went berserk.  I started barking hysterically at Ma and Sister as they walked toward the house and up the driveway.  How could they hand my new friend over to that woman without first letting me meet her (the dog, not the woman)?  I tried consoling myself by jumping on Sister and sniffing her coat all over as soon as she and Ma walked through the gate, but it just wasn't the same.

Later, Sister sat me down and explained to me that the puppy she rescued was a little old lady who was cold and blind and had wandered out of her backyard.  She also said that I likely would have, unintentionally, scared the bejesus out of the pup if Sister had brought her home; that I'm simply too rambunctious for such a little old lady.  How rude!

Two Close Calls

It has been a snowy couple of days. As my loyal readers already know, I love playing in the snow. I love digging holes in the mountains that Ma and Pa build for me when they’re shoveling the walk; I love running up and down the driveway to discover just how far I can skid when I try to stop; and I love plowing through all the snowdrifts in the backyard at top speed like a crazy dog. In fact, I love the snow so much that I don’t even mind when Sister catches me being particularly silly. Take this picture, for instance…

Sister says that I look like a little old man with a fluffy white beard. Normally, I would take offense at this statement. I would question why she chose the picture she did rather than, say, this one…

…you know, one that makes me look majestic and even more handsome than I already am. But not when it snows. Nope, I have so much fun playing in the snow that I end up not really caring about looking foolish.

Anyway, that’s not why I’m posting today. Today I’m posting about two recent events that nearly ended in disaster.

Close Call Number 1:

Last Friday, the people Sister works with threw her a surprise birthday party. As a result, Sister came home with lots of nice smelling food (yay!) and a couple of menacing helium and latex balloons (boo!). I was a brave dog, and investigated the floating intruders once Sister tied them securely to the back of a chair, but, overall, I tried to avoid them as best as I could. Well, on Sunday, I sauntered into the kitchen only to discover that Sister had cut the latex balloons loose because they were weighing down the helium ones. To say I was not momentarily startled would be a lie (discovering giant globes rolling around your kitchen separating you from your food bowl can be quite off-putting), but I decided to be brave and ventured into the room to face, head on, the green and yellow balloons. I walked up to the first balloon, gave it a bunk with my nose, and watched as it rolled away from me. Then I walked over to the second balloon and gave it a sniff. Deciding that the balloon was not dangerous, I leaned over, opened my mouth, and…

“Rigby, no!” Sister screamed before I could sink my teeth into the giant green ball.

Close Call Number 2:

Can We Go Now?  How 'Bout Now?

Later in the day, Sister, racked with guilt that I had had three consecutive boring weekends, convinced Pa that he should take us to Belmont Lake State Park for an action packed walk. Ma bailed because she said it was too cold, but after a few agonizing minutes of waiting for Pa and Sister to put on six or seven layers of clothing, Pa, Sister, and I jumped into the car and headed to the park.

I had a ton of fun at the park. I sniffed lots of trees, sloshed around in a couple of mud puddles, and watched the ducks swim by on the pond. Everything was going swell when all of a sudden I saw them: two giant white swans wading through the water. I pulled toward the pond, but Pa pulled me back.

“Those birds are bigger than you are,” he warned, “they’ll beat you up!” Then he pointed toward a couple of swan boats docked around a bend in the pond. “Those are more your speed.”

I was not amused.

Joining Forces with Pa

In my family, everyone has a job.  I am cute and lovable and provide endless hours of entertainment to my family and all those who meet me.  Ma is in charge of making sure that my kibble never gets boring (she adds interesting flavors to it including, most recently, pumpkin puree which is really, really tasty).  Sister allows me to sleep on her bed.  And Pa, well, let's just say Pa is in charge of entertainment.

A Man and His Hound

Pa and I get into all sorts of trouble when we are together.  We go on long walks in the morning, we rough-house at night, and, when Pa gets home from work early, we enjoy a quick snack and a long nap.  But our favorite father-son activity, by far, is annoying Sister (and we're quite good at it, if I do say so myself).  We're so good at it, in fact, that Pa is still snickering, days later, over the last trick we played on her.

Here's what happened:

Checking Out My Crate

It was Sunday afternoon and Pa and Sister were in the living room watching television.  Unable to suppress my fun-loving personality and sense of humor any longer, I got up from my pillow and scurried into the kitchen looking for trouble or food, whichever I came upon first.  No food or trouble was to be found in the kitchen, so I moseyed over to the landing by the door and stared down the adjacent stairway to the basement.  Now, I'm not allowed in the basement (it is a below-ground "Land of No"), but I can climb up and down the stairs and there, perched on the third step from the top, was a pair of Pa's work boots.

Jackpot!

I scurried down the steps, grabbed one of the boots by its tongue, and climbed back up the stairs (which is not an easy task when the boot is so big and heavy that it bounces off each and every step as you climb).  Tail wagging a mile a minute, I scurried into the living room and showed off my treasure to Pa and Sister.

Pa and Me at My Estate

As with most ill-gotten gains, I knew that eventually someone would ask me to give up the boot that I had so rightfully found.  The question was, however, how easily would I give it up?  When Ma or Sister requests that I give them something I've got, they have a 10% chance of me spitting it out without a fight (this increases to 50% if they promise me a cookie but don't have said cookie on them and 95% if they show me the cookie).  Pa, on the other paw, has a much better track record with me.  For him, I tend to give up my treasures on the first request and without the offer of a cookie about 90% of the time.

On this particular day, it was Pa who got to me first.  From his chair he leaned forward, looked me in the eye, and said, in a calm voice, "Rigby, drop."

"Oww!" Sister squealed.

I had dropped the boot on Sister's foot.

Pa started laughing hysterically and I, in turn, started wagging my tail around in circles.  While Sister muttered something about Pa and I being really mean, Pa jumped up and, between guffaws, exclaimed:  "Okay, I'll pay for that.  Let's go get a cookie!"

Who am I to argue?

Obediently, I followed Pa into the kitchen to collect my cookie.  Meanwhile, Sister, always the drama queen, limped into the kitchen with the boot in her hand and tossed it, and its mate, down into the basement's "Land of No." 

What a spoilsport!

The Sliding Scale of Comfort

I'm a comfortable dog; a very comfortable dog.  I'm such a comfortable dog that I have actually developed my very own sliding scale of comfort.  Check it out:

1. Hardwood floor.
2. Rug.
3. Muddy patch in the backyard.
4. Clothing left on the floor (after I shred it, of course).
5. Plush toy (just before I rip out the stuffing).
6. Dog pillow.
7. Chairs (because they are smaller than a couch).
8. Couches (because they are larger than a chair).
9. Beds.
10. To be determined.

You might have noticed that I have not named the ultimate level of comfort.  Truth be told, I haven't discovered it yet.  The way I see it, I don't want to limit my comfort possibilities by declaring an ultimate winner without having tried out every surface available.  With that said, I believe that I might have discovered a runner up--a 9.5 you might say.  A couple of days ago, I discovered the level of comfort supplied by a full body pillow.

Aunt B gave Sister said full body pillow (a giant horseshoe shaped pillow which is supposed to support the body when sleeping) at Christmas, and as soon as she took it out of the box and tossed it on the bed, I was absolutely, 100% positive that I was not going to like it.  You see, when I say that the pillow's giant, I mean giant...it takes up nearly half of the bed!  Consider this: if I get 3/4 of the bed and Sister gets 1/4, adding a giant pillow should be mathematically impossible!  And then there's the height.  When the pillow is on the bed, I can barely see over top of it let alone jump onto the mattress (fluffiness, I admit, is a plus when it comes to pillows, but it is always smart to look before you leap).

So what does one do when one does not get one's way?  One sulks.  And sulk I did.  First, I spent a couple of nights down in Ma and Pa's room even though I'm not allowed to sleep on their bed and had to settle for my dog pillow.  When that got old, I decided to spend a few nights sleeping on my pillow in Sister's room with the intention of showing my displeasure by staring up at her with sad eyes and whining piteously.  Sister slept right through my act.  Realizing that a different approach was necessary I chose sarcasm.  The next night I jumped up on the bed (using the side without the pillow), curled up as small as I could on the furthest corner, hung my head off the side of the mattress to emphasize the lack of space, and sighed as loudly as I could.  And do you know what?  Sister was still able to ignore me.  Pillow 3; Rigby 0.

I decided then that passive aggression was not going to work; I was going to have to face my problem head on.  The following night, I marched myself up to Sister's room, approached the pillow from its side of the bed, and, with a mighty leap, propelled myself up and over its fluffy white side.

Long story short, I learned the meaning of the adage "don't judge a book by its cover" that night.  The full body pillow can stay; Sister, on the other paw, might want to go check out my dog pillow (remember Sis, its orthopedic!)

Thanks Mecki!

My bff Mecki is the best gift giver in the world!

On Tuesday night, Sister decided that it was time for me to open the Christmas present Mecki gave me (it had been living in the "Land of No" since just before the holidays).  Needless to say, I was ecstatic by this decision (and a bit relieved--I was afraid Sister had forgotten).  Bursting with excitement, I scurried alongside Sister as she entered the "Land of No," retrieved the package, and tore open the holiday dachshund wrapping paper (I must admit that I was a bit disappointed that I didn't get the opportunity to unwrap it myself, but I figured that Sister needed some excitement too).

My New Toy

Inside the holiday dachshund wrapping paper (which, by the way Mecki, was a very nice touch) was a plush dachshund toy complete with floppy ears and a tail made out of banners.
 My tail started wagging in circles and I began bouncing up and down trying to wrench the toy from Sister's hand, but Sister refused to give it to me.  "I have to cut the tags off," Sister explained, "then we need to show Ma and Pa your new toy 'cause it's never gonna look this nice again."

Up the stairs Sister and I ran to show off my new toy to Pa who was playing on the computer.  He chuckled and said it was a nice looking toy.  Then down the stairs Sister and I bounded and waited in the kitchen for Ma to come up from the basement where she was washing clothes (I'm not allowed in the basement unless I'm being dried off after playing in the rain--there are too many things for me to get into down there).  Ma admired the toy as well and said that it was really cute.

Then, finally, it was my turn.  Sister told me to sit and when I did (I always do my tricks when I'm sufficiently motivated) she handed me the toy.  As fast as my feet could carry me, I scurried into the living room (I skidded a few times on the hardwood floor--Ma and Pa really need to buy a new rug) and threw myself onto the floor to investigate my present.

And what a present it was!  It was soft and had a great squeaker.  I lay on the floor chewing on it and shaking it by its little ears for a good ten minutes before I heard the "pop" of my teeth penetrating the fabric (followed by an "oh no!" from Sister).

Let the fun begin!

Enjoying My Toy

In no time at all, the puncture wounds went from a couple a holes to two large gaping tears along the dachshund's back and belly.  This got me thinking...seeing that the toy now had two holes in it, what harm could come of me sticking my snout into said holes and snuffing around?  So, I stuffed my nose in one of the holes.  Well, one thing led to another, and within seconds I was surrounded by a pile of stuffing, broken squeakers, shredded material, and detached ears.  And let me tell you, those were some wonderful seconds!

It's Snowing Stuffing!

Now, I realize that Mecki and I have two very different techniques when it comes to playing with a toy.  He gnaws off limbs and swallows them.  I, on the other hand, like to pull out the stuffing (I don't eat it...I just make a mess).  Despite our differences, I felt, as I ripped the head stuffing out of the toy, that I was channeling Mecki and that he'd approve not only of the fun I was having, but the job I was doing.

The Remains

Thanks Mecki for the great toy!