A Flock of Robins

I've said it before and I'll say it again:  I hate robins!  About a year ago, I shared on this blog the reasons why I hate robins and they were:

1.  They have beady little eyes.
2.  They don't take a hint and return a minute after being chased out of the yard.
3.  They don't fly away when confronted; they just skip (and not fly like proper birds) out of reach.

But as annoying as robins are, I've never seen a group as brazen as I did last weekend.

It was a perfect morning out east.  Having eaten my breakfast and gone outside, I was happily lounging in the dining room while Ma and Pa ate their breakfasts.  As a practice, I always hang out in the dining room during breakfast time in hopes that one day someone's bagel would accidentally slip from their hands and roll off the table.  And as everyone knows, once a bagel (or any food for that matter) hits the ground it's mine.  So anyway, after a half hour of lounging with no runaway bagels, I decided that it was time to seek out a new sunny spot on the floor.

As I crossed the room in search of nice warm spot, I happened to look out the window.  It was then that I saw it: a whole gaggle of robins, at least twenty, brazenly congregating in my backyard. 

I was in shock.  How dare those robins gather in my yard!  I needed to do something.  I needed to take back my yard.  But how?  I considered my options:  

Option One:  Go outside and chase away the flock, all while barking hysterically.
Problem:  I was stuck inside--Ma and Pa would never let me outside knowing that I'd be yelling and screaming my head off as I went (apparently 8AM on a Sunday morning is too early for a barking fit).

Option Two:  Bark out the window.  Sure, it wouldn't be as effective as physically charging the birds, but I was sure that if I used my most ferocious bark I'd get results.
Problem:  The windows were closed and, seeing as it was winter, there was little chance of getting someone to open them for me (and that's before going into the whole "don't open the window because Rigby might jump out it" discussion).

Option Three:  Bark loudly through the closed window.  Obviously, in order to get my voice to penetrate the thick glass and distance between me and the flock, I'd have to really push myself.
Problem:  My family would likely complain of ear pain.

Needless to say, I went with option three.  I would just have to deal with my family later.  And besides, perhaps after the ringing in their ears stopped, my family would realize that the pain they experienced was for the greater good--protection from those beady eyed robins.

So I started barking.  When the birds failed to respond, I barked even louder.  Then I got even louder.

Despite the glass and the distance, my message must have finally gotten through their little tiny bird brains because the flock suddenly lifted off and flew away.  I gave them a few parting barks (the canine equivalent of "and don't come back") then went back to the more pressing matter:  hunting down that sunny spot on the floor.

Baby and Me

Baby

Baby and I used to be cool.

Baby, if you recall, is one of the only two toys that have survived since I was a little puppy (Nuclear Bunny is the other).  When I first got Baby, I immediately started to personalize her to my specifications (as I do with all toys).  First, the squeaker box went (originally, she would bark three times every time I bit down on her), then I ripped off both of her ears, and finally I turned my attention to her upper lip.  After each amputation or mutation, Sister would replace Baby's stuffing and sew her back together (Baby's nose was a victim of the surgery on her upper lip).  Then one day, about five years ago, I came to the conclusion that Baby was finally perfect; I didn't need to do any more personalizing.  From that day forward, I stopped ripping her apart.  In fact, she became one of my go to meet-and-greet toys (she's big enough for people to notice that I'm greeting them at the door with her yet she's small enough to make it impossible for someone to try and grab hold of her thinking that I'm giving her to them).

But then, two weeks ago, something happened.  Suddenly I started ripping at the stitches on Baby's nose.  Three times Baby was taken away from me for emergency surgery and each time I got her back, I picked up exactly where I left off.

What happened between Baby and me?  What made our relationship go sour?  Pa thinks Baby said something to me.  Sister thinks that Baby looked at me funny.  Ma thinks I'm just being my "charming self" (I'm thinking I should be offended by that).

So?  What happened?

I'm not going to say.  This conflict is between Baby and me.

Rigby vs. Snow

The last time I posted, I told the story of how I had fully embraced the huge amount of snow in my backyard.  I related how I attacked a rose bush that had the nerve of peeking out from under the snow, how I did my business wherever I saw fit, and how I decapitate and disemboweled Sister's snowman.  In other words, if this were a competition, the score would be Rigby 3, Snow 0.

Well, apparently the snow was annoyed at my ability to take advantage of it and decided to spend the next week fighting back.  Here's what happened:

Mourning Doves:
A day or so after the storm, when the snow was still very deep, I found myself in the unfortunate position of being beached in the middle of the backyard.  At first, I wasn't too concerned.  I knew that if I simply took a minute or two I'd easily be able to break through the snowdrift and be on my way.  In the meantime, all I had to do was strike a pose and pretend that I wasn't stuck so as to fool Ma who was also outside with me.  I didn't, however, take into account the flock of mourning doves that were hanging out in the tree above me.  Well, apparently my presence annoyed the doves and they started flapping their wings and jumping from branch to branch in protest.  I found this sudden movement quite menacing because a) I have chased a good number of doves off of my property in the past and I was concerned that they might be ganging up on me to seek revenge and b) I was stuck in a snowdrift.  Luckily, the birds did not appear to have any interest in attacking me and merely flew off to another tree.  However, my cover was blown; Ma had seen the pure terror in my eyes.  No amount of posing was going to cover that up.

Squirrel:
A day or so after the dove incident, I found myself hanging out in the backyard with Pa.  Because of my earlier experience, I was much more careful about making sure that I didn't find myself in yet another uncomfortable position.  In other words, I steered clear of the middle of the yard where the snow was the deepest.  So anyway, there I was sniffing around when all of a sudden I saw it:  a squirrel brazenly sitting on the fence in the back corner of the yard.  With a heavy heart and a sense of failing in my duty as "Head of Security," I came to the conclusion that there was no way for me to chase after the squirrel.  If I did, I'd only find myself stuck in another snowdrift (and I'd never be able to deal with a squirrel seeing me in such an embarrassing position).  So I did the only other thing I could: I inched my way as close to the dangerous snowdrift as possible then started barking hysterically.  The squirrel didn't flee as quickly as he would have had I chased him down, but he did get the message and meandered off. 

Avalanche:
A day later I was peacefully snoozing in the kitchen (if you're going to sleep on the floor, you might as well do so in the room where the refrigerator lives) when all of a sudden, I was awoken by a loud thud.  Alarmed, I jumped up barking, convinced that the squirrels and doves had teamed up and were using a battering ram to knock in my door.  Sister, startled not by the thud (she didn't hear it) but from my hysterical barking, quickly rushed into the kitchen and looked out the side door.  She then turned back to me and laughed.  The snow that had built up on the side awning had melted just enough to allow for the whole pile to slide off and land on the pavement.

So the official score by the end of the week was Rigby 3, Snow 3.  Obviously, I needed to break the tie.  So what did I do?  I mounted a second attacked on the melted remains of Sister's snowman.

Ah...payback!

Snow Day

Walking Through The Snow

It snowed this weekend—a lot. In my neck of the woods, the total snowfall amounted to almost two feet which was great because I love snow and, in my view, the more the better. Of course, I am always concerned about my more vertically challenged friends like Mecki and his little brother Bastille in storms like this, but their Mom posted some videos of them playing in a shoveled out spot in the yard, so they seem to be doing okay.

I think perhaps the reason I enjoy snow so much is because it allows me the opportunity to unleash my wild and crazy side. Take this recent storm. When Ma and I went outside first thing yesterday morning after the blizzard was over I:

• bunny hopped around the backyard in circles at top speed (bunny hopping is the only way to get through such deep snow efficiently)
• located and ripped out a rosebush branch that dared to peek out from underneath the snow 
• did my business wherever I pleased. 

But hidden just behind these happy moments of frolicking through the snow and doing business wherever I saw fit, dark forces were brewing.

Balancing Snow On My Snout

Later that very afternoon, Sister and I went outside to play in the snow. After chasing me around for a little bit, Sister and I went our separate ways; I found a nice stick to chew on and Sister decided to build a snowman. Sister spent a lot of time sculpting the snow while I, having finished with my stick fairly early on, watched patiently from afar. Once the three layers of her snowman were built, Sister retrieved a scarf, a carrot, and a couple of walnuts (she didn’t have any coal) that she had brought out with her earlier and had left on the patio table. She wrapped the scarf around the snowman’s neck, but never got the opportunity to insert the eyes and nose.

You see, that’s when I pounced!

What's That Over There?

Sister's Snowman

Like a bat out of hell, I charged the snowman and, propelling myself upward by launching myself off of its bottom sphere, plowed straight into its head. The snowman’s head popped off on impact and dropped to the ground in one piece (Sister is obviously very skilled at making snowman heads). Wasting no time, I pounced on the head and immediately started pummeling it with my paws and breaking it into pieces with my mouth. Oblivious to Sister’s screams and riding high from the fun of beheading the snow creature, I then turned around and threw myself at the snowman’s torso. Digging like a fiend (my loyal readers know how much I enjoy “dig, dig, digging” on the mountains of snow my family build for me when clearing the driveway), I tore apart the snowman’s chest, leaving behind a gaping hole in my wake. Satisfied that the snowman was indeed dead, I ran down the driveway to bark at someone who had the gall of walking by my house. Sister remained behind, mourning her decapitated and disemboweled friend.

Covered In Snow

The remains of Sister’s snowman still stands in the middle of the backyard and, while I’m looking forward to going back outside to finish him off, I can’t help but wonder one thing: Whatever happened to that carrot Sister was going to use as a nose?

A Burger for Doing Nothing

My "I'm Annoyed" Look

There are days that I'm convinced that my family just doesn't appreciate me.  They overlook all of my accomplishments and skills and spend their time oohing and ahhing over some strange dog doing sub-par work (and who, obviously, is not nearly as handsome as yours truly).  The latest example of this phenomenon occurred last Sunday.

Pa, Ma, and Sister were eating lunch at the local diner (I was sadly not invited because the Department of Health has declared that non-service dogs are not permitted in establishments that serve food).  Across the street, in the bed of a parked pick-up truck, was an unleashed German Shepherd waiting for his family (also in the diner) to finish eating.  Everyone in the diner noticed this dog and expressed countless compliments about how he was waiting patiently for his family, how nice he was sitting, how cute he looked with his chin resting on the side panel of the truck, and how he wasn't "jumping out of no car" (no need to specify whose family said that last one).  But it wasn't just compliments.  A number of people (including my Sister) suggested that the German Shepherd's family should buy him a burger as a reward for being such a good boy.

For what?!  For sitting perfectly still in the back of a truck?!  Any dog can do that!  Heck, even a cat could do that!  But all the humans were impressed by the dog that sat stock still for thirty minutes!  And then they suggested that he receive a burger for his "hard work"?!  Ugh!

And what about me?  I actually do a ton of stuff but do I get offered a burger?  Do I get a burger for alerting the world of someone walking by my house or closing a car door?  Do I get a burger for retrieving the dish towel even though no one needs it at the moment?  Do I get a burger for politely wiping my chin on the couch after eating?  Do I get a burger for so expertly training my family to see to my every need?  Do I get a burger for doing a perfect tuck and roll out of a partially open car window at 30 miles per hour?  Do I get a burger for helping to sort the laundry, for shredding wrapping paper, digging holes, gutting toys, and chasing squirrels out of my yard?

No, I do not.

But a German Shepherd sits still for thirty minutes and he becomes the envy of the entire world!

It just isn't fair.

Merry Christmas!

According to the song (which is occasionally sung at ear piercing levels in my house) and warnings issued by my family, Santa Claus is not only watching constantly, but he's also labeling handsome pups such as me as either naughty or nice.  Nice pups get loads of toys to rip the stuffing out of and bones to chew on (the obvious goal).  Bad pups receive a lump of coal in their stockings (which, frankly, doesn't sound all that bad to me).

Now, it is well known that I have a bit of track record of being mischievous.  But mischievousness, in my eyes, is not necessarily synonymous with naughtiness.  I'd be lying, however, if I said I wasn't, going into Christmas, concerned that perhaps my fun loving antics might be misconstrued as naughtiness by the big man wearing red.

Well, it turns out my concern was unjustified.  Despite all my mischievousness this year, I apparently ended up on every one's extremely good list because I really cleaned up this December 25th.  Between Santa, Ma, Pa, Sister, Aunt B, Faye (Tink & ZeeZee), Karin (Mecki & Bastille), and Jim (Pa's friend from work who is the human dad to Dixie whom I've heard stories about but have yet to meet in person), I got:

Octopus, Reindeer, & Raccoon

• a bag of treats (yet to be opened)
• a new antler (chewed on)
• an orange squeaky ball (plucked, ripped, and thrown away)
• a giant octopus (awaiting surgery for a ripped tentacle)
• a football (still whole...great for greeting people with)
• a plush raccoon (ripped, gutted, and awaiting surgery)
• a flat plush squeaker dog (waiting to be chewed on)
• a Christmas Mini-Mecki (also waiting to be chewed on)
• a giant plush reindeer with tennis ball feet (tennis balls ripped off body and partial lobotomy?--check!).  

Christmas Mini-Meck

But despite all the toys and all the tasty food I grubbed (the less said the better), this Christmas wasn't all good.

In the wee hours of Christmas morning (while Santa was making his rounds), I was felled by an unhappy belly.  Ever helpful, Ma heard my pitiful cries at the door and got up to let me out while the rest of the household slept.  Once I was feeling better, Ma let me back in the house but, in the process, accidentally slammed the side door.  Ma and I both thought that the sound would have woken up Pa, but we were both pleasantly surprised to discover that he had slept right through the noise.

Still emotionally troubled by my earlier experience (I hate feeling sick), I grabbed my new football toy that Ma had given me earlier in the evening and curled up on my pillow.  Sadly, I gave it a squeeze, but, because it was squeaker-less, it didn't make a sound.

So, in review, Pa slept through me crying to go out, Ma getting up, Ma accidentally slamming the side door, and Ma and I wandering back into the bedroom.  I then squeaked a squeaker-less toy.  To quote Charles Dickens (from a story that is very appropriate given the time of year) "this must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate."

Like a shot, Pa jumped up, turned to me, and told me that it was too late to play with my toys and that I should go to sleep.  He took my football from me, scratched my head, and then fell back asleep.  With a sign, I too went to bed.

Later in the morning, after all the presents were open (and some of the paper shredded), Ma related this story to both Sister and Pa (Pa was unaware of what happened before I squeaked my squeaker-less toy) and everyone had a good laugh.  More importantly, however, I got my football back.

Sing Along With Rigby

Merry Christmas to all my fans.  Please enjoy this year's Christmas carol set to the tune of "Silent Night." *<[:{)

Rigby the Black Nosed Rein-Dog!

Drooly boy, slobbery boy.
Waiting for Christmas day.
Picking ornaments off of the tree.
Sniffing through presents that might be for me.
Trolling for cookies to eat,
Trolling for cookies to eat!

Furry boy, troublesome boy.
Cannot wait for Santa Claus.
Asking for a plush toy to tear.
Tennis balls and a bone and a spare.
Lots of cookies to eat,
Lots of cookies to eat!

Barky boy, handsome boy.
Christmas joy to all my friends.
Hope you get toys, bones, and treats galore.
Shred lots of paper and one thing more.
Numerous cookies to eat,
Numerous cookies to eat!

Merry Christmas!