Vacation!

It's that time of year again!
 VACATION!!!!

Dig, Dig, Digging No More

I dig in the snow.

I dig in the doggy pool.

I dig on the carpet.

I dig in the side garden.

I dig in the vegetable garden.

I dig by the cherry tree.

I dig under the forsythia bush (my favorite).

My love of digging has always been a bit of a sore spot between me and my family; a sore spot with some definite mixed signals mixed in.  They have no issue with me digging in the doggy pool and they actually build (and rebuild) snow mountains for me each winter.  But the concept of me digging on the carpet or in the garden is seriously frowned upon.

And oh, has my family tried to discourage my digging in inappropriate places over the years.  They've turned the vegetable garden into a "Land of No" with the assistance of a metal portable fence.  They've blocked my favorite digging spots with flower pots (which I run off with), buckets, garbage can covers, and broken pieces of fence.  They've blocked my access to my favorite carpeted areas with books and chairs.  They've cut back the forsythia to make my digging area less private.  And, as I mentioned in a recent post, they've developed a sixth sense when it comes to reading my mind and can therefore head me off with a stern "no" when I've merely look at a patch of dirt.

Yesterday, however, Ma took an epic maneuver in the ongoing battle between my digging and the welfare of her garden.  First, she filled in my latest hole under the forsythia bush.  Then, she planted four cement pavers right in the middle of that prime digging real estate.

 
Touché, Ma; well played.  But don't think for a minute that this war is over.  I'll come up with a way of reclaiming my favorite digging spot!

It's Raining Squirrels!

Curse you, squirrel!

I'm not a huge fan of squirrels or their tail shaking, tree hopping, trespassing ways.  I mean, sure, they are better than those stupid little bunnies that so brazenly hop around my backyard and take cover in the vegetable garden just out of my reach.  But not by much.  In fact, I think the only good thing I can say about squirrels is that they deposit their half-eaten peaches (stolen from the next-door neighbor's peach tree) in my yard for me to either eat or trade in for a cookie.  Otherwise, they are just trespassers who have the audacity to chatter at me angrily when I stand at the base of the tree I've chased them up barking at them to never set foot in my backyard again.

And that's where my interaction normally ends; the squirrel eventually gets tired of chattering at me and decides to climb further up the tree and out of my sight.  The discussion is over.  Or is it?

Last week, Pa and I were hanging out in the backyard.  Pa was supervising my activities and I was trying to think of ways to distract Pa long enough to scurry over to the forsythia bush and "dig, dig, dig" at my favorite digging spot.  All of a sudden, however, I was distracted from my scheming by a rustling in the giant oak tree above me.  I looked up just in time to see a dark brown furry blob hurtle to the ground and land with a sickening "thud" inches in front of me.

It was a full-grown squirrel.

Now, one might think that falling from atop of a very tall oak tree and landing with a sickening "thud" might turn a living squirrel into an ex-squirrel.  Not so (or at least no one ever told that to this particular squirrel).  Immediately upon hitting the ground, the squirrel sprang back up, ran directly toward me, and scooted through my legs--front and back.

Needless to say, I was surprised by this entire event (as I believe anyone would be).  I was so surprised, that I didn't even notice that after the squirrel had skirted under me it had hotfooted up the cherry tree a few feet away.  Confused, I spent the next few minutes trying to track down the squirrel and did so by walking around backward with my head down between my front paws trying to see where the squirrel went and if it were still there.

Sadly, I was not alone as I did this little dance.  Pa witnessed the entire event (my less than finest hours always seem to be witnessed). 

July Fourth Greetings

Happy Fourth of July!

He Steals Seashells by the Side Door

Before I begin with my latest tale, allow me to take a moment to thank my bff Mecki, his little brother Bastille, and their mom Karin for all the birthday presents they gave me last week.  I must say, they were some of the most well-thought-out gifts I have ever received.  I got...

Birthday Gifts

From Mecki:  A brand new Mini-Mecki toy

(that he rolled on so that it reminded me of him)

From Bastille:  A box of Milkbone cookies

(because the pup on the box looks just like Bastille)

From their mom:  A bag of bacon and cheese treats

(because we both really love cheese and bacon)

Thanks a million Karin, Mecki, and Bastille!

And now, on to my story.

Besides being devilishly handsome, clever to a fault, and highly talented with the written word, I am also exceedingly mischievous.  I’m always thinking.  Thinking of ways to get in trouble.  Thinking of ways to have fun.  Thinking of ways to gain attention.  I’m quite the pro.

Of course, on occasion I do get the feeling that my family can read my mind and foretell my mischievousness.  How else can one explain all the times Sister has told me “no” to digging on the carpet or under the forsythia bush when I've only just taken a single step in the direction of said corner or plant?  It’s clairvoyance I tells ya!.  

Anyway, even despite the fact that sometimes my mischievousness is thwarted, it never stops me from trying.  Here’s my latest:

Out east, Ma and Pa have two terracotta planters on the porch; one with rosemary growing in it, the other mint.  Now, normally I don’t have much interest in potted plants.  I might sniff them as I go by or watch a bee do its little bee thing, but then I quickly move on to other more interesting subjects. Well, a couple of weeks ago, when I checked out the planters, I discovered that in addition to the plant, the dirt, and the little plastic thingy that says what's been planted in that location (which, by the way is a lot of fun to chew on), Ma and Pa had also added seashells as decorations.  Now, every time I go out onto the porch, I immediately saunter over to the planters and snatch a shell in my mouth.

There are essentially two endings to this mischievousness:  either the shell makes it and can be returned to the planter with only a thick layer of slobber on it, or I crush it into dust.  Which outcome depends entirely on whether the gate connecting the porch and the backyard is open or closed.  When the gate is open, I take my ill-gotten gains and scurry down into the grass where I proudly prance and play keep away from whoever is inevitably chasing me to retrieve the shell.  Rather than give up the shell, I end up grinding it to dust while running to and fro.  When the gate is closed, however, I usually give up the shell fairly quickly (and in one piece) because I have far fewer options when it comes to dodging and skirting whoever is trying to get my stolen prize away from me.

Either way, once I am relieved of the shell (be it through a "give" command or the destruction of the shell itself), I make a bee line back to the planter ready to start pilfering again.

Suspicions

In the Land of No

Suspicions.   

That's what Ma had for weeks, but she never had any solid proof to confirm them.  She would routinely talk about them over dinner, but that's all they ever were--suspicions.

But then one day last week, I got sloppy and Sister caught me. I didn't expect her to come home early that day.

She caught me climbing up the basement stairs; she caught me leaving the "Land of No."

Why was I down in the Land of No?  Why did I ignore the plethora of muddy sneakers and dirty laundry down there?

I'm not going to say.

All that remains are...

Suspicions.

Birthday 2018

Which devilishly handsome pup turns nine years old today?

That's right...

ME!!!!