People Beds

I've got this thing about beds. I like to be underneath them. Oh, and did I get in trouble the first time I discovered how much fun that could be. I was just three months old and it was in a motel. I was on my very first vacation, going west to see the mountains. I didn't even have to belly crawl to scoot around down there. It was a jolly good time playing hide and seek until Mom and Dad got so exasperated trying to catch me that Dad huffed and puffed to lift the mattresses up and Mom snatched me off the floor. I spent a lot of time in the motel bathroom after that. That's when I first became acquainted with baby gates. I hate those things.

For many years my mom had an Early American bed that sat high off the floor and my cushy dog bed sat underneath it. Being close at night in a warm place where I could spread out and keep all my toys near by was my utopia for years. Then we moved to this placed called a wheelchair accessible house and my folks spend a lot of time getting the height of the bed just right for my dad to make transfers in and out of bed by himself. I miss that old high bed, though, and my bunker underneath. The new one is so low to the ground I have to belly crawl under it and half the time I get stuck down there.

Not so long ago, I crawled under the bed in the middle of the night looking Kleenex and ear plugs and you guessed it, I got stuck. Again. I cried a little---or a lot depending on whose telling the story---and it woke Mom up. I admit it was kind of scary. She had put plastic boxes under the bed, trying to make it hard for me find room enough to access that space. I fooled her, I got in under there that night, but I couldn't turn around to crawl back out. Mom ended up having to wake my dad up, get him in the wheelchair so she could lift the mattresses up to free me. After that happened, I got banned to staying in the kitchen and laundry room at night, behind the wicked baby gate. Have I mentioned that I hate baby gates? They could at least have the decency to call mine a dog gate in my presence. ©
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The Laundry Day War

My mom isn't the smartest toy in the box, if you know what I mean. Today she got a bra caught on the agitator in the washing machine and she spent a half an hour trying to free it. I could have done it in six second with a pair of scissors and a step stool. But, no, she couldn't take the easy way out; she had to sputter and spit with her head deep inside the washing machine calling the undergarment offensive names that had me blushing under my curly locks. ©

An 'S' Word Kind of Day

My mom is having a hard day. An 'S' word day. It started out with me peeing and pooping on the kitchen floor before she got up. That will teach her not to forget to put the ugly black box in the doorway before she goes to bed. Not that I would ever use it to do my business in but I probably would have held off a little longer if it had been present. She got up at 9:05 and she ought to know by now that I pee and poop at nine sharp.

Then I got into the trash and fished out a couple of Kleenex to eat for breakfast. That was her fault too. She had taken the top off the container and left it unattended to answer the doorbell. That brought back great memories---digging around in the trash. I remember my puppy days when even the red pepper she put in the trash basket couldn't stop me from diving for Kleenex and other worthy prizes. Then she bought all those different types of baskets, trying to out-smart me. It couldn't be done. Oh, the good old days before the trash basket went behind a closed door. Door knobs and latches aren't easy for short dogs like me.

I've never understood what is so bad about saying the 'S' word but my mom said it today after she accidentally kicked over my water dish. It was clean and full to the top, too. That was funny watching the water snaking across the laundry room floor as my mom scrambled to find something to stop it from going under the dryer. Well, what did she expect? It was bound to happen sooner or later with that dish sitting so close to the door going out to the garage. ©

My Adoption Day

When I first met my adopted parents I only weighed 2 1/2 pounds. Yesterday at the vets I was cruising the 20 pound marker. I guess it's true what my mom keeps harping about. I'm too fat for my own good but, darn it, I still look sexy in my silver fur.

That day we first met, my dad took me out of the cage and held me up so he could look at my face. Back in those days he chewed a lot of Black Jack chewing gum and he had a pack in his shirt pocket. It smelled so good that I grabbed a stick for myself. That made Dad laugh. I was just barely five weeks old and my real mother wasn't through teaching me how to be a dog, but the lady who owned the cage wanted me gone anyway. So that's how I came to pick out Don and Jean to be my parents. ©

Vera Wang and Me

I scored a coup today. I extracted a Vera Wang feminine fragrance sampler card from the newspaper and rolled in it until I got myself smelling SO sweet that no one would come within three feet. My mom said it's a good thing I've got a grooming appointment coming up soon. Damn! I like the way I smell now and I don't want to replace my "essence" with that doggie poo-poo stuff. She stopped buying Oprah’s O Magazine because, she said, I was constantly molesting them to get at the perfume pages. I love all expensive perfume but Vera Wang is still my favorite. Their gift sets are $75.00. Can anyone doubt my taste in fragrances? Yup, call me a fan of yuppie perfume. ©