Dog Dancing---is She Crazy?

A bunch of us dogaroons up here at the Rainbow Bridge were lounging under the tennis ball trees discussing our humans and their habit of making New Years Resolutions. So I decided to peek down at my family and see what silly things Mom put on her list this year. Mom's a list kind of person so I knew she'd have one. Years ago she even made one of those "100 Things to do Before I Die" lists and recently she found it again. She'd actually done about half the things on her list and decided she should make a new list. The first thing she put down was: "Shorten this list to 25 things to do before I die. I'm old!"

I digress. For her New Year's Resolutions Mom had put down the customary weight and exercise related things that seem to be required for humans to list. She had a few improve-your-personality type things as well, pretty standard stuff for Mom. Then she had one crazy, totally unobtainable thing listed. Even crazier than the time she vowed to learn how to belly dance. In 2009 she wants to---get this---learn how to do dog dancing with my baby brother, Levi!

Mom thinks it will kill a flock of birds with one stone. 1) It will give her some exercise; 2) it will give Levi some exercise; 3) it will create a stronger bond between Mom and Levi; and 4) it will entertain Dad with their practice sessions. What Mom left out of the equation is that fact that she's old and she can hardly walk. Sure, she'd got one new knee but the other one won't even bend. It's shot and needs replacing, too. She can't walk fast or for long without pain, let alone run and if she tries to dance, she'll look like a character in a low budget Frankenstein movie. I love her but a hunchbacked old woman dragging a leg behind her doesn't exactly inspire my confidence in her ability to pull off dog dancing with Levi.

Levi, the little trouper, is doing his part. Already he's learned how to bow, shake right and left, do circles on command and is learning to go through Mom's legs. He can also do the normal obedience things like sit, down, stand and heel. And get this. When I looked down on them today Mom was sitting in her rolling computer chair trying to get Levi to back up and come forward as she rolled to and from him. I think she's mixing wheelchair dancing up with dog dancing. I know she's watched those wheelchair dancing competitions but I'm not sure she has a clue what dog dancing is all about.

I tried to talk to my older brother, Jason, up here the Bridge about Mom's craziest. He's a full-fledged angel-dog and a newbie trainer on top of that. But he says I can't interfere. I tried to tell him she's going to fall and break her neck but Jason is firm about the rules. No ifs, ands or buts about it I can't erase 'dog dancing' off Mom's New Year's Resolution list and her memory and replace it with 'knit everyone on the block a sweater.' It's a pain in the butt sometimes to have all this angel-power not be able to use it in so-called wasteful ways. How is it wasteful to make my mom act her age? On the good side, most of her New Year's Resolutions don't make it to April. ©

Cooper

Wheelchair Dancing Competition

Wheelchair and Dog Dancing

Paragility Show and Dog Dancing

Carolyn and Rookie, Dog Dancing Team

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Look at This!

Oh, my gosh, look what Levi got from Latte & Cookie and Abbie!


The award states: "This blog invests and believes in PROXIMITY - nearness in space, time and relationships!" In other words, blogs that receive this award "are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in prizes or self-aggrandizement. Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers! Deliver this award to eight bloggers who must choose eight more and include this cleverly-written text into the body of their award."

Levi is tickled pink to get this award. But meanie Moomie is making me pass it on to other worthy dogs. Since me has to do that, Levi is giving it away to my new and old friends:

Tibby Tales
Fenway
Willow
Lady Kaos
Ruby

Okay, that only five but that's as high as me can count. Me's still a baby.

Smell ya, later. Levi

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They like Me! They Really, Really Like Me!

Look what Levi got---awards!! My friend Happy sent me this beauuutiful one....


And my Friend Abby gave me this pretty one....



And my friend George sent me this sparkling one...



Me isn't sure what awards are for but Moomie says it's an honor to be picked. Me asked her if I can eat them. Nope. Me asked her if I can wear them. Nope. She won't let me. She says me can't take them to obedience class either. Why can't Levi do that? If it's an honor I should show them to my teacher. She's judges awards...or is it she get awards for judging? Levi is confused. Oh, well, me don't care. They are pretty and they are mine.

Just a minute Moomie is talking.

She says me has to pass these awards on to other friends. Is that fair? Levi just got them! She can't make me do it now. Me's going to tell her I need to go outside to poop.

Smell ya later. Love Levi

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Levi's Diary

Me missed blogging on Schnauzer Saturday because Moomie was busy on something called political sites. She was like a crazy person typing, typing, typing. But today she finally said I could post my diary from last week.

Monday: Levi had a stick up my butt. I tried and tried to poop it out but it was stuck and Moomie had to come to my rescue. That was embarrassing. Me didn't want her to help and I kept running away, but it sure did feel better after the bark up my butt was gone. That's what happens when you eat it, she says, it has to come back out.

Tuesday: Moomie took me to a place that dog-napped me from her arms and then they stole all my hair! When she got me back Moomie said I wasn't cute anymore. I changed colors and now Moomie is sad that I am more gray than black. I don't know why. She and Daady are all gray. Me thinks I look awesome.

Wednesday: Daady dropped some good stuff on the floor. Beans and potatoes. Levi learned to sit right by him at dinner time because he spills me treats.

Thursday: The mailman brought a torture thingie to the door called an Easy Walk harness. Moomie says I walk SO nice when I'm wearing it because Levi doesn't pull on the leash. Me managed to step out of it once when some little girls wanted to pet me. But Moomie tighten up the torture straps so I don't think that will happen again. Me likes little girls.

Friday: After dark Moomie let me go bug hunting on the deck for a very long time. Boy that was fun. Me really good at catching flying bugs.

Saturday: Moomie brought me treats from some place called the Farmer's Market. They were better than the beans and potatoes.

Sunday---today: Moomie got all yellie because I was playing with a spider in the house. Me threw him in the air and then would watch him run and then I'd throw him in the air again. Levi doesn't understand. She takes me bug hunting on the deck but I can't bug hunt in the house? Humans have weird rules.

Smell ya later,

Love Levi

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Second Puppy Obedience Class

Levi's second obedience class went well, especially the first fifteen minutes when Mom and Levi practiced the 'settling' exercise while they listened to the instructor lecture. One of the things the trainer stressed was the importance of interrupting puppies at play with little obedience tasks and then letting them go back to play. The theory is that as puppies grow into adolescences they will be less apt to ignore or avoid owners when they are playing with other dogs or headed toward danger if they have learned that obeying their humans does not necessarily mean an end to having fun.

The second fifteen minutes of class was a combination of play time and grabbing a puppy by the collar---anyone's puppy---and having him or her do a couple of 'sits' before releasing the tyke to play again. It was a mass of humans and four-legged kids running around, the puppies having a great time and the humans looking like they were in a catch-the-greased-pig contest. Well, not quite THAT bad but you know how I like to exaggerate.

The third fifteen minutes of class was demonstrations on how to teach the 'stay' and 'down' commands followed by the last fifteen minutes of demonstrations on how to start puppies walking on a leash. The instructor used Levi for the demonstration and he did wonderfully. Can you tell I'm a proud big brother? The idea was to only go 2-3 feet at a time and then stop, 'sit' before going again. If the puppies pull on the leashes then the humans are suppose to turn and go the opposite direction.

A few days after the class Mom was feeling so confident that she had Levi under control while walking on a leash that she decided to take him and Dad out on a nature trail near by. How hard could it be to push a wheelchair and heel a dog at the same time? Harder than it looks, she decided. There were so many things Levi had never seen before---bicycles, joggers and other family pets not to mention the dam, river, swans, ducks, poison ivy, bugs and grass taller than him. The ragtag trio only got about a quarter of a mile along the river before turning around and coming back. Poor Mom, now she's resigned to taking them both separately until Levi masters ignoring distractions while practicing his obedience lessons.

Well, I've got to go find my angel brother. He's taking me a Zen Living class. It sounds boring to me but Jason says tonight's discussion will be particularly interesting. They're going to discuss, 'do dogs have a Buddha nature.'

"Of course we do!" I told him as soon has he had finished barking out the title.

"You may be right," Jason replied after a long, drawn-out pause. "Or you may be wrong. But answers giving without meditation are unacceptable." Then he winked at me! I can never tell if he's being serious or pulling my leg. All I know is he's one of the most respected angel trainers up here---even if he does talk in riddles half the time---so I listen when he speaks. ©

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Wait Until You Hear What Happened to Me!

I've got some news for all my friends in cyberspace. That last trip to the veterinarian's office on Friday really was my LAST trip! That's okay because I'm at the Rainbow Bridge now and I'll tell you all about this amazing place in a minute. First, I need to talk about my last day on earth.

When my mom got up that morning she'd already had an appointment with the vet but when she saw me sleeping in a heap on some pee soaked newspapers, she didn't need the vet to tell her I was too worn out to stay with her and Dad much longer. But we went anyway.

The vet on duty was a nice guy and he handled me, my mom and dad with gentle compassion. The three of us were together when the doc gave me the fatal injection but to tell you the truth I don't remember when my spirit left my old body and soared to this wonderful place I'm at now. The veterinary had given me a fast acting sedative before the injection so all I really remember is Mom and Dad petting me and talking softly about how much they loved me. When I woke back up I looked at my body and was shocked to see it strong and handsome again, just like the Rainbow Bridge poem says happens when dogs die.

And even more shocking, I could gaze down in the water below the bridge and see my Mom and dad. They cried a lot that afternoon and I tried to tell them that the body Mom was digging a grave for wasn't really me anymore but they couldn't hear me. They gave me a nice funeral, next to my fire hydrant. My old body was resting in the small cardboard casket from the vet's and I was wrapped in my favorite blanket.

When I was alive I was a jealous dog. Once when a neighbor brought a puppy over to the house I lifted my leg and peed on the little guy. I'm ashamed of that now that I'm up here and I have learned an important lesson about love. And guess who taught it to me! When I got here at the bridge my adapted brother and sister poodles---Jason and Sarah---who lived at my house before I came along, were waiting for me. All I had to do is look into their sparking eyes to understand that humans have an unlimited supply of love to give to ALL their four-legged kids.

I've heard stories about Sarah and Jason all of my life. So I knew that Jason has a wise old soul, ever calm and very intelligent, and that dimwitted Sarah had been a puppy mill dog with poor health and she only lived five years. Mom used to say that Sarah was a sweet thing who should have lived with a little girl because she loved getting dressed up in sweaters and Halloween costumes. Mom would smile if she could see Sarah now. She's wearing a pink fairy princess outfit. Jason says that's the nicest thing about being up here, we all get to do what we love doing the most. Some dogs here strut the show rings---even the mutts who always want the thrill of a win. Some dogs run the tunnels trials or compete at fly ball. Some dogs just roam and smell the flowers or chase the birds or nap in the sun.

I don't know how much longer I'll blog from the Rainbow Bridge but I know I'm going to stick with it for a while, to help my humans transition to my replacement---they can't be without a dog in the house for long. My mom even called the place where she saw the schnauzer puppy a few weeks ago and he's still there. Mom told Dad, "That's a sign we should have him." She taking him to see the thirteen weeks old fuzz ball tomorrow and I'm going to tag along in spirit. If they bring him home, I'll blog for the little guy until he can take over this page for himself. In the meantime, Jason and I are going to go pee on some pine trees while our little princess sister sprinkles fair dust as she follows us around. ©

Cooper

Beloved, Furry Son of Don and Jean

June 1, 1992 to April 24, 2008

The Rainbow Bridge Poem

Can be found at

https://www.rainbowsbridge.com/Poem.htm

My Fire Hydrant

A lot of you dogaroons wanted know how I came to get my very own fire hydrant. I have my dad to thank for that. He used to be a crazy collector guy when we first met….I'll explain more about that later.

The September after my adoption, he and my mom took me on a vacation all the way from Michigan to Colorado. I was three months old and they wanted me to be comfortable so they rented a rolling dog house to keep me cool and give me room to run. It was twenty-four feet long and it even had a people bed and bathroom inside. By the time we'd gotten the Indiana state line, my mom was sick of refilling my little water dish and she said if I was going to keep sitting in it and splashing water I might as well go all the way. So my folks bought a big, deep dish pan, filled with water and I played inside of it most of the way out to Colorado.

Back in those days---before Dad got the rolling chair---he collected memorabilia from old gas stations. Porcelain signs, oil cans and bottle, pumps, give-a-ways, road maps and other stuff from the 1900s to the 1940s. So every where we went on that vacation he'd stop at flea markets, garage sales, and auctions looking for stuff. At one antique shop he got it into his head that he wanted a parking meter but the one he saw cost too much so he started stopping at small town municipal places until he finally found one that sold him four old parking meters. Off we went with those things taking up space in the middle of my rolling dog house floor.

We didn't get very far. Just as we were ready to turn back out on the main street my dad noticed a field covered with old fire hydrants and he did a U-turn right in the middle of the intersection. Long story short, he bought me a big hydrant and another smaller, antique one for himself. I actually pee on mine but he just looks at his. Humans, go figure.

When we moved after my dad's stroke my mom made the movers dig up my fire hydrant and plant it in my new outdoor space--it's got a foot and a half foot pipe that goes in the ground. My old space had some nice scrubs around the hydrant, as you can see in my puppy photo in the right hand column. My new space is kind of boring but it does have a white picket fence on two sides. My mom says it isn't fair that she always wanted a picket fence but I got one first. By the way, she wasn't too happy about hauling two fire hydrants and four parking meters all the way home from out west either, but I guess they grew on her. She saved both fire hydrants and one meter from getting auctioned off when my folks did our major downsizing a few years back.

Some people say I'm a spoiled dog. What do you think? I think I'm just a normal, well-loved four-legged kid.

Oh, if you noticed the hole chewed in my lattice work to the left of the fire hydrant, I didn't do it. The yard rabbits did. My mom used to worry that it was my black friend with the white stripe down her back that did it. Boy, was Mom happy the day she saw a rabbit shooting out from under the desk. ©
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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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Daddy's Little Service Dog

Something bad happened to my dad just before my seventh birthday. He went away for three months and when he came home, he couldn't walk or talk. He's had a chair on wheels every since and it didn't take me long to figure out that I could walk right underneath it. That route came in handy as a shortcut. Dad and his wheelchair take up a lot of room and he likes to park right in doorways which once made my mom say she wished she could do my trick. I don't do it much anymore, now that I'm pushing sixteen, but it sure made my dad laugh back when I was younger.

So that's how it came about, my switching from being a mom's boy to being daddy's helper. From my seventh birthday on I took it upon myself to keep Dad company whenever he sits in his La-Z-Boy. I think mom felt abandoned at first but she said Dad needed me more so she got used to it. It also became my job to make sure that Dad felt needed. I did that by making him my exclusive go-to human for treats. That was clever of me, don't you think?

But my most important job involved that circus trick I told you about in my last blog entry---walking on my back legs. Dad did learn to stand up again and once a day he leans on a metal stick and tries to see if he can walk to the kitchen while my mom follows close behind with the wheelchair. He wobbles and he's very slow but I do my best to encourage him. I stand up straight on my back legs and hop backwards as he steps forward. Now days, I can only go about five or six feet before my arthritis kicks in but Mom and Dad appreciate that I still try to help. I probably shouldn't brag but I once heard Mom tell someone that my Dad's physical therapist got goose bumps when he heard about me helping dad with his homework.

I'm not a certified service dog but I'll bet I could be...if only I could learn how to reprogram the TV remote when Dad drops it on the floor. ©

No Tutu and Rhinestones for Me

I joined the family seven or eight weeks after my predecessor died of cancer and once I heard my mom tell my dad that she had gotten me too soon. She hadn't finished mourning Jason, a twelve year old beige poodle who passed over to the other side while still in her arms. He was a skinny rack of bones by then and they say he was a wise old man all of his life.

With all do respect to the dead, Jason couldn't have been very smart. Back then, my mom had a book on how to train poodles to do circus tricks and he just went along with the program. I'm told he'd jumped through hoops, rolled over on queue and could do the obedience training routine in his sleep. Yadda, yadda, yadda. That's just wrong. Dogs---especially macho dogs like me---aren't supposed to be counting with their paws and playing the shell game with humans. Not me. I was smart enough to call my time my own and do what dogs are supposed to do. Make trouble. They even called me the Trouble Bubble when I was a pup. I'm kind of proud of that.

The only circus trick I didn't mind learning was walking on my back legs. That was fun and it earned me another neat nick name. Back before I became sway-backed and pot-bellied I was lean and lanky and dad said I looked like the Pink Panther when I'd walk around on my back legs, my front paws dangling precariously in front of me. He called me that for years. I didn't walk that way to please mom and dad. I was up there looking to see what was on top of the tables. It was also the best way to follow flying insects around. One time mom purposely let a fly in the house for me to play with because, she said, it was the only thing that kept me busy and out of trouble for any length of time. Those were the good old days before arthritis got to my joints.

Looking back over my puppy-hood, it's been one helluva ride and I think I've lived longer than Jason did because I didn't brown nose as much when it came to learning circus tricks. Working for your kibble ages you and if a poodle isn't careful he'll find himself wearing a tutu and a rhinestone collar. My folks didn't make Jason wear those things but he sure had a lot of sweaters when he died. ©

Photo: poster from allposter.com

Me and the Bees

The first time I discovered bees they were coming out of a hole in the ground. Those curious little creatures caught my attention with their buzzing and I wanted to see where they were going down there. I dug and scattered dirt in my wake and still I couldn't find the bottom of the hole, but those bees were getting a little testy with my presence. So did my mom when she saw what I was doing. I found out later that she's allergic to bees, which I gather is a bad thing, but even still she didn't need to do what she did.

Mom took the garden hose and was spraying me and the bees with ice cold water while she literally yanked on my chain to reel me in like a fish on a line---and just when I was starting to have fun with my new playmates. I thought for sure when my dad rushed out to get into the action, he'd be more understanding. Dad's always been my go-to man when I want to play. But he apparently hates bees more than my mom because he took a can of gas out of the garage and did something that to this day takes the piss and vinegar right out of me when I think of the carnage that followed. Dad poured gas down the bee's hole in the ground then took his cigarette lighter and lit it on fire. I never saw those buzzy little creatures in my territory again. ©

Painting: Fire on the Hill by Anchise Picchi

My Doggie Shrink Sessions

Did I ever tell you about the time I met a pack of German Shepherds and a shrink? It happened out in the sticks and my dad said the place looked like a Paramilitary or Michigan Militia compound. It wasn't, though. As near as I could figure out, the guy who owned the place trained dogs who needed to work for a living. My vet had sent us out there to meet who my mom called Dr. Spock of Dogdom. He was an animal behaviorist who specialized in problem dogs. At nine months old, already I had earned that label even as tiny, cute and cuddly as I was. I had completed puppy pre-school and obedience training but my mom was getting worried because when I played I used to bite all the time, among lesser offenses in the world of humans.

Dr. Spock of Dogdom was the sternest person I ever met in my whole life. None of my puppy antics could make him crack a smile. He asked questions about my birth mother---he called her a bitch and I didn't like that very well. He wanted to know about my adoption day when I was just barely five weeks old. Then he had my adoptive mom show him what we'd learned at obedience school and how we played together. I even had to mix it up with some German Shepherds puppies and God, let me tell you that was the scarcest moment in my young life! I didn't like the canine mixers at obedience school much either. To me, humans were a lot more fun.

Mom told him about my worthless time-out cage and he told her about a shock collar he could use if I didn't straighten out by my next appointment. A shock collar! I could tell by the way a few of those German Shepherds reacted to those words that I didn't want one of those 'shocky' things. That's when I decided to pay attention to what this guy had to say for fear my parents would leave me there to learn how to be a junk yard guard dog or something more ominous than that. Working for my kibble didn't have much appeal to me plus those big dogs could have eaten me for breakfast and still been hungry afterwards.

At home over the next month my adoptive mom practiced what she called her 'alpha dog voice' and I spent a lot of time in my time-out cage. Back then, I wasn't too sure if Dr. Spock had given mom any better advice than the obedience instructor had. The woman had my mom bite me whenever I bit her. I never did get the point of that exercise and mom seemed embarrassed when she had to explain why I was covered with lipstick. But finally the principle of 'cause and effect' did kick in and I figured out if I bit mom I couldn't spend as much time in her company. I love my mom.

By the time I had to go back to Dr. Spock he pronounced me improved enough that we didn't need the shock collar. Thank heavens. Even as well behaved as I was that day, he still didn't crack a smile. The German Shepherds seemed happy to see my again, though, but I was sure glad I never had to visit those big guys or that stern shrink ever again. ©
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Purple Nose Syndrome

Last year my mom took me to the veterinarian's office because the whole end of my nose was a bright purple. "It's a fungus," he said and he went on to say that the cure was worse than the disease and not to worry about it. He was a quack! A couple of weeks later I went to my canine groomer and after my bath, she picked all the purple stuff off my nose and she showed it to my mom. I could almost see a light bulb go off her head when Mom made the connection that the matted stuff from my nose was exactly the same color as her new chenille bathrobe. I know she figured it out because when we got back home again, Mom washed that bathrobe a zillion times. It made a difference but I can still find a purple dust bunny under the bed once in a great while. Mostly, though, the dust bunnies are bland colored and they're not nearly as much fun to chase as the purple ones. Whenever I sniff them out, sure enough, the next day my mom picks my nose as if I were a baby or something. How embarrassing! Then she clucks like a duck saying it's time to vacuum again. ©

Mother's Little Helper

I get into so much trouble and half the time I don't even know why---like today. My dad had diarrhea and since he's wheelchair bound, he didn't have enough time to make on the toilet before it hit. Mom got him in the shower and was trying to get Pop's poop cleaned up off the floor and the wheelchair but she's so inept that she got it on her sweater sleeves and everywhere else but the ceiling. Boy, did that smell good! I was happy to be in the room.

Then mom took the gel pad off my dad's wheelchair and leaned it up against the wall and I thought, "Oh, boy, she's going to let me help clean up the mess." I was licking away while my mom showering dad's butt off when she saw what I was doing. And instead of praising me for being such a good little helper, she yelled at me! What in the world is wrong with that woman? She's too old for PMS. She snapped off her rubber gloves, telling my dad she didn't want to get poop on me as well---as if I'd care, it smelled so good!---and she grabbed me by the collar, making me leave the bathroom.

So now I'm pouting in my bedroom-slash-the laundry room and wondering why she didn't use the 'S' word even once while all this was going on. I don't understand the subtle nuances of when and when not to say the 'S' word. Mom says it all the time, but she tells Dad he can't. ©

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. ©

Bad Ticker Times Two

Mom put an ugly winter coat on me today and took me to the veterinarian's office. I wasn't sure I wanted to go after the conversation I over heard at home. Mom was telling dad that I probably won't live the year out with my heart problems. Dad's got the very same problem but she didn't tell him that he was going to die soon. What's up with that? I'm in better shape than he is. I might have a bad ticker and a little arthritis that makes my joints not move so good, but he can't even walk. I'm sway backed, but he takes ten times as many pills as I do.

My mom is making me crazy. One minute she seems sad about my health and the next minute she's planning my replacement. She even told the veterinary that she'd get one now---before I'm even gone!---if I hadn't peed on a puppy that some friends brought to over to the house a few years ago. Well, he deserved it. Why doesn't anyone understand that? He smelled too much like liver paste.

The vet and my mom talked about my heart, my kidneys, the lump in my groin, and my appetite. How embarrassing it was to have that woman feel me up as if I was a rag doll with no underpants on! Then she handed my mom a bottle of Enalapril pills and a bill for $80 and my mom said she was glad to get out of the place for less than a hundred dollars. I don't understand what all the fuss is about regarding medical bills but for some reason my mom wishes I were on the same insurance plan as my dad. ©

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. ©

Cardboard Prison

I've always been a busy dog---some might say a naughty dog---until this last year when my heart started acting up. I'm 15 ½ years old but I still feel like a puppy inside. I still want to pull toilet paper through the house but when I walk from the kitchen to the bathroom I have to stop and rest half way. Man, that's a long way to go just to cause a little trouble. So, I've been known to pee on the carpeting instead. That seems to do the trick to get my mom running around like a crazy creature looking for rags and a big red spray can that she uses to re-mark the spot that I just did. Why does she do that? I mark. She marks. I mark again. I may be old but I'm still alpha leader in our pack and I can win any pissing contest. Well, almost any. My territory is three steps down off the deck and sometimes I have trouble in our Michigan winters getting down there and... well, accidents happen.

Yesterday my mom spent a long time lining a huge cardboard box with black plastic. I didn't know what she was making but I had an awful feeling it had something to do with me. At bedtime I found out she did have something sneaky up her sleeve. Mom closed me in the laundry room with the ugly black box blocking the door to the rest of the house. I think she thought I was going to pee in it but I fooled her. I waited until morning, until my dad moved the box, and then I peed on the Linoleum in the kitchen.

I like sleeping in the laundry room but I hate being barred from going into the rest of the house at night. I can't look out the dining room door to see the rabbits eating bird seed at midnight. The snow banks are so high next to the deck that they can run right up them to get to seed my mom throws out for the birds. I think one of night raiders is the rabbit I found hidden in the flowers last summer when it was still a tiny baby. ©