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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Parrot Puppy

When I was young they nick-named me 'Parrot Puppy' because I had a habit of running up people's shirts to sit on their shoulders. To this day I don't understand why that made everyone laugh. I could see the world better up there and face licking was so much easier. I learned that trick the first time I went to the groomers. Those clippers scared me and it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that I couldn't jump down off the table without hanging myself but I sure could crawl up and sit on her shoulder. For some reason, the clippers couldn't get to me up there.

I've had the same groomer all my life---15 ½ years---followed her all around town. It took me the longest time to appreciate the finer points of getting a haircut and I gave that woman holly hell in the meantime. My mom says the foo-foo shop she works at now is too expensive at $45.00 plus tip but she won't make me leave Marcia. For years, mom and dad said it wasn't fair to Marcia to change groomers after all she had to put up with in my early years. They used to say that Marcia looked like she'd been through a war after cutting my hair. One time it really wasn't my fault, though. I had to poop and she wouldn't let me off the table!

When I got to be around six-seven pounds my mom went on a mission to clip Parrot Puppy's wings. It was quite a test of wills but I eventually let her win because crawling up on shoulders was getting harder to do, being the growing boy that I was. But I didn't forget the skill. Sometime I'll tell you about my run-in with a monster cat. ©

Photos: Before and after my first haircut

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. ©

Poodle Exercise with Humans

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. ©

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. ©

The Talented Mr. Cooper

Typing with paws is a bitch so I'm going to let my mom put some blog entries in here from time to time. The entry below is one of hers....but it's about me, so that's okay. She was having a bad day, but---sigh---I sure had a great time.


Mom Wrote:

The toilet is plugged up. I hate toilets---more specifically I hate new toilets. I never had to deal with plugged up toilets before Don had his stroke and we moved, first into an apartment, then into a brand new home. The apartment wasn’t too bad, they had maintenance and we called them a couple of times a week. I’m maintenance now and we’re on a monthly schedule for fixing plugged up toilets. Had I thought about the fact that we’d have the modern, water saving toilets in our future, I would have taken my old one with me when I sold my house. But I didn’t, so after breakfast I went back to slay the dragon in the bathroom.

Things are going better than I expect them to and I’m thinking I must be honing my plumbing skills and I’m a happy camper…until I go to the bedroom to make the beds. Oh yuck! There on the carpet, in the walk-in closet, is evidence that the dog took a turn at trying to unplug the toilet. “Calegon where are you? I need someone to take me away!” This is one of those ‘damn stroke’ moments that not even a raspberry truffle can fix.

I look around for the guilty party, the one who drags everything illegal into his walk-in cave. I find my sweet little gray poodle sitting on the bed giving me a big brown smile, looking like he just came home from a great adventure. “Pearl diving in a cesspool! Come right on up, all you doggies, lay down your quarters! Canine Adventure Park has a brand new feature! Plenty of pearls left before we flush.”

Canine Adventure Park is getting bigger. They now have: The Car Wash, The Canine Poo Poo Beauty Parlor, The Boys’ Tree Farms, The Outdoor Deck-Jail, and now the fabulous Pearl Diving Tank! Maybe I’ll suggest they need to add Bungee Cord Jogging behind a moving car. Oh, I almost forgot the theme park’s most popular attraction: The Laundry Basket. There used to be a time in my life when finding a pair of purple panties on the living room floor had an entirely different meaning than it does now. Now, it just means that our dear darling dog wants us to see his souvenir from his latest theme park adventure.

Okay, enough gripping about the dear darling dog. I strip the bed of the sheets that were just put on clean yesterday and shove them in the washer. Now, the dog needs a bath, the day before he’s scheduled to see the groomer. I think about canceling that $40 expedition as punishment for Cooper’s trying to change the color of the carpeting in the closet. It’s a good thing I keep a case of Resolve Carpet Cleaning around for times like this. Now, if I could just find a product to wipe the smile off his doggie face; he’s having entirely too much fun today and I’m not in the mood to smile back. I think about going after a roll of tuck tape in the garage and that makes me grin, but there’s probably a law against duck tape on a dog. So, I buck it up and scrub his little face extra hard.

He’s still in the shower when a thought depresses me: I didn’t really fix the toilet all by myself. I was taking partial credit for Mr. Cooper’s talented work.

Jean Riva ©