Things I'm not so fond of

Well, I'm a pretty good dog, and I don't complain much. Most of my posts have been about stuff that I like. But I don't like everything. For example, I really hate this one Great Dane that walks by my house. I don't know why I hate him. I've never even met him (or her), but I get so angry when that GD GD struts by with his so-called family. I definitely don't like getting my toenails trimmed. I prefer to go au natural and let them grow long. Well, that's enough complaining for right now. Mostly I like things and am a happy dog. /psm

I must surf

You've heard of my love of swimming. Another favorite pasttime of mine is surfing: countersurfing.

It's not just that I enjoy standing up on my hind legs and scrounging for food on the counter--it's that I must do it. My Mom yells at me, but I take no notice. Her threats have no effect on me. I must sniff around on the counter, even though I rarely find anything. When I do find something to eat, though, you can be sure it's down my gullet faster than you can say Rumplestiltsbone.

It's not as much fun when only Dad is at home. My surfing doesn't seem to bother him as much. What's really no fun at all is when neither of my parents is at home. They think I don't countersurf unless someone is there to watch. Are they right? Well, that's my secret. They may find out, though, if Dad ever gets around to rigging that Webcam in the kitchen.

Walkie-Talkies

A year or two ago, my Dad got a pair of walkie-talkies when he opened a new bank account. (Rumor has it that he opened the account primarily to get the walkie-talkies.)



At first, it seemed that these GE brand walkie-talkies were of very poor quality. Their range was only about 200 feet. But that turned out to be due to weak batteries. Despite the fact that the battery meter showed they were fully charged, the batteries were in fact not up to snuff. With fresh (and warm) batteries, the walkie-talkies turned out to have a range of about half a mile.

But the question was: what to do with them? The answer was that they turned out to be useful on those occasions when my sister ran away. Of course, a serious dog like myself would never run away. What's that? Oh, I wish you hadn't mentioned that. That was a long time ago.

Mom and Dad take the walkie-talkies to the dog park. When one of us runs away--that is to say, when sister Juno runs away--Mom and Dad coordinate the search via walkie-talkies. They also come in useful when Mom runs ahead. (Dad also runs, but not at dog parks. He believes that running and dog walking are separate activities. I wonder if this is because Juno and I like to stop and sniff every 10 meters?)

Mom just got one of those new radio phones that everyone's talking about. I think they call them sell-you-all phones. Now she can call Dad on her own phone when Juno gets lost and Dad is not at the park with us. Previously, she used to have to borrow a sell-you-all phone from a stranger. Maybe Dad will get one of those phones too, some day. He says he's waiting for the concept to prove itself.

Sticks in the yard

Over the last year or two, I've developed a real taste for sticks.



Well, actually, the taste for sticks goes back a ways. For years, especially during the winter, I have been amusing myself by chewing on pieces of wood from my toy box. I don't understand why my parents fill up my toy box with crud like Kong toys and special rope that's supposed to floss your teeth as you chew it. It makes it more difficult for me to get at the pieces of wood.

But what I'm referring to here is the big sticks in the yard. These days I'm particularly fond of a 10-foot branch that fell off our silver maple tree a month ago during heavy winds. (There was also a tornado in the neighborhood. Thank goodness it didn't hit our house--it might have sucked all the water out of my pool!)

My favorite activity with sticks in the back yard is chewing off any small nubs that may be sticking out. Even a half-inch nub from a broken-off sub-branch is good enough. The nubs are also good for dragging the branch around the yard. 'Course, only a skilled dog like myself could drag around a 10-foot stick around the yard by a half-inch nub.

True, the nubs are handy for dragging the sticks around. But they must go! Sticks should be perfectly smooth. Any deviations from smoothness will be attacked by me most vigorously. I'll show those German Shepards who's the serious dog around here!

"Wait a minute," says you. "Are they sticks or branches? Seems to me a 10-foot section of wood 3 - 4 inches in diameter ought to be called a branch."

Well, says I, call it what you will. A big, powerful dog like myself will refer to it as merely a stick.

"Big, powerful dog eh?" says you. "What kind of a dog runs away from the stick fearfully when it falls on the ground and bounces?"

Gotta go, says I. I think I hear my mother calling.