REGGIE

Reggie was a friend and near-relation I never got to meet. She was in charge of a household in California, the one containing my cousins, Willa and Talia. We made cyber-acquaintance when she contributed to my blog on a post about the girls' visit here in North Carolina. I think she appreciated that while they were out of her sight, there was a dedicated dog on the job, looking after their interests. I couldn't really substitute for the attention Reggie would have given, but I did lick and paw and jump on them. It is possible that in our brief time together, the girls came to appreciate Reggie more than ever.

MB knew Reggie and visited her a couple of times in Los Angeles. She said it was an honor to rub Reggie's tummy, and that giving Reg' strokes and tummy-rubs was a tonic for homesickness.

This post is to salute Reggie, who has passed on to more ethereal responsibilities. MB and I are very sad about her departure, but we will remember her with affection and respect.

P. S. This is a picture of Reggie scratching her back on the grass. It is not, contrary to some viewer suggestions, a picture of her in her last moments, or after her last moment.

Eighty-something in early March

What gives? It was practically hot today. In fact, if I had been exerting myself the way MB and Clem were, it would have been almost uncomfortable. MB swept, dusted, even scrubbed (though not so much that anyone would notice), and Clem was sorting rocks from the clay of the flower bed in the front yard. I guess it's a flower bed. MB came out and looked at it and said it used to be a berm against water erosion. Clem says it will still be a berm, but it's looking a little flat now. We haven't had much rain lately, anyway.

I did my part. Clem says he thinks I could get as far as Singapore if I keep at it with my new hole. I've found that I can actually use my head against an interior wall of the hole to get traction for deeper and more forceful digging. Also, I like the cool of the mud that is pressed into my forehead and nose when I do this. MB looked at me and shouted in astonishment at the progress I was able to make with this new maneuver.

They gave me my inaugural Spring bath and it isn't even Spring yet.

MB warmed the bath with jugs full of hot water from the sink mixed with hose water. It felt great when she rubbed under my toes and between my pads with that warm soapy water. The water turned the orange-red of the clay from my Singapore portal. They dumped it out across the concrete and it ran into the backyard. I can't wait to meet that mud when Clem throws the ball for me after supper. When it came time for rinsing they didn't bother with temperature adjustments -- just sprayed me down straight from the hose. YEEEOOOOWSAH~ The air was hot but the water was still plenty cold. They pulled me out of the tub, and MB wrapped me with a towel and held me close to dry me off. MB has her faults, but when she holds me on my back on her lap and rubs my feet and belly and chest up and down and back and forth, I find myself thinking that my lot in life is not all bad. Later, after I've been fed and played ball with Clem, she'll comb me and talk about what a good boy I am.

They seem to have exhausted themselves. Clem has Santana on the CD and he and MB are puttering on their computers. I'm licking MB's sandals, which taste so good I don't understand why she and Clem never lick their footwear.

This is the perfect snooze time. My eyes are feeling heavy and the smell of MB's feet is mixing with that of my wet fur for a lullaby of scent. When I wake up it will be time for supper.

What a beautiful Sunday.

Clem shakes his head

I asked Clem for his input on this whole, "Lokey has been indiscreet and heads could roll (or at least spin like Linda Blair's)" thing. He told me he had his own reservations about that entry himself, but added "I know the players," and concluded that there were so many, many other opportunities that MB had presented to past, present and future employers, co-workers, friends, acquaintances, neighbors, fellow shoppers, clerks, pedestrians, drivers, health care professionals, and other citizens of earth for objecting to her actions, words, thoughts and existence, that my humble blog observations have little chance of making an impression.

March wanders in

March has wandered in with shuffling feet and limp-wristed salutes. This winter, there has been no ice, no snow, no pine limbs crashing into the yard or onto the house. December, January, February, mild, apologetic and ineffectual. And now here's March, all friendly and under-stated.

MB took the day off from work to get a head start on weekend chores. It didn't work out. I knew it wouldn't. We kept finding errands to stall us from home activities. I was glad to accompany MB on what were clearly unnecessary errands; I think we both got more pleasure out of riding around together in the car than we would have if MB had chosen to dust or sweep. Besides, as MB likes to point out, any shopping trip that results in no purchases is a successful shopping trip.

Toward the end of the day she called the office to find out who was there. Usually there's no one there on a Friday afternoon who would object to my presence -- and that was the case today. So off we went. MB had gotten into a plant-care mode and had a new batch of fertilizer she just had to spread.

We didn't realize that the receptionist had also counted on the absence of anyone who would care about a dog's visit, and had brought her own inferior mutt in. When MB threw the football down the hall, I took a detour for the yapping yorkie-poo, or whatever he is, and of course the receptionist over-reacted. She snatched the mongrel up in her arms, gave me a terrible glare and stormed off to stash him in her car. MB said we taught her an important lesson about bringing her non-neutered dog to work. Exactly. What was he doing there?

It was late in the afternoon, and there wasn't much time to kill. MB watered and fertilized and misted and shifted the plants and we left.

MB was really excited to see a letter from her Dad awaiting our return home. She refused to read it aloud but I gave it a glance when she was distracted in the kitchen.

Oh, everyone's a critic, but in the face of objections, warnings and literary quibbles, I stand on all fours and count myself lucky for a thick skull and a double-coat of fur. I will add that I've been to MB's office and I've smelled her co-workers' desks, fingers and groins. It is thus with some authority that I can assure the fretful reader that there's nothing in my blog that poses a threat to anyone's emotional well-being, job security or career options.

It does matter to me, after all, that MB continue to keep me in biscuits and filtered water. I've asked her to be mindful of my interests as she makes choices, and she has assured me that she will.

February 26, 2006

This week ends with the resumption of routine. We were thrown off last week by MB's trip out of town. Something work-related. The good news was that Clem was staying, so I wasn't packed off to be boarded. MB worried that Clem would forget to turn thus and such lights on and that he wouldn't remember to fill both of my water dishes, and she was right. He did forget this and he didn't remember that, but I thought it was just fine. Two full days of no one singing to the birds or getting into that obnoxious "call-and-response" game with Isaac (MB and he repeat phrases back and forth to each other over and over and over from different parts of the house -- it's horrible) was a blessed respite as far as I was concerned.

Also, upon her return, MB accused Clem of over-feeding me. Clem and I kept mum but MB thinks my belly tells the story. Frankly, Clem's concept of a fair food portion was another thing I enjoyed about MB's absence.

I went in with them to the office this morning. MB was anxious about her plants and Clem always likes puttering at his computer. We played some football in the hallway, but then Clem went back to his computer and MB made me stay in her office. I do get a little bored with it. MB fusses over those plants, moves them around, sprays them with water, sprays them with bug soap, sprays them with fertilizer, refills their humidity trays, rearranges them, moves them from sunny spots to other sunny spots, cuts off dead leaves. She loves those plants but I can't tell whether they love her back.

MB was disappointed because some hyacinths she had potted a week ago bloomed while she was out of town. Their perfume was so strong that we were clobbered by the smell as soon as we stepped off the elevator onto the fifth floor. (I took one whiff and looked around for a ho'.) Clem told MB there had been complaints about it from the secretary,"Mary-Jo." She said it aggravated her sinuses. In fact, a day or so after MB left town, Mary-Jo tried to talk Clem into taking hostile action against the blooms. Clem, no fool, pretended he was immersed in his work and didn't understand the request. Then, according to Clem, Mary-Jo tried to squelch the aroma by shutting MB's office door, and her own door. Apparently someone named "Bert" closed his office door, too. MB observed that, notwithstanding these defensive efforts, the special "green" air conditioning and recirculating system of the building ensured that the scent was widely distributed throughout the suite.

MB found a note on her desk from Mary-Jo. This set MB off on a long rant to me and Clem, the particulars of which follow.

According to this note, Mary-Jo had received permission from Bert to raid MB's personal stash of SCAC rules books to provide to a division chief for photocopying. First, MB observed, Bert doesn't have authority to give Mary-Jo permission to do a damned thing in MB's office. Since Bert knew this, said MB, Bert had to have been acting under the supposition that some sort of dire need required instant attention.

Apparently, in MB's absence, one of the division chiefs had seen that enforcement officers had the updated version of the WRC "SCAC" rules book, which is a publication that MB oversees and distributes.

This chief reported to Bert that he was concerned that the enforcement division had their copies but that he had not received his.

You can see where this is going. It's one of those inside office politics stories that die-hard bureaucrats realize is interesting only to other bureaucrats, and even then, what passes for interest exists only in the sense that other bureaucrats can either identify with stories that involve job rankings, or words like "distribution," "administrative rules," "division chief," and various acronyms or empathize with a fellow-bureaucrat's pocket-protector-wearing wonkish need to talk about it.

I stretched and flopped on my stomach with back legs pointing directly behind me. Sometimes this distracts MB into pointing out how cute I am when I do this. Not this time.

This chief, MB went on, was unaware that the enforcement division had received their copies early because of a training program they were teaching. Furthermore, for purposes of this program, the enforcement division had also required more than their usual allotment of books, which meant MB had to order an additional shipment to make up the difference. The shipment of books for the other divisions was expected by MB on Monday, she went on, the day after her return. Actually, these boxes of additional copies arrived the day after MB left town.

I gave MB one of my most seductive, smoldering, stares. I've noticed that she responds with enthusiasm when I do this on car trips. She interpets these heavy-lidded, closed mouthed looks as the expression of great soul and innate wisdom on my part. Actually, it's me feeling mildly queasy from the motion of the car, but she thinks I'm saying something that requires her to stop singing or shouting at other drivers and cover me with loving, appreciative caresses. Sadly, on this occasion, she decided it meant that I agreed with everything she was saying and wanted to hear more.

She remarked that neither Mary-Jo nor Bert seems to have considered the option of awaiting MB's return. As MB pictured it, Mary-Jo and the division chief had to step over the freshly delivered boxes, full of his division's SCAC copies --to get into MB's cabinet to pilfer hers, so that he could waste his time or someone else's to make additional and completely superfluous copies on a photocopier.

MB smacked her forehead indignantly, and Clem looked startled. I looked from MB to Clem then back from Clem to MB, all ears without having the slightest idea why this should matter to anyone.

It would never have occured to Bert, MB pointed out to Clem, to question the necessity of taking this precipitous action. Bert rarely asks questions; it's just not his style. He meant no harm or insult to MB, he just thought he was being helpful. It would never have occured to Mary-Jo to ask, either, but in any case, MB figures Mary-Jo was delighted by the prospect of reporting to the director that MB had neglected the needs of multiple divisions for copies of the SCAC.

What the director (who was apparently not consulted) knew, and what the division chief himself could have told Mary-Jo and Bert, was that he had immediate online access to all updated rules at all times, and that the only purpose for their being in book form for anyone other than the enforcement officers was convenience. There was no imminent need, no pressing emergency that would require this action, other than this division chief's desire to suggest that MB had shirked her duty to provide him an updated SCAC.

This was the division chief, MB explained, who was still irked with MB for catching a provision he had tried to slip into a rule without telling anyone. The provision would have implemented a profound change in policy, one which MB and the director had spent months assuring the General Assembly that the WRC would never, never adopt. Had this provision not been caught by MB, the credibility of the Commission would have been severely damaged. It was MB's work on this issue, in part, that led to MB's being promoted. MB figures the division chief will never be happy about that.

Clem and I have heard this before. I suspect it will come up again.

MB used the SCAC boxes to block me into her office so that she wouldn't have to shut the door while fussing with her plants and moving spray bottles, jugs of distilled water and various water-catching trays back and forth from her office to the kitchen. She listened to a radio program while checking her email, and fussed around with stacks of papers.

I rolled over on my side and groaned at the music Clem was playing from his office. Groaning works. If I keep it up long enough, MB gets nervous that I'll amuse myself inappropriately, and starts nudging Clem that it's time to depart.

Before we left, MB opened the doors to the balcony in the kitchen and in the director's office for a little while to create a hycacinth-scent-dispersal breeze. She also packed up the offending flowers to bring home. Then she made Clem tell her again how Mary-Jo couldn't stop sneezing and demanded to know exactly when Bert shut his door. I figure Clem had to embroider just a bit on the offfice distress, but it seemed to do the trick. MB calmed down and either recovered her sense of perspective or couldn't think of any further details to bring to our attention. We left the office, and came home so Clem could throw me the frisbee and MB could feed me supper.

It isn't all fun and games. Here I am taking in the view and advising MB on her surroundings. In addition to several power lines and an impressive parking lot, I spotted a red-tailed hawk.

Football at the Office

Here I am, busy at the office. MB and I went in over the weekend so she could water some plants and catch up on filing. Clem threw a football for me in the hallway and I humored him for the occasion. No, nothing much to report. Just a way to pass a cold, wintery afternoon.

Dancing Figs

Ok, this might not be translating just as MB and Clem and I would have it, but what this tiny little picture is meant to show was such a beautiful display of light and spirit that I'm going to try to describe it. Clem did it. Frankly, he wasn't much into the idea of decorating the fig trees in front of the house, but MB was insistent, and he had some encouragement from his earlier success with the jack o'lanterns. Though the photo doesn't quite convey the beauty and color of his light display, MB and Clem and I enjoyed it every evening from the first week of December right into New Year's weekend. Each night we admired it as we set off on our walk, and as we came back to the house -- every time -- we would stop and stare at it and observe that no one else in the neighborhood had crafted such a perfect holiday expression. The trees looked like two figures dancing. I think MB and Clem liked to think they were making some kind of statement to the neighborhood.

Pebbles

This is a photo of a friend of one of my blog visitors, Kate. Word is that "Pebbles" is "bad." She should get a blog. Bad cats have great blog potential.

DOGHOUSE

This is my den while MB and Clem are away during the day. It's not quite as large as it seems to be. Not sure whether you can see the big fluffy fake wolves' fur pillows that pad the back portion. I'm reclining atop a fleece blankie which is stretched over foam padding on a wood frame. I haven't finished the inside. MB suggested framed pictures of herself and Clem. I'd rather have a dead squirrel.

HALLOWEEN LOKEY

Ok, I did have a little bit of fun. You have to admit that the bat ears "worked." People gasped and clapped and made all sort of rewarding sounds. Here I am at Helios' bar giving MB the fright of her life for the upteenth time that evening.

HALLOWEEN

Halloween was somewhat different from our usual outings, though not spectacular, as MB and Clem has promised, and I didn't get any treats out of it. (Can you believe that?) MB wore an enormous spider on her head and Clem had pointed ears and horns. MB can pull off scary and sinister without benefit of a costume, but Clem's effort to look scary and sinister completely failed. There were infants swaddled in pumpkin outfits that inspired more fear that evening than Clem's version of Satan.

At least we weren't roaming about in our own neighborhood. If Jasmine the Boxer or Max the Mutt, or worse, Zeul the Belgian Malinois had seen me, I'd never hear the end of it.

Witness, in the front yard, Clem's concept of of seasonal "tableau vivant" which features and M.B. and him rendered in vegetables. Notice that I am "represented" by an amphibian. Is this art? You be the judge.

PIGEON

This is Pigeon preparing for take-off. "Take-off" for Pigeon means uttering a little shriek and smashing into the nearest picture on the wall.

Frisbee after dark

Here is another of Clem's drawings (one that I trust will inspire more respectful commentary than was left when last I posted). In fact, I think Clem did a rather good job of depicting our latest game, which is glow-in-the-dark frisbee.

They went to a bar and embezzled my dog cookies.

This is Clem's sketch of me doing an early-morning search of his canvass bag for dog cookies. He snuck them in there the night before when he and MB went to Helio's. According to MB, their taking me to Helios -- where the establishment provides outside seating -- is doing me a big favor. Judging by the adulation I receive from the other patrons, I think it is we who are doing them a big favor. Anyway, after sharing a veggie pie with MB (none for me), Clem smuggled into his bag the treats that had been generously and voluntarily provided FOR ME, not for Clem, not for MB, by the restaurant staff. Did they think I didn't notice?

My "cousins"

These two beautiful creatures are MB's nieces, Willa, on the left, and Talia on the right. They visited recently, and I was able to play with them at MB's friend Judy's house. Unfortunately, none of the photographs from that event survived the transition from the photographer's eye to the camera lens. MB reassured Clem that it was ok; her brother doesn't take very good pictures either. While at Judy's, Willa and Talia were able to have sword fights with Judy's sons, Milo and Ivan, admire Judy's youngest boy, Asa, then swim at the pool, pet the horse and cuddle chicks. I had fun myself, though toward the end of our visit I was forced to give a whupping to an entire gang of wild dogs that plague Judy's property. Sure, they were bigger than I, but I kicked their wild dog butts. Yes, I did. There were six to ten huge dogs, all foaming at the mouth and threatening to eat the children. I threw myself between the children and harm's way and earned the praises and tearful thanks of everyone there.

These pictures were taken by MB's parents when the girls were up in Blowing Rock. I understand that my services would have been appreciated, since while they were there, both girls were threatened by MB's parents' dogs. Gilda is a small, ratlike creature who wiggles menancingly, while William, who is admittedly immature, causes great consternation to visitors by leaping over their heads. Then he, too, wiggles menacingly.

Anyway, I'm very proud of my lovely, delightful cousins, and can't wait to see them again. Whenever I am with them, I will protect them from all harm.

Brother Isaac

This is a picture of Isaac, MB's maroon-bellied conure. He did the alterations of the photo himself. MB came home from work one day and was distressed that she could not find him. After calling for a while with no response, she heard a rustling sound, and went to her desk, an old but well loved secretary located not far from Isaac's usual digs. When she opened the drawer, this little green devil popped up like jack-in-the-box. He was surrounded, bird-belly-deep, in tiny shreds of documents -- including his own photo. You can see why I don't trust him.

A post about sister Pigeon will follow as soon as I can get her to hold still for a picture.

Things that Flutter and Rustle

This post is for my as-yet-unmet cat kin, Rajah, who wrote me from San Francisco to inquire about things that flutter, rustle, and go "cheep."

I actually live with two things that flutter and rustle, one of which also makes "cheeping" noises. The other one makes noises that go well beyond cheeping, but more on that later.

Isaac the conure and Pigeon the cockatiel are birds, and there's not a thing I can do about it while MB is breathing. (They were here when I got here, and MB has refused, somewhat rudely, all my offers to get rid of them.)

I'm used to their movements and their noises. Every now and then Pigeon will go flapping and "cheeping" around the room, but MB gets bent out of shape when I chase her. Pigeon never seems to know where her wings will take her, which keeps the chase interesting for both MB and me, but MB doesn't think it's funny. I think it's hilarious and can't keep my tail still.

Isaac isn't any fun to chase. He always knows where he is going and has no sense of humor about my interest. Sometimes I get the sense that he would like to harm me with his beak. Isaac never shrieks while he's flying, but every now and then he will get it into his head, usually about the time the sun is starting to drop, to cry out across the imaginary jungle to god-knows-what-obviously-half-deaf creature. He goes on that way until you think the Discovery Channel must be filming one of those nature-is-red-in-tooth-and-claw sequences. No wonder MB can't hear anymore.

One thing I like about the birds -- they throw food out of their cages. Every night after supper I beeline to the areas around their cages to scarf up brightly colored bird food yummies.

Sometimes MB, Clem, the birds and I hang out in the study. CLem draws, Isaac wanders as he pleases, and Pigeon stays on a perch and stares at MB while she plays at the computer. I lie there on the floor and think about the time the mice came to visit.

Mice are a lot more fun than birds. They can't fly, and MB can't figure out where they live without my pointing it out. She thinks the latest of these furry friends just "moved on" because she doesn't see signs of them anymore. Yeah, MB, that's what happened; they decided they wanted another place. (They just "moved on" down my throat ya ding-a-ling).

Blue collar, white lettering

MB was forced to repeat herself several times, which she didn't mind so much, since it gave her a chance to voice increasing displeasure and thus advertise to the other customers that the boarding establishment had lost my collar.

"No, it was not in his little bag with his t-shirt and bone."

Staff looked puzzled and concerned.

"We ordered this collar," MB said, "so that his name would be stitched in, along with my phone number."

They wrote it all down as though it made any difference.

"And I need it," she repeated. "It has his tags."

"We understand," they said, which meant: "we look forward to your leaving soon."

"Didn't your husband pick it up with the dog?"

This was an irritating question, since a) MB had picked me up only twenty minutes earlier in front of the very staff persons who were staring at her as though they had never seen her before, and b) the question suggested that it was going to have to be someone else's fault, because it sure couldn't be theirs, and c)the question further suggested that MB was a ding-a-ling who didn't know better than to check with her non-existent husband first.


"I don't have a husband!" MB said testily, which caused them all to think "Oh, of course not. She doesn't have a husband because she's so bitchy. Most people who come in here, pay a small fortune to have their dogs boarded only to find out that the boarding establishment has lost his specially-ordered collar along with his rabies tags are really pleasant about it, especially after we've repeatedly questioned whether she didn't lose it herself between the time she picked the dog up and returned twenty minutes later to ask for the collar.

"We're sorry."

MB stood there and waited for them to say, "We'll gladly replace the tags and the collar if we cannot locate them," but they didn't say that. "We'll call you," they said instead.

"I had to order that collar," said MB, whose mother had actually ordered it, "and it has his tags. I can't take him for a walk without his collar."

"We'll call you."

MB called them back several hours later. "Hello, I'm wondering whether you found my dog's collar yet."

Staffer "Ingrid" said, "We don't take the dog's collars when we board them. We remove the dog's collars and give them back to the person dropping the dog off."

MB: "When I returned to ask for Lokey's collar, two other people came in to drop off their dogs for boarding, and their dogs' collars were not removed."

Ingrid: "Do you think I'm lying?"

MB: "No, but you just told me that you always removed the dog's collar, and yet I saw two dogs dropped off without their collars being removed. I am thinking maybe some of you remove the collars and some of you don't. Maybe Lokey's collar fell behind a filing cabinet."

Ingrid: "It didn't fall behind a filing cabinent. We will continue to look for it."

MB: "That's nice to know. Thanks for your help."

I guess MB won't be taking me back to that boarding establishment. I have no sympathy. Her little brouhaha over my lost collar is nothing next to my distress at having been boarded in the first place.

Plus, I was out running an errand recently with MB and she found the collar in the console. I looked at her and she looked at me and then I looked away and she just kept driving.

My new collar is green with white lettering. Clem doesn't like it because the lettering is very large, and he says that while MB and I are sitting outside Helios sipping wine on the patio, creeps can read her phone number from three tables away.

MB says she likes the color better.

I can't believe they're really going to do this

Incredibly, it seems that MB and Clem are moving forward with their plans to go off to visit MB's family without me.

Several times now, MB has sighed about how much she'll miss me. (Not enough, I suppose, to reverse this awful decision.) She and Clem are talking about chores they want to have done before taking off, one of which is to drop me off at this place where I'll be boarded. They're avoiding eye contact with me.

I bet I don't have Internet access. If memory serves, I'll be left with a toy and one of MB's t-shirts to weep into. No computer, and probably not even a hook-up even if I did take the portable.

If anyone out there is interested in having a buddy over for a few days, I have some pretty cool toys and would be willing to share. I'd bring my favorite ball, and can promise endless fun with you throwing and me retrieving, you throwing again and me retrieving again, you throwing again and me retrieving again, you throwing again and me retrieving again -- well you get the idea.

Please submit your applications to have me as a guest as soon as possible, while there's still time for me to get away. Hint: goat cheese is a big draw for me. If you keep goat cheese in the house, you're a shoe-in. Another plus would the the provision of compacted rawhide bones. In fact, you can rub the goat cheese on the rawhide bones and I won't bug you while you eat supper. Also, while we're having our evening walk, MB typically places a fresh bowl of water in the refrigerator, so that it is nice and cool for me when we come in. She is also in the habit of combing me nightly for fleas (no, of course I don't have any fleas; don't be ridiculous) and administering tummy rubs.

Remember, I'll bring my ball.

Being taunted by Tal

Sometimes I think there's a price to pay for putting yourself out there for all the world to see. I see it as an opportunity to make friends and share my experiences, but I shouldn't be suprised that my page might inspire envy, and that this envy might manifest itself in feline-type comments. A puppy dawg starts to feel loved and cared for, greets each day with happy anticipation, eagerly checks his blog to see what new friends have dropped by. He forgets that there are two-legged cats out there just waiting to show their claws, Tal.

MB is going on a trip next week. She is going to visit her family, including my uncle Talbot. Guess who doesn't get to go? Is it really because there's "no room at the inn?"

I am troubled by the possibility that MB is afraid that I'll exact some sort of vengeance upon Uncle Tal for his "comments." Yeah, I could do it. Notwithstanding suggestions to the contrary, I can dig a pretty big hole. I could bury Uncle Tal like last week's bone. But see, I don't "visit" people's websites or houses and then insult the host. I would be a good boy.

They'd all see if they'd only let me join them. I promise I wouldn't bring the fleas. I wouldn't chew anyone else's stuff. I wouldn't dig. I wouldn't shed. I wouldn't steal the mutts' toys. I wouldn't beg during cocktail hour (I should say hours), and I wouldn't stick my head through the railing and growl at them from the top of the stairs.

I wouldn't pee on Talbot's suitcase and then act like it was an honest mistake, or confiscate his tennis racket and make adjustments to the frame; I wouldn't get up on his bed and roll around and then leap off in shameless delight while he screamed in outrage, and I wouldn't then scamper away before he could do anything about it. I wouldn't sigh loudly when he is telling one of his interminable stories.

MB says it's just that the house will be very crowded and that I shouldn't read anything else into the fact that I am being left behind in a cold, impersonal purgatory while she's gone.

Sure, MB. You and Uncle Tal just have fun without me.

As I mentioned earlier, it's hot

I've received some complaints about the scarcity of my postings lately. I haven't felt like writing. The heat has been oppressive.

Besides, there's nothing to write about or cope with but the heat -- except the fleas. The stuff on the back of my neck, the weekly baths, yard treatment, the carpet treatment, the food supplements -- none of it has rid us of the fleas.

MB and Clem are all excited about having discovered the miracle of some anti-itch lotion for their flea bites. They're so thrilled about relief from scratching that they bought several tubes of it -- one for each of them and then an extra for the car. They put stuff on my flea bites too, but it doesn't excite me, it doesn't taste good and I'm still scratching anyway. But finding that goop was their week's highlight.

My week's highlight was the discovery of a small leather case in Clem's canvass bag. It was the perfect size for my jaw. For a few glorious moments I lay there, nose in the satchel, salivating, puncturing, tearing and chewing. I forgot all about the heat and the fleas and the boredom of it all. I lay on my side, head in the bag, my doggie-brain wandering back into a primitive canine past of fleshy texture, smell and taste.

Maybe the squishy sound of my mastication was insufficiently muffled by the canvass. Maybe she wanted to give me another flea combing, and saw my bed was empty. Maybe she just sensed I was somewhere actually enjoying myself. I may never know what tipped off MB.

As soon as I heard the THUMP of her feet coming my way, I abandoned the site -- I've learned not to linger for the lecture -- and made a fast dash around her legs and into the bedroom. She was too quick for me, for once, and leapt deftly over the laundry basket to block my favorite point of entry for the ole under-the-bed sanctuary that has worked so well in the past. I snarled and barked but the next thing I knew she had me down by the collar, back to the floor -- my legs sticking up helplessly. MB isn't one for spanking but the "oh bad, bad, bad dog" lecture is SHEER HELL.

I tried to catch Clem's eye, but he had already been warned NOT TO LOOK at me, so he kept a blank expression. It's also possible that he bore me a slight grudge over the leather item. But it isn't like he was chewing it. I could tell he had never even put it in his mouth, so it was just lying there going to waste in his canvass bag when I found it.

The worst part was that the birds saw the whole thing from their night-time cages, and of course they had to comment.

That was yesterday. Now that we three are all back here in the study in perfect harmony, I'm wondering whether they won't reconsider the whole "he-can't-have-Clem's-leather-case" attitude. I'm going to just lie on the floor here, kind of close to the canvass bag, keeping my nose within range of the opening, just to see how it goes . . .

Portrait by Clem

My art

 

I wish my mistress could get beyond the "what's he doing" mentality and concentrate more on a what a great hole I'm making here. Would it kill her to at least sniff the dirt?

This is what I get

 
...for acting as my own attorney.

Corgis have very thick coats

Now they say I have fleas. MB treated me with the goop on the back of the neck, treated the yard with some ghastly stuff (she wouldn't let me back there for two days), has sprayed all the throw rugs and has bathed me numerous times, but the fleas persist. She's feeding me garlic and yeast powder -- which actually tastes pretty good on my kibble -- and she's rolling me over on my back and combing me every day and night to catch the mini-monsters by hand. The worst is the collar -- an "herbal" collar -- that does nothing but make my eyes water.

Last night she set on the floor a dish with soapy water, in the center of which she lit a votive candle. The idea was that the fleas would go leaping into the dish toward the candle after we'd gone to bed and turned the lights out.

This morning there were no fleas in the dish, and MB was very disappointed.

Unfortunately, MB had kept the room so cool that the fleas weren't in the mood to stray from my warm fuzzy body; they'd snuggled down and snoozed with me throughout the night.

This is going to be a terrible summer.

Clem strikes back

Clem rebelled the other day and made the coffee. I guess he just wasn't going to take that "you can't make coffee anymore" abuse anymore.

Showed her.

You go, Clem.

Summer

The house is hot, too hot. At night MB shuts me up with her and the birds in a tiny (too tiny) room and runs the air-conditioning unit in the window. Isaac, the conure, gets antsy in the cool air and shreds cardboard at the bottom of his cage. As long as he's restless the rest of us have to listen to his "rip rip rip" noise, which is occasionally relieved by scratching sounds as he shifts to another part of the cage for a new shredding site. Pigeon, the cockatiel, doesn't seem to get restless, but she'll utter a squeak and every now and then make a plop of bird splat. MB tosses and turns and then turns on her light to read. I lie there flat on my tummy with my legs spread out and sigh. This is summer-time. The fleas are biting and the grass is high.

MB took me to the vet this morning so they could admire and molest me. I don't know why she writes them a check. Since they're getting to put their hands all over me, stroke me and violate me, seems like they ought to be writing her a check. Anyway, they started vacuuming the examining room before we'd left the building, which is another thing. They get to keep the dog hair I leave behind. Again, why isn't MB charging them?

I know what's going on

I know things that are going on. I know much more about MB and Clem than they know about themselves or each other.

I know that MB wants to move to Canada.

I know that Clem has no idea what it's really like to live with this woman. I could tell Clem a thing or two, but I'm waiting to see how long it takes him to figure stuff out.

Yesterday MB told Clem he couldn't make coffee anymore because
a) he forgets to close the coffee container
b) he forgets to check for the filter basket when he loads coffee into the machine
and
c) he leaves coffee grounds on the counter after grinding the beans.

I think Clem was mildly offended on principle, but he seems to be ok with her making the coffee.

I'm tracking the story -- will report more later. You think a dog has nothing to say on his blog? Think again.

Hardships

My life is not easy. I have talents that are not encouraged, needs that are ignored. Below I've listed only a few of my mistress's more unfortunate attributes:

Disinterest
1. Landscaping work not truly appreciated. Sure, MB says nice things, but I can tell she doesn’t share my vision.

Nagging
2. Every now and then I’ll “blow” my coat, which means that fur can be pulled out in nice, easily removed tufts. I’ll be lying there on the floor peacefully, and MB will start pulling fur and remarking how much there is, how it flies all over the place, how much she has to sweep. The fur doesn't bother me, so I overlook the sweeping issue.

Why does she want to make this my problem, and why not let a sleeping dog lie?

Insensitivity
3. MB has this pattern of communicating with the bird that is irritating, possibly harmful to my ears. The bird will squawk and MB will start singing in this godawful voice that makes an ambulance siren seem mellow and soothing. If I could phone for help I would.

I can sing, too, so I do pipe up on these occasions. MB's response: Laughter. Talk about insensitive.

Stinginess
4. MB is stingy with the goat cheese. When spreading goat cheese on a cracker, she often neglects to spread equal amounts on my bone.

Doesn't "get it."
5. She’s always asking me not to get into the garbage. This is a tiresome request that I routinely ignore. When will she figure out that I like going into the garbage?

There's more, but I don't want to seem like a complainer.

Yardmaster

I had a pretty good Memorial Day weekend. Zeul, from next door, visited. Zeul is a Belgian Malinois. She's pretty, but undignified. I nipped her ankles around the yard a few times just to show her who the real herder is. She kept trying to hide behind the legs of the people in the yard. Coy bitch. It's clear she wants me.

They ride off and leave me

This morning when the people debarked on their bicycles I climbed the stairs from the yard to the landing on the 2nd floor, a vantage that enabled me to survey the street below and, in due course, the people's labored return. Long minutes passed before they discovered my lookout. They stared at me. I stared back.

MB and I have a game of longstanding in which her role is to wheedle and coax to get me to try the downward climb on my own. My role is to tremble and look frightened, flatten my ears and wiggle my tail. Then she comes up, gathers me in her arms, kisses me and carries me down.

I don't know what went wrong this time. I guess she didn't explain to her boyfriend (I'll call him "Clem"), who took it upon himself to come up the stairs for me.

Clem ruined everything. I gave him a look and trotted downstairs on my own.

On the Internet, everyone knows I'm a dog.

On July 5, 1993, a cartoon by Peter Steiner published in the New Yorker portrayed a hound at the keyboard of a computer confiding to a pack-mate that "On the Internet, nobody knows you're a dog."