RickinNYC
DIS Veteran
- Joined
- Apr 22, 2003
- Messages
- 7,870
Bill, our loveable yet temperamental, constantly smiling yet always STARING, lazy but you-gotta-play-NOW-NOW-NOW-NOW, half black lab and half corgi mutt, has chosen yet again to bring me to new levels of befuddlement I've never thought possible. He's a dog for cryin' out loud. Sure, I may have mistaken my carry on for him, yes, I may have embarrassed him by walking him about the neighborhood in my boxers, but he's a dog. How he is able to make me want to sell him to the gypsies for pocket change and old Richie Rich comic books, yet still want to have a throw down and cuddle on the living room floor is beyond me.
Last night I was washing the dishes after a great dinner. Joe was at the table chatting on the phone while I was scrubbing away at an encrusted casserole dish. Bill, meanwhile, was pacing frantically around my feet, grunting in irritation that I hadn't given him a treat at this point. His Beggin' Strips, ridiculously overpriced organic hand made by friggin' angels peanut butter bon bons (I didn't buy them, JOE did) and Milk Bones (those I bought, Joe not so much) are stored in tupperware containers under the sink. Bill immediately feels if you are standing within a five foot perimeter of said sink, it is your responsibility to give him a treat. The very idea that I was standing right AT the cabinet door, my knees bonking the woodfacing, was apparently just too much for his little doggie mind to fathom.
So what does he do? He plops down to the left of me, sits up on his hind legs, forepaws crossed cavalierly in front like a mini T Rex, his big rootbeer brown eyes sparkling in anticipation, mouth agape, tongue lolling about, his breath huffing out in deep gasps of excitement. I ignored him, my hands were covered in soap suds and soggy burnt up mac'n'cheese goo. So he moves to the other side and resumes position, this time much closer, with a slightly less sparkly eyed look. I ignored him again. He chooses that moment to sloooooowly lower his forepaws to the floor and glare. He moves back to the left side and glares and pads back over to the right.
Realizing I was completely ignoring him, Bill once again lifts up, sitting as pretty as can be, eyes ablaze with indignation, and he gives a slight woof huff sound, opens his mouths and utters a plaintive but clearly irritated wooooooo! noise. I look down and tell him, "Bill, leave me alone." That usually makes him walk slowly away, tail down, huffing to himself about how life was so unfair. This time, for whatever reason was pinging around his big dog head, he chose to ignore me. Eye for an eye I guess, eh?
So he moves back to the left side, stands up on his hind legs like a miniature pony flailing its legs into the air, but in slow motion. Any loving looks he might have had, any glances of adoration or respect, any big goofy doggie grins were absolutely gone. This dude meant business. He was looking straight at me, standing up tall and strong (up to my waist or just shy of it actually), glaring with every ounce of dog spirit he could muster and he slooooowly leaned in and WALLOPED me in my particulars! The dang dog hit my.... unmentionables!!!
I was so stunned and not in just a little bit of discomfort, I almost dropped the stupid cheese-burnt-on casserole dish. Joe, still on the phone, muttered "what the... hold on a sec... Did he just hit you in the..., the... just to get a treat?"
"YES!" I grunted.
Joe's reaction? "Well, you better give him one then, and you better make it snappy!" to which he sealed the deal with woops of laughter as he relayed what happened to who ever he was talking to. "Our dog just kicked Rick in the ----!"
Bill, on the other hand, was now sitting quietly, tail lightly thumping the refrigerator behind him, smiling his doggie smile, waiting for his treat with patience and an evil glimmer. What could I do? He trained me well. I gave him a stupid Beggin' Strip.
Last night I was washing the dishes after a great dinner. Joe was at the table chatting on the phone while I was scrubbing away at an encrusted casserole dish. Bill, meanwhile, was pacing frantically around my feet, grunting in irritation that I hadn't given him a treat at this point. His Beggin' Strips, ridiculously overpriced organic hand made by friggin' angels peanut butter bon bons (I didn't buy them, JOE did) and Milk Bones (those I bought, Joe not so much) are stored in tupperware containers under the sink. Bill immediately feels if you are standing within a five foot perimeter of said sink, it is your responsibility to give him a treat. The very idea that I was standing right AT the cabinet door, my knees bonking the woodfacing, was apparently just too much for his little doggie mind to fathom.
So what does he do? He plops down to the left of me, sits up on his hind legs, forepaws crossed cavalierly in front like a mini T Rex, his big rootbeer brown eyes sparkling in anticipation, mouth agape, tongue lolling about, his breath huffing out in deep gasps of excitement. I ignored him, my hands were covered in soap suds and soggy burnt up mac'n'cheese goo. So he moves to the other side and resumes position, this time much closer, with a slightly less sparkly eyed look. I ignored him again. He chooses that moment to sloooooowly lower his forepaws to the floor and glare. He moves back to the left side and glares and pads back over to the right.
Realizing I was completely ignoring him, Bill once again lifts up, sitting as pretty as can be, eyes ablaze with indignation, and he gives a slight woof huff sound, opens his mouths and utters a plaintive but clearly irritated wooooooo! noise. I look down and tell him, "Bill, leave me alone." That usually makes him walk slowly away, tail down, huffing to himself about how life was so unfair. This time, for whatever reason was pinging around his big dog head, he chose to ignore me. Eye for an eye I guess, eh?
So he moves back to the left side, stands up on his hind legs like a miniature pony flailing its legs into the air, but in slow motion. Any loving looks he might have had, any glances of adoration or respect, any big goofy doggie grins were absolutely gone. This dude meant business. He was looking straight at me, standing up tall and strong (up to my waist or just shy of it actually), glaring with every ounce of dog spirit he could muster and he slooooowly leaned in and WALLOPED me in my particulars! The dang dog hit my.... unmentionables!!!
I was so stunned and not in just a little bit of discomfort, I almost dropped the stupid cheese-burnt-on casserole dish. Joe, still on the phone, muttered "what the... hold on a sec... Did he just hit you in the..., the... just to get a treat?"
"YES!" I grunted.
Joe's reaction? "Well, you better give him one then, and you better make it snappy!" to which he sealed the deal with woops of laughter as he relayed what happened to who ever he was talking to. "Our dog just kicked Rick in the ----!"
Bill, on the other hand, was now sitting quietly, tail lightly thumping the refrigerator behind him, smiling his doggie smile, waiting for his treat with patience and an evil glimmer. What could I do? He trained me well. I gave him a stupid Beggin' Strip.
Then she looks at me like "What the heck do I have to do to get a treat around here?" I mean, that was her entire repertoire. 
