the long and pokey road

Hee hee, yep, the doc called and gave us the all clear yesterday to release this little hound. We will take things slowly and of course be mindful of his jumping about, but here's hoping that baby dog's days of waking up with his mind on set on freedom are over for a very very very long time. :)

lessons from the pokey warden - lesson 1: never show the inmate your escape route..

A happy skippy little boy met me in the middle of the hallway upstairs, a sure sign that somepuppy has been keeping tabs on his mom and dad while he's been in the pokey.  Watching and learning with one eye open all while he was pretending to sleep under cover of warm blankies, woozy and sluggish from muscle relaxers and intellectual under stimulation.

"baby dog!", I did declare to the happy-to-be-free dogggie before me. "How did you get out?"

Baxter's tail wagged proudly as I kneeled down to scoop him up and put him back in the pokey that I had only moments earlier set up in his dad's office so I could get dressed and buy a few goodies to pimp out tiny chumley's zippy trailer.

Oh there it is, I realized when I put the little kielbasa back down and he started again in the direction of his path to the promised land where freedom reigns and walkies happen every day.  The ex-pen walls I had set up amidst all the boxes that were awaiting a trip to the thrift store had unintentionally created a mini funhouse maze, a perfect  lowrider pathway for little pent up doxies anxious to stretch their legs and roam free again.

This was, actually, mostly my fault. Baxter's new found maze management skills, that is. For days now we have been able to get by with sloppily placed walls and giant gaps and haven't had to worry at all about the little kielbasa actually busting out.  The trick, I knew, was in keeping things seemingly precarious enough so that Baxter wouldn't even try to nudge at things, as strong as his skitter instinct is.  But all the lifting in and out of the pokey has taken a bit of a toll on me ergonomically speaking, and so these past few days I've been moving parts of the gate like a fence so I could get in and out more easily, and sometimes yes, encouraging him to take a step or two down the maze-like path of freedom so that I could more easily pick him up and take him where he needed to go.  Little did I know how this would sharpen somepuppy's stealthy navigational skills.

So now the walls are much better secured for my little pokey break puppy.  No gaps, no connections to make hidden pathways to the promised land.  But the whole experience makes me wonder, what else has he learned while watching me through the golden wires of his pokey prison walls?

pssst - can u keep a secret?  don't tell mom but i know where she keeps the snackies by her desk and i know where mister tiger goes to sleep when we are not playing with him!!

where toyfriends dare

(whispering) pssst - hey, duk duk! i got the ipad u baked in the cake u gave me yesterday but i do not know how turn on the netflix. maybe we should get lil pink puppy to squeeze thru the pokey bars with chocobot bcuz lil pink puppy is the only one who knows how to work this thing and then by the time u climb over we can all start watching and hopefull finish before mom gets home.

  hurry up duk duk, wonderpets is starting and it is the one about the unicorn!!

um, pardon me, but besides not telling mom about this, u r welcome to join us but before you do, would you please close the curtains so we can see the screen a little better? thank u :) :)

poopillon

dear diary,
well it is my fourth day here in the pokey and bcuz he is lying right next to me i am whisper writing to tell you a very big secret.  r u ready cuz here it is - not only does he snore really loud and steals your kibble when u r not looking but scooby doo stinks at solving mysteries.  especially ones that involve getting u both out of the pokey if u know what i mean.  so next time if u ever have an opportunity to choose your pokey mate, think twice about choosing scooby doo.  and even though she is a girl u might want to pick strawberry shortcake bcuz at least she smells like strawberries and cake.  which is more than i can say for useless scooby poopie bottoms doo.

anyhoo, i hope u r having a wonderful sunday and i promise 2 write again soon.

toodley-doo!
b. :)

the poopie dumpling gang

 



 


well boys, i see we have ourselves a bona fide d-i... d-i-l-l-i...no, no, wait, d-i-l-i-m-m-u-....i see we have ourselves in a fine predica-dica-dookiement we do.  chocobot, how's about u trade in them keys u found for some grub for us whydontcha and in the meanwhile me n duk duk will think up another way to bust me out of this here pokey..

- baxter 5.25 years old, upon realizing he probably should have paid more attention in his spelling and vocabulary class, and that the keys his poopie dumpling gang rustled up to break him out of the pokey won't work without a keyhole to put them in.

chopsticks please :)

 

Hee hee, yeah, somebuddy is feeling better, and he has been loving his six times a day fauxshimi mini meals.  :)

mom, even though my tummy is feeling better now and we agreed i would slowly try my kibble again, may i please have at least a few more fauxshimi mini meals bcuz me so wants to learn to use chopsticks and i will wear a napkin n everything!

tummy war

my unhappy tummy
woke me up early again.
guess i will eat grass.

- baxter, 5.1 years old, now resting comfortably and reflecting on his yacky sunday morning.



It's a bit of a puzzle really.  The little kielbasa's whole yack business this weekend that came with rather unfortunate timing as there are so many factors to consider. The tasty forbidden bunny poops of spring time.  The transition from both old can and bag of food to new ones.  The tiny tomato past its prime.  His willingness to stand out in the cold wet backyard to graze on more grass. His otherwise fine demeanor and ever bright eyed desire to consume tasty tiny bites the foods he loves, save for the new kibble that was willing to eat yesterday with some mild convincing, that he now most vehemently schnubs. The fact that he had cha-chingy overnight stay at the emergency vet for hemorrhagic gastroenteritis, or HGE,  roughly four years ago. The only time since he was adopted that we were separated for the night.

It's the HGE that really has me in overthink mode.  HGE is one of those things that happen without much firm root cause and there are lot of suspicions as to what might cause it. And of course in the past few days, it seems he has had opportunity to come in contact with all the prime suspects.  My worst and possibly uneducated theoretical concern? That if I don't manage the morning empty tummy yackies, if his tummy stays empty for too long,  all the gurgly acid that his tummy seems to produce in protest would make its way down his digestive tract, and all that extra acid in an empty environment would trigger the inexplicable bloody horror of HGE.  So giving his tummy something to do after a morning yack is critical.   Job number one.

Normally a few bits of kibble does the trick, but this past weekend the kibble he so normally gobbles down without a thought has been spat back out.  At first, I wasn't sure if he was schnubbily protesting the lack of fishy kibble that I had sprinkled in the old bag.  But this morning, even after his kibble container was thoroughly stunk up with the stinky turkey patty I left in it overnight, his tummy told him to  schnub his kibble while accepting eagerly licking at the spoon of wet I subsequently offered him.   Okay, that's it. Tummy you win.  Let's try a different bag of fresh kibble, and yep, let's get some white rice too, just in case.

Tiny chumley is snoozing comfortably by george under cover of blankie as I write this, and really he seems no worse for wear, no different than any other day at this time.  But as he sleeps, as his dad is off to get a new bag of kibble and a small bag of white rice, I wait.  Wondering what next his tummy will choose to do, and wondering what I will do next.   

the tushie man cometh

Tiny chumley's ever twinkly halo of lucky charms and green clovers took a temporary tumble off his head yesterday, falling to the ground with a giant thud the moment he saw the big white van pull up and stop.
  
nooooooooooooooooooooo, the little kielbasa barked in protest as he sensed this familiar impending doom. it is only april and i do not see the tushie man and his lady for another six months!

Baxter, of course, was right.  He wasn't due for his annual checkup til October.  But yesterday was special.  Yesterday was rabies shot day. And despite the fact that everything went quickly, and no tushie invasion was required, and friends were made again all around, the little kielbasa still decided to voice his discontent one last time after left the van and reached the top of our driveway.   Barking, in no uncertain terms, that it was time for this unwelcome disruption to his day to come to an end.  And guarding his precious tushie all the while.


it's been great, come back again - when pigs fly.  hasta poop-ego. don't call me, i'll call u.  uh-reeve-uh-poopies! smell ya later!

curr tailed

Our first dachshund Digger was always a spry little fellow, robust even in his old age when I knew him and all we really worried about we minor health concerns in the grand scheme of things. Bad breath, an occasional ear infection, the mysterious bulge in his cheek which we thought might be a tooth problem but proved at the vet's office to be nothing more than his secret squirrel food pack. And this, the little nubby dry end of his tail that sometimes needed a little TLC when Digger's happy tailthwacking into walls and legs and furniture disturbed the tiny scabs on the relatively bald tipped end of his tail.





Digger's follicle challenged tail tip was a reminder of an earlier incident in his youth when his tail wasn't fast enough for the closing door. I am told that not soon after it happened, swelling caused the hairs on the tippy tip of his hurting tail to poofter out and then the hair on the last inch or so of his tail grew sparsely after that, but I suspect Digger's pain long subsided before that of his dad. Nobody likes to see a dog in pain, much less be the cause of it.






So making sure a little dog and his tail are completely out the door before we close it is always something we are mindful about doing, but maybe a little less so when the weather is weird and blustery and it's raining and it's o-dark thirty in the morning.  Which is how both our hearts sank the instant we knew early yesterday morning that tiny chumley's  tiny yelp meant that his tail also fell prey to the tail munching door.  Only thanks to Big Boyfriend's quick reflexes, tiny chumley's tail was barely munched at all, and other than being minus one morning poop and pee from being so rudely awakened, the little kielbasa and his happy tail are no worse for wear.  Crisis curr-tailed.  :)

it's beginning to smell a lot like christmas

With the furnace purring away and the house now a balmy 66 degrees, life on the inside has thermally gotten back to normal. Which somehow made me think more about the outside, and how our light jacket, squirrel chasing, paw washing days of November may soon be over.

I peeled back the roof from tiny chumley's igloo.

blink. blink. what'd u do that for?, the chum wanted to know.

"It's time to chase some squirrels!" I told him, and headed for the back door, listening to the sound of tags jingling behind me.

Brightly colored leaves gently wafted down to the ground while Baxter chased the squirrels from the birdfeeder, and for minutes we basked in the glory of autumn.

There was enough going on that Baxter didn't feel urge make progress on Project Down Under, the archeological dig that he rather frequently mines to test his theory that squirrels live underground.

No dirty dig dug paws yet - maybe I shouldn't push my luck, I thought, and whistled for him to come back inside with me.

Exhilarated by his romp, tiny chumley happily obliged.

Odd, I thought as Baxter trundled in. Why doesn't he smell like sun baked dog? And why does it suddenly smell like Christmas in here?

Baxter pressed his ears back in semi annoyed fashion as I sniffed him over, his little twinkly happy rays slowly fading as I tried to find the source of his holiday odor.

Paws. Front paws.

And there it was. Sticky, gooey pine tar. On fur.

my new cologne mom! u like it?, his eyes asked optimistically.

Yes baby dog, but let's go get some cooking oil and a washcloth, shall we? Cuz little dachshund paws and pine tar really don't belong in a sentence together.

mister beefy

Twenty two pounds. My jaw nearly dropped to the floor when I heard the vet tech call out tiny chumley's weight on Friday. The last time he weighed that much, tiny boyfriend was our little mr jigglypuff, our chubby checkers, our newly adopted boy whom we immediately put on a diet and exercise routine to lose the four pounds he needed to get to his then ideal weight of eighteen pounds. The last time he weighed twenty two pounds? Almost three whole roly poly years ago.

I was kinda shocked, but then I started thinking. It wouldn't have been the first time that wiener weight would have gotten away from us. Every doxie we've ever owned seems to have enjoyed a period of obesity, that blissful time in their lives when we lose perspective and their sad puppy dog eyes and sometimes outright demands yielded them a bounty of snacks and treats. Fattened, so much so that they looked butterball turkeys disguised in smooth red fur coats, ready for roasting and so generously marbled that they would most definitely be the self basting variety. A momentary lapse that we always managed to correct once the blinders were taken away from us.

But with Baxter I figured we were more aware, more vigilant to that kind of thing. We limit his snacks or at least make up for it at meal times, we go walkies and let him romp in the backyard, we train for his meals. Dang. Maybe I wasn't subtracting enough dry kibble when adding his nightly scoop of fiber and wet food. But how could I have missed this?

Busted, I sheepishly asked how many pounds Baxter should shed.

"Maybe a pound, but he's not far off from where he should be really."

What? Three years ago we were told he should be around eighteen pounds.

"I can feel his ribs and he's not got much of a belly. That extra four pounds is muscle weight," said the vet.

Wow. Wait, what? Muscles? On a dachshund? Our dachshund? The new Mister that's-not-junk-but-muscle-in-my-trunk? I looked down at Baxter, who seemingly gave me a wink before happily trundling off to investigate all the strange smells on the exam room floor. Twenty two pounds. The new weight standard for my beefy four legged boyfriend.

total recall

A curious email in my inbox notifying me about a pet supplement recall prompted me to check out the details at the FDA website. Possible salmonella contamination for all the supplements listed here. Thankfully, Baxter's joint supplement was not on the list. Whew.

But the moment of heart palpitations I felt while scanning the list made me realize I could do a little better on staying informed, do better than relying on word of mouth, or curious emails that could have ended up in my spam folder. So I signed up to receive FDA emails for product recalls and safety alerts. The least I can do, I figure, to make sure this little boy stays bright eyed and waggy tailed.

grooming is for girls

Unlike Kep who could sit in my lap for hours while I flea combed him, loving every minute of all the massaging and luxurious handling, the act of grooming isn't something that Baxter believes to be a good use of his time. Sure, I will sleep by your side for hours, he says, and I will even let you dress me up however you want, but sittin still just so u can comb me with that thingy? No thanks. Groomin's for girls and besides I got bunnies to chase.

So that is how it's been these past two years groomingwise, nightly teeth brushing, bi-weekly pedicures, occasional baths and ear cleaning, but no combing. Til one day recently when I found him repeatedly nibbling at himself after a romp in the backyard. Not just an itch, I realized.

I reached in the drawer for Kep and Padua's flea comb and went to work on my restless boy.

Twenty minutes passed before I found the offending tiny bug, and by that time I had amassed a rather large fluffy ball of short red fur and dander. Almost enough for a newborn baby brother for Baxter, I realized. Okay, low maintenance boyfriend, mr. groomin's for girls, we gotta do this more often. Maybe I can find him a brush with flames and daggers on it.

cold turkey

Apparently all it takes is an office visit to the vet to quiet Baxter's digestive system. That always happens, doesn't it? The vet had asked that we submit a new log lotto ticket within 24 hours, but other than an early morning soft n stubby that I figured was still residual from his "mixed" diet, Baxter's bottom didn't produce a ticket of any sort yesterday. A sharp contrast from these past few days when we were graced with tickets not once but four, maybe even five times a day. How dare his bottom turn me into log lotto junkie only to shun me once I became addicted?

Tiny chumley took advantage of his frequent outings, making himself a blur as he bounded about chasing squirrels while I stood with ziploc in hand, anticipating the log that never came. Still, a memorable and happy day for our boy, who achieved a new personal best of coming to within a doxie's length of the enemy thanks to the squirrel's indecisiveness for evasive action.

log lotto

Amidst all the consternation of these past few weeks getting ready for shows and holidays and visitors, Baxter's digestive system must have decided that it, too, needed some attention. We were oblivious at first to the gentle pleas it made last Tuesday, manifested in a slightly gassier and noisier pup who would make slightly grunting old man noises as he sometimes does when we pick him up or move him, only this time with more frequency than usual. Weird but kinda cute, we thought, and went on about our business.

Phase two of his digestive system's efforts to get noticed worked like a charm on Wednesday evening, as Baxter's bout with HGE has trained us to be wary of loose stools. Did he snarf some decaying delicacy when we weren't watching the last time he hunted in the back yard? Did he find a morsel of something one of our houseguests accidentally drop? Whatever happened, we knew we had to work to bind his stool and hopefully stave of digestive disaster. Ratios of wet to dry, of fiber to water, of overall portions and timing were all managed over the next four days in hopes of satisfying Baxter's digestive system's need for attention.

With each mealtime experiment, I began to notice that taking Baxter out back to do his business felt more like watching the lotto draw to me as I stood there, eagerly anticipating every inch of stool the way a ticket holder holds out hope with every powerball number drawn. Every inch of stool was a number on my special lottery ticket, and I would win if Baxter's colon gave me a string of numbers that were all nicely formed, finely colored, and firm. Four times a day and inch by inch, my hopes would either raise or fall and I would adjust the ratios and timing of his diet accordingly.

By the time Sunday closed, we were feeling cautiously optimistic that we were close to winning the jackpot on Baxter's log lotto. But, alas, by Monday morning the bright pinkish red streaks in Baxter's stool told me we could no longer manage our trials without some professional input.

"Slightly odd in consistency though parasite free and with traces of undigested rice" is where we currently stand after visiting the office of our backup vet, who dutifully dissected and inspected the stool samples we brought back to his office when an invasive sampling provided little to inspect from our empty boy. Most likely Baxter did get into something that didn't agree with him, which only made me more determined to one day mount a video camera on his head so we can review footage of his comings and goings during times like this.

We left the vet's office with orders to discontinue the fiber and feed him only dry kibble, in frequent and smaller amounts, and watch for any serious changes in his stools like a large amount of blood, a change in color to dark almost blackish stool, vomiting, or a change in Baxter's chipper and hungry demeanor. And by all means, provide another stool sample in the next 24 hours. Yessssss, I'm sure Baxter's digestive system proclaimed in his best Napoleon Dynamite voice. Another person to play my game of lucky log lotto.



So today, it's all about tiny kibble meals and quart sized ziplocs. Little boy seems no worse for wear, save for the odd poops. In fact, he's been rather chipper, if not inquisitive. I'm sure he thinks we're nuts, fussing about his behind and the stinky stuff that comes from it. Who knew, he'll think, that my poop is so wonderful that mom wants to bag it and give it to people as gifts.

dissed mistuh

With Baxter's ban from hunting still in effect for at least another two weeks, squirrels now brazenly loot our backyard. In gangs of at least five or more, they take advantage of our hero's restriction and work through the day, scouring the earth for acorns and leaving numerous potholes in the leaf strewn ground while they randomly dig for their nutty treasure.

It used to be that squirrels started running the minute they heard the back door open, but now they continue their work without even looking up. Their safety flight zone, once a respectable ten feet with visual contact or fifteen if they only heard the approaching sound of rustling leaves, has now been reduced to three before they half-heartedly scamper away from our backyard protector.

I am not sure what hacks Baxter off more, the fact that he can't hunt them, or the blatant disrespect they now pay him. Either way, there will be a day of reckoning for these bushy tailed hooligans. Order must once again prevail. Respect must be restored.

ooky oogly googly

In light of recent events, I am convinced now that some hypochondriacs may just merely be misunderstood. That they are just impatient people who wanna fix their problems now, even before they occur, so they can stop worrying about it. That they should really just be called overgoogliacs. Take it from me, who is now googling the daylights out of "ringworm" and "ringworm disinfection".

But let me rewind.

It's no secret that Baxter did something to hurt himself the day he happened to be hunting squirrels. Whether it's muscular or disc related, the little fella had something going on, and for precautionary measures we've been doing our best to restrict his activity without resorting to strict confinement, all of which is in line with our vet's instruction. I know because I worried about it all night a few days ago after researching IVDD on the internet, and called the vet first thing the next morning.

Since Baxter's vet visit, what I haven't mentioned is a slight return of Mr Stinkybottoms, the silent stalker that makes his less-than-pleasant aromatic presence known often while Baxter is asleep. Yikes, I wonder, should we have gotten his anal glands removed after all and if it really does make sense in the future to remove them, how do we factor in Baxter's possible disc problem? More googling on anal sac disease and expression motivated my call to the vet two days ago, who graciously told me to be patient, to wait 3-4 days to see if his glands settle back down from the stress of his injuries and the visit.

Then I catch Baxter scratching at his left ear, the one that always needs more cleaning than the other. And he is overdue for that very thing. But dang considering Baxter's neck issues should I subject the fella to something that's going to make his head shake all around? But if I don't clean it will he end up with an ear infection? Third call, and yes the answer is wait.

Late yesterday as I was giving Baxter a general looksy in the warm afternoon sun, I notice a unusual spot that I've never seen before. Poke at it with my bare hands. Sorta raised, dark areas don't wash off. Think about whether or not it could be the result of hard hunting in the backyard. Take pictures. Touch my face.

I carry Baxter back downstairs where my merry-go-round of impatience is granted another big whirl when I google canine skin problems. Hm. Come on now, really? Ringworm. You know, Baxter was licking at something in that general area. Incubation period roughly two weeks. Like...when Baxter was at the dog park?? Immediately, I call the vet and email him pictures. Take extra vitamin D. Scrub my hands under hot soap and water and scratch at my hairline, which has gotten significantly itchier than I remember it. Think about all the places Baxter has been in two weeks, then contemplate bleaching the entire house and all its belongings. And once again I wait for the vet to return my call.



In times like this, Google is my friend, yet it is also my enemy. Here at my fingertips is the ability to become both appropriately informed, and inappropriately informed. To take a shred of fact, and build a world around it of question and worry. With all the molehills that are my googled mountains, there can be no doubt what my halloween costume will be this Saturday. When I ring your doorbell, know that it is I, Girl in Giant Bubble holding Dog in Smaller Bubble. Now give us some candy and bleachwipes, dang it.

this i believe: la cage aux chien

There are certain milestones in my life that I now realize have passed without much notice or fanfare. A car pulls up beside me at a stop light, and I am annoyed by the thump thump thumping of the music blaring from its youthful and oblivious owner. "Turn it down or you'll lose your hearing," I think to myself, forgetting what it was like to be young and eager to prove to the world my coolness. "Don't you have any respect for others at all?" I wanna scream to that guy with the utmost of fist-shaking, finger-wagging authority. And that is when it hits me. Somewhere on my life's journey, I stopped listening to pop radio, stopped caring about what songs were in the Billboard top ten, and stopped "sharing" my music with the world around me. And frankly, I am happy to have passed that milestone. I am happy to have moved on to the world of public radio, taking all my gray hairs, shaking fist, and wagging finger with it.

For me, the radio station that I listen to now is a reliable source of well crafted programs which often fuel my imagination and inspire me. Listening to NPR is how I stumbled upon the This I Believe Project, and how I've carried a slow burning torch ever since then to discover and verbalize my own life's mantras.

Now, don't get carried away and think I'm a zealot. It's me we're talking about here, and I'm the kind of person that spends some time every day ignoring the world around me in favor of writing about my dog, or pretending I'm my dog writing. That doesn't leave a lot of room for ultra-any kind of thinking, if you know what I mean. Although some submitters choose to put a more spiritual or religious take on their essays for This I Believe, and although some submitters who famous people like Helen Keller and Eleanor Roosevelt who have recorded their essays, This I Believe courts anyone to share with the world their story, their perspective on what they believe, a core value, no matter how small, that guides them through their life. Elvia Bautista's reading of her essay on remembrance of the fallen was my first taste of this world, and it made me hungry for more. Listening to the writers in two more essays, Be Cool to the Pizza Dude by Sarah Adams, and Leaving Identity Issues to Other Folks by Phyllis Allen, sealed my aspiration to write as succinctly yet as impactfully as they did in their essays. Sure I like This I believe for its content, but I love the eloquence and succinctness of these three essays. The soul that comes through in their voice when they read their writing.

And so on random occasions, when nothing else is there to clutter my mind, which is hardly ever, I think about what drives me. Hopefully I can say this without sounding morally devoid, but it ain't so simple, finding that nugget of wisdom. I've been aware of the whole This I Believe thing for at least five years now, and I've got nothing. But leave it to a little brown dog and a half-baked project to yield a tiny nugget. Something that gives a tiny voice to a part of me that otherwise guided me in silence.

It all started with blogfriend Jen, who asked on my inconvenient truce posting if prints could be purchased of the Baxter Bunnito collage. I hadn't poked around on Baxter's Zazzle shop in quite a while so the timing was perfect. After adding more images and offerings, and maybe because I was still procrastinating about making more purses, I acted on a whim to offer up some snarky larky magnets, to share little nuggets of Baxter's wisdom for the world to enjoy, one refrigerator door at a time.

The magnet project is still a half-baked diamond in the rough, but amongst the trite Baxterisms, I realize there is something there that I do believe, but sadly sometimes forget to do in favor of sloth or habit. Make new memories, everyday. My mantra isn't picky, it doesn't require actions that might make headlines on The Smoking Tail or require large sums of money. In fact, the best memories just happen by virtue of being aware, like noticing the tiny whorl of fur on each of Baxter's hind quarters, or enjoying the coziness of all three of us, warm under blankies on a cold rainy night. Remember to make new memories, so life isn't just a blur of action without pause.

I have been feeling for tiny chumley, who is not allowed to for the moment to play with his toyfriends or go on walks or chase squirrels and hunt for bunnies. These are the kinds of cherished memories we've grown accustomed to making with our little boy, the kind of stuff he reenacts in his dreams at night when his little paws thrash into our backs while he "mwoofs" after the squirrels that run from him in his sleep. Now, with Baxter's movement restricted, we are challenged to find different ways of feeding Baxter's memories so they can live on in his dreams.

My actual This I Believe essay may never see the light of day, but I am grateful to have given voice to this one little mantra. Make new memories, everyday, even if it means risking ridicule from your neighbors for putting your dog in an elevated cage by the front window. A little Tweety Bird, watching the world go by once again so he can keep dreaming of chasing squirrels.

ants in my pants

dear diary,
so i helped mom put my toyfriends away and have been trying to be a good boy about not running around too much. most of the time it's okay cuz george is on and i'll just sleep, but you know with all that sleeping, well, sometimes it seems like i got ants in my pants and i just gotta shake em out, know what i mean? i mean, i'm only like almost three now and i'm not goin on any walks and i can't kill my toyfriends and i know there are squirrels out there that totally need chasing. but now that my kitty perches are put away, i can't watch them from my windows anymore and the only time i get to see them is when dad carries me outside to do my whiz biz. talk about rrrruffff! mom promised she would look into things we can do so i'm not just sleepin all day and getting all antsy-pantsy at night. diary, if u got any ideas of things i can do that are easy on my back, tell me. i got nuttin, other than me eatin rawhide all day and mom looked at me like that would never happen. if a fella can't play, a fella's at least got to eat, dang it.

hey speakin of playin, i am totally looking forward to the day i can meet up with this here oskar fella. mom wanted me to show you a peek at oskar's other harness, an ambery widewale corduroy number that she thought could use a little pizazz with a small touch of red. just enough to scare away the winter blahs, which i can totally relate to right now. mom likes to think that if oskar's other harness is what astro would wear if elroy took him to the jet screamer concert after party, then this amber one is what maybe the professor from gilligan's island would wear if he were back teaching classes and maryann dressed him. a class up north or at least during winter, because like the other harness, this one is lined in flannel, too.



so that is it for today. i hope u are having a super swell day. me, i mostly plan to sleep. if i do get more ants in my pants, well, maybe i can eat them.

toodles!
b.

snoozing and sewing

Tiny chumley is sleeping quietly today, lulled into a trance by George's gentle warm breeze. It's another one of those days where it seems like nothing is wrong with him at all. Yet I'm sure he still wonders what all the fuss is about, why his kitty perches are turned on end and his toyfriends are tucked away for safekeeping. Why dad went on walkies without him yesterday. Why we'll be going for walkies today while he sits in his crate. But despite these changes, he's been content for the most part to lie quietly on the floor, on his blankie and sheepskin, and for that I am grateful.

Baxter doesn't care much for being away from the action, even if the action is only the sound of a sewing machine whirring away or dad talking on the phone. He likes being close. He likes to know what his humans doing. I suspect if he gets antsy as a young dog might, we'll need to set up his crate, but for now and with our vet's blessing, we'll leave our snoozy boy to live life on the floor.

Two to three more weeks. I hope he doesn't miss out on all of autumn, but most of all I hope he'll just stay happy. All little doxies deserve at least that much, no matter how hard their bodies might try to work against to them.

I thought I'd also take a moment today to share some peeks at Oskar's new duds. Busy hands make for a less busy mind, so it's been good to do something other than wait and wonder. Today's peek is at Oskar's blue and winter white houndstooth woolen selection, all finished now and ready to wear. I'm glad I didn't have the indigo denim I thought I had for the binding, as I think hand dyed fabric always adds that much more depth visually. I can't wait to see how it looks on little Oskar.



Tomorrow, a Baxter update, and a peek at Oskar's gold and navy duds.