Mud Puppies

It's good to have friends.

Friends are there to help you have fun, blow off steam, and provide a sense of camaraderie.  In the canine world, friends help with a very important task to all dog owners: they help expend all that pent-up puppy energy that has been building up from laying around on the couch all day.

Granted, these pups don't get out too much lately to go crazy.  It's been drippy and foggy and cold and even the dogs don't feel like hanging out in the yard a great deal.  Sure, we go for daily walks around the creek trail but those are more structured and are my half-hearted attempt to teach them the meaning of the word "heel" (the meaning of which is either not recognized by them or completely ignored on purpose.  I'm beginning to think it's the latter.)  So after what seemed like the 19th or 20th day of having them chase each other around the kitchen and family room (which includes jumping on the couch and ricocheting feet-first off the wall in a dog version of the X-Games) I had pretty much had it.  The sun had made a feeble attempt to peek out through the clouds and it hadn't rained in over a week so it was time to let these guys burn some energy somewhere other than all over my furniture.

Off to the Dog Park!!!

Not being the most social of dogs just yet when it comes to their own kind, they have not gone to the dog park before, as I was afraid of their reaction to the rather exuberant dogs that I have seen playing there in the past.  But at some point in time they are going to have to meet and greet other dogs and learn the proper social etiquette involved.  Their reaction to dogs we meet on our daily walks range from general indifference to abject terror.  Bodie is fast on his way to being a mama's-boy dog (case in point when he cried and ran to me terrified, tail between legs, because he had a "dingleberry" stuck to his backside) and Leila, as always, is the princess of the castle and we are all here merely to do her bidding.   A little friend-time with other four-leggers (with the exception of the family cat who hates everyone) would probably be welcome.

So we bundled up the kids and leashed up the dogs and took off for the nearby dog park.  Along the way I was thinking of what I should do if bigger dogs scare them or if smaller dogs are scared by them.  Should I take off the leashes right away or let them get acclimated first?  What if they both go for a ball at the same time as another dog and a fight ensues?  I swear, you'd think I was dropping my kids off at daycare the way I was over-thinking this.  We got to the dog park gate and I realized my worries were in vain anyway.

The place was empty.

Well hell, this defeats the purpose, now doesn't it!  I wondered why, on this first sunny day we have had in awhile, why other dog owners weren't eager to get out here and run their also-pent-up dogs while they had the chance.  I'm sure my kitchen and family room weren't the only rooms in town waving the white flag.  Even though this dog park is small, I always see dogs in various numbers frolicking about when I drive past.  We go in anyway, figuring that my two can run around freely at will, usually running from or chasing after my 7-year son who is no stranger in the pent-up energy department.  We close the double gates, unhook the leashes, and only then do I notice why there are no other dogs in the dog park today.

The center of the park is one gigantic muddy mosh pit.

I notice this shiny brown mass immediately after the dogs have both run merrily through it and then jumped up on my son, leaving four brown paw prints on the legs of his grey sweatpants.  Wow, dogs with muddy feet AND laundry to do when we get home!  Who's idea was this, anyway?  Oh well, we're here, dogs and kids are running around, I'm snapping photos, and we are trying to make the best of the fact that at least it's not raining.  Moments later, Bodie and Leila bound up to the gate where a woman, her daughter and black labrador retriever have stopped by to visit the park.  Finally, someone else with a dog with cabin fever!  To my surprise, Bodie and Leila are overjoyed to see this new friend and dance around her, tails wagging and happy barks echoing, at Sophie the black lab who has come to play.

Sophie could have cared less.

When my two get their "silly" on, they are hard to ignore.  Sophie managed to do this with little to no effort at all, focusing her attention the woman who was about to toss a tennis ball across the grass.  Sophie took off after the ball, and Bodie and Leila took off after Sophie, not sure of why she was running but hey, she's running!  We should too!  My son took a cue from the obedient lab who brought the ball back and dropped it, ready for another go, and tossed a ball for Bodie to retrieve as well.  He hurled it as far as he could and Bodie just stared in its general direction.  You could almost hear the crickets.  Exasperated, my son jogged off to retrieve the ball, only to be passed up by Sophie running after her own ball, with her two shaggy Bernese shadows in tow.  This continued on for the duration of our stay there, with my two running back and forth for no apparent reason, and Sophie completely oblivious to their existence.  The only one in our family who seems to have gotten the hang of playing fetch is apparently my son.  But hey, they are all running around, having a blast, and most importantly, burning off the cobwebs from the past house-bound days.

When it came time for Sophie to leave, Bodie and Leila walked her to the gate and appeared to be saying their good-byes.  I was glad they had a good time with another dog, even if that other dog did not give them the time of day.  I had almost forgotten about the blackened muddy dog-feet and filthy wet children I would have to contend with when I got home.  Oh well, they all needed a bath anyway, kids included, so we ended our dog park run with a lather-rinse-repeat on the driveway for the pups, so I could actually see their feet were white again!  After a good toweling off and "silly five minutes" run pell-mell through the house, both dogs crashed on the family room carpet and fell into a restful snooze, complete with snoring.  It was a long way to go in order to get a few minutes of peace in the house, but I'll take what I can get!

If you listen really closely, you can hear the kitchen and family room sighing with relief.

The Artist in Residence

Yo people.  Bodie here.

I am quite a patron of the arts.  Some of the great artists of our time create masterpieces out of blocks of marble, some from lumps of wet clay, and others through oils and watercolors.  I like to consider myself somewhat of a Renaissance man, and think I possess a certain "flair", if you will.  But I prefer a different medium in which to bring my creations to life, to put my thoughts on canvas, to carve my name in the artistic journals of our day:

Drywall.

I find I do my best work when the lady of the house (I'll call her "Mom") leaves me alone in my thoughts.  Usually the venue is in the laundry room, where I have created some of my best works.  One of my earliest pieces I like to call "Bodie and Baseboard."  The inspiration for this piece came when Mom went shopping and left us alone for just a bit longer than I was comfortable with.  Notice how the curve of the corner of the laundry room wall makes a perfect platform to carve all the way down to the metal brace.  And those that look closely enough will notice that the baseboard is whittled away all the way down to an exposed nail, for added effect.  I liked the fact that I could lie down while creating this masterpiece, thus causing little or no effort on my part.  Mom must have liked this work in progress, as when she came home and saw it, she clasped her hand to her forehead in an "Oh my God!" sort of movement which could only mean she treasured it as a Bodie original.  She then sprayed bitter-tasting dog repelling medicine on it so I no longer cared to work on it.  That's okay, it was time to move on to bigger and better canvases anyway.  Let the creative juices flow!

Like many of the great artists before me, Rembrandt and Da Vinci to name just a few, I would sometimes start a work and then leave it to my assistant or pupil to complete.  Here is my lovely sidekick Leila who helped me with this particularly satisfying piece called  "It Wasn't Me."  I started the piece but let her join in the fun in order to take the blame...er, the credit....for such a lovely piece.  It wasn't until Mom came home and found chips of drywall in my hair that she realized who the true artist was.  Again, she voiced her pleasure with shouts of "What the hell did you do to my wall?" and "How am I going to fix that before Dad gets home?" and of course my all-time favorite, "@#!^%$*&!".  I think she truly appreciates my talent.

Then again, maybe not.

Like many a great artist who must suffer for his art, Mom tried to quash my enthusiasm by NOT locking us in the laundry room one time, thinking that having more room to walk around might make us feel less stifled and less bored.  She closed off the staircase so we had room to roam and stretch downstairs.  I saw this as a chance to explore new canvases!  This piece I like to call "Kitchen Nightmare."  This stub wall by the cabinet is just the perfect size for me to get my whole mouth around, which only added to the unique texture.  The teeth-striping on the wall was a nice effect, but I added a bit of baseboard-chew just to finish the look.  Mom paled when she noticed the proximity to the non-replaceable cherry wood kitchen cabinetry, thus ending the have-the-whole-downstairs-open experiment.

So it was back to the laundry room for us, but Mom moved the baby gate fortress down the wall just a little, so we had enough room to stretch out but not enough to get into trouble.  Or so she thought.  Here I am with a particularly nice piece called "Bathroom wall?  Don't Mind If I Do!"  This work of art was quite satisfying for me, as I was able to construct on a different-colored canvas than the laundry room and kitchen, thus requiring Mom to have to buy not one, but two cans of Kelly-Moore touch-up paint at a cost of $22 a can, or so she hollered at me.  Mom has an art degree herself, certainly she can understand the need to branch out beyond a monochrome palette at some point!  I added more to this piece later on when no one was looking, just to add a bit of flourish!!

My latest work is a little mixed-media number I like to call "Open The Back Door Now Or A Puddle On The Floor Is The Least of Your Worries." Notice how the tooth-striping is situated at an impossible angle between the door frame and windowsill.  That took some doing.  I carved out a chunk of the windowsill as well, because Mom had not purchased any high-gloss touch up paint for wood yet and thought I would just remind her.  The look on Mom's face when she saw this one was priceless, I have never seen quite that shade of red before or heard expletives linked together in such a manner.

But alas, vandalism of epic proportions occurred a few days later when Dad got home and opened the industrial-sized pot of spackling paste and filled in all my hard work.  The giant white dots that cover the walls now are just not esthetically pleasing!   Mom still puts us in the laundry room when she goes out, although I noticed her trips are markedly shorter now, as she rushes to get back to us before more creations occur.  I think I overheard her one time mentioning "skidmarks" and "take corners on two wheels."  When she puts us in the laundry room now and I stare at the irregular white splotches on the wall that have yet to be sanded, I see what any great artist of my time would see:

Blank canvas!!

Enter the Cone of Shame

No one likes getting surgery.  For most folks, it's uncomfortable, expensive, and requires days or weeks of convalescence and rehabilitation in order to get back to one's former self.  But for dogs, it has an added component to it.

It is quite the fashion disaster.

It's a week before Thanksgiving and since the whole family has the week off from work and school, we figured now would be a good time to take the pups in for a myriad of surgeries we had planned.  It's not like I am a fan of surgery, it's just that I wanted to have them go under anesthesia once and only once, so let's get the whole combo platter now.  We had always planned to have them spayed and neutered, but Bodie was also sporting an umbilical hernia that we opted to fix now rather than when he was younger (again, for the one-anesthesia reason).  Since they were both having a belly-slice in the process, we also decided to do a preventative measure called a gastropexy, an incision that adheres the stomach to the abdominal wall which helps prevent stomach torsion in the case of bloat (another big-dog malady).  Not a great way for a puppy to spend the day but let's get it out of the way and move on, shall we?

The pups love going to the vet's office, as the girls there make a such a great fuss over them they feel like royalty.  Never before have I seen a dog who bounds out of the truck and runs up to the vet's office door, scratching at the glass in order to gain entrance.  If only these two had any idea what was in store for them on this particular visit, they might not be so eager.  But with typical puppy frenzy they danced and leapt all over Alyssa at the front desk and bounced merrily to the back room where we waved goodbye and prepared to see them again at dinner time.

This was a very long day. I paced the floor and worried the entire time, waiting for the phone to ring and for them to tell me all was well.  The vet assured me that the procedures were all pretty routine but is there really such a thing?  Finally by late afternoon we got the call that everything had gone great and the pups were awake and ready to come home.  The only thing on life support at this point was my checkbook. 

When we go to the office we were expecting to see two groggily-staggering, wide-eyed puppies wobble out to greet us, but instead they high-stepped it to the front waiting area and broke into a run when they saw us.  I figured they were probably not supposed to do that post-surgery, but I was so thankful nonetheless.  But as with most dogs who have had surgery or other procedures, they were not only sporting a pink shaved belly that stood out like a beacon against their shiny black coats, but also the most dreaded of dog accessories that man has ever invented.

The Cone of Shame.

Oh sure, the gals at the vet's office dressed up the cone with a jaunty ribbon of cute patterned fleece, but they still looked a cheerleader that had been sucked down inside her megaphone.  The pups, still working to rid themselves of the last of the anesthesia, could not quite figure out where the heck their peripheral vision had gone to.  Had the vet removed that, too?  They could hear each other but not quite see them, so they swung their heads from side to side, trying to catch a glimpse of their sibling and/or us.  It looked like a canine version of Marco Polo.  I asked how long they would have to wear the cones and was told "oh, about ten days to two weeks."  Riiiight!  Let's see how long that lasts!!  Apparently the cone manufacturer underestimated the fact that puppies, not unlike humans, really do not like looking like dorks.

We got them home and they immediately made their way to the family room where their favorite blanket was already laid out for them.  I noticed right off that walking with a cone on your head was a little like knitting while wearing boxing gloves: it's generally do-able, but comical in the process.  Bodie headed into the room first, cutting the corner a bit tightly and catching the edge of the cone on the couch, bringing him to a sudden halt and knocking him off his feet.  He looked in vain for the culprit who would dare do such a thing to him.  I laughed a little at his plight just as Leila, upon hearing my voice, rushes over to me and plows the cone edge into my shins.  Ouch!  Not laughing now, I tell you!  I turn to take care of her and Bodie turns to me as well, ramming his cone into the back of my knees causing me to crumple like a house of cards in a high wind.  By now my kids are in hysterics and I'm crawling to the freezer for ice packs.  This was one side effect that was not mentioned on the after-care form!  I suppose I am being paid back for giggling at their cheerleader wardrobe.  It is, in a sense, their way of saying "nuts to you!" (especially from Bodie!)

The rest of the night was a fruitless effort to get them to just lie on the blanket and chill so they didn't bust a seam.  My daughter attempted to lie with them which worked for about two minutes until one dog decided to sit bolt upright for no apparent reason and try to run to God-knows-where, usually to be stopped by the cone edge catching on something and spinning them around again.  What was a long day was shaping up to be a very long night.  I spent the night lying on couch cushions on the floor with them, trying in vain to get them to sleep.  The tranquilizers the vet gave me to give them did nothing at all (yes, I was tempted to take one myself so at least ONE of us could sleep!) and by the next day the pups were back to their crazy couch-jumping, puppy-wrestling selves: all the things the vet told me to have them avoid for two weeks.

My only saving grace, my only partner in crime to help keep them on the down-low was the same partner that had viciously attacked me on Day One: the dreaded Cone of Shame.  I would take it off the pups occasionally so they could eat, and that's when the silliness would commence.  They didn't seem to have a need to lick at their incisions so much as they just wanted to run.  But the minute that cone was shoved back on their heads and that jaunty fleece ribbon tied, all manner of self-respect went out the window and they embarrassingly moped to the blanket to plop down and glare at me.  It was like some kind of dignity-sucking contraption that even a four-month old puppy knows is worse than wearing white after Labor Day.  If they knew I was posting photos of them in it on the internet, they might never recover from the humiliation.

It has been a month and a half since their surgeries.  Their incisions have healed nicely, their hair has grown back and they are back to their crazy active puppy selves. Only now they weigh in at 50 pounds and when they come running at me and fly through the air to greet me, that cone-in-the-shin pain is the least of my worries!!  Sometimes I feel like climbing up into the attic and retrieving the cones just so I can get a moment of peace from these two!

But just like those paisley pants with the rainbow-striped shirt you wore in high school, some fashions are better left to quietly fade away.  I'm sure Bodie and Leila would agree.

Happy Holidays!

Happy Holidays!

from Bodie and Leila

and The Berner Life family

rip up presents and destroy tree in 3...2...1...

Operation Suds-A-Pup...The Sequel

So, the first time we gave the pups a bath, it was in the kitchen sink and took quite a bit of arm strength to hold them in.  The next time was in the sink again, and this time they were on to our evil ploy and fought back with all the wet wiggly maneuvering that only a wily puppy could manage.  This time it was obvious that there was no way these pups were going back into the sink.  The weather outside was not really conducive to trying the old turn-the-hose-on-them trick, so that really left only one alternative that I could think of: the bathtub.

Now, no dog worth their salt is going to stand happily and get doused with water in the bathtub, especially after they have made their opinion known about what they thought of the sink.  Furthermore, the bathtub is upstairs, and we have already established that mastering the climbing of stairs is a work in progress even when dry.  I figured that if they got up there and met the fate of being saturated and scrubbed and toweled, much to their dismay, maybe it would keep them from wanting to go up there anymore.  Hmmm, maybe I can turn this mission into a double bonus!  Clean dogs that stay downstairs!!!  This could be great!!!

Or not.

The kids and I made a big happy fuss about all the fun the dogs would encounter of they came upstairs with us, and they gladly obliged by bounding up the stairs (tripping only a few times) and happily bouncing into my bedroom.  They came into the bathroom and sniffed around.  I looked from the pups to the deep tub and realized I might have a bit of a logistical problem here.  If the pups decided they were not thrilled with the bath (hard to imagine, I know) and migrated to the back of the tub, I would not be able to reach them without climbing in.  Even if I did climb in, you know they would take advantage of my change in tactics to bob and weave their way to the front, over the edge and run dripping throughout the upper level of my house.  I was going to need some muscle on either side of the dog in the tub in order to pull this off.

Kids, get your swim suits on!  Mom has a job for you!

I for one am not a proponent of child labor in any form, but for as many times as I have slogged across the wet grass in the morning in my slippers and pajamas picking up steaming piles of dog doo while the kids watched me from the window (thanking their lucky stars it wasn't them, no doubt) I figured this time they can take one for the team.  They donned their suits, climbed in, got cups and dog shampoo at the ready, and happily called to the pups.  Smelling a trap, both dogs immediately turned tail and ran to the bedroom door, that luckily I had remembered to close.  I managed to herd them back towards the bathroom, where Bodie made the mistake of cautiously sneaking a peek over the bathtub edge to see what the kids were up to.  I came up behind him and scooped him up (no small task, believe me) and eased him over the granite ledge into the tub.  He popped back up like a jack-in-the-box, putting his front feet on the ledge and eyeballing his escape.  I barked to the kids to make their move, as time was fleeting.  They started pouring water on his back and working the shampoo through, making him slippery and even tougher to hold on to.  Finally Bodie just resigned himself to the fact that if he stood there and cooperated, the whole issue would be over much quicker, which it was.  In just a few more minutes he was rinsed off and "squeeged" by my seven-year-old slicking his hands along Bodie's back and tail, sending wet gobs of black hair flying all over the tub and walls.  Disgusting, but the least of my worries at the moment.  With great effort, I lifted Bodie out of the tub and tried to get a towel around him before he ran off but alas, was too slow.  He darted across the bathroom and danced all over my bedroom carpeting, leaving wet paw-prints trailing behind him which reminded me of the dance-step mats of yesteryear.  I finally body-slammed him to the floor and wrapped him in a beach towel, trying to wring out what little water was still on the dog and not in my carpet.  He was not thrilled, but that made two of us.

Make that three of us.

All this time, Leila had been watching this event play out like a Hitchcock movie.  When I finished with Bodie and turned to call Leila, her look said it all:  "Oh, HELL no!!!"  Her eyes wide, she backed away from me just far enough to get off the marble bathroom floor and onto the bedroom carpet where she promptly peed.  Lovely!  If she wasn't worthy of a bath before this, she definitely is NOW!!  She began running left and right with moves that would make an NFL quarterback envious, and after a merry chase I made my move, managing  to corner her and pick her up and plop her into the tub in one giant swooshing arc.  It's amazing how fast and flexible I can become when a.) I'm irritated by now and b.) I have a puddle of pee to clean up before it soaks into my carpet pad.

Now, you will notice that there are no photos of Leila in the tub with the kids. that is because unlike Bodie, she was not going to go down without a fight.  By "fight" I mean she was auditioning for the bucking bronco position at the Dog Wash Rodeo.  Flailing left and right, she managed to get both front feet on the granite ledge of the tub and one back foot before I could grab her and put her in a bear-hug so the kids could soap her up with the speed of a NASCAR pit crew.  Meanwhile, Bodie is jumping about and hollering as usual,  completely pissed that he is once again separated from his sister and yet hysterically pleased that it is her and not him again.  Leila manages to get one foot down the front of my shirt and into my bra, which was pretty much the game-ending move right there.  She is still slightly soapy but it's obvious that statute of limitations has officially expired, and I pull her out and extricate her from my sopping shirt and towel her off.  She darts away to join her brother who is fully engulfed into his "silly five minutes" that only wet dogs can enjoy.

I look back to my kids.  My daughter has scratches on her legs from Leila's madcap water ballet and my son looks like a Yeti, covered to the neck with black fur.  The ring around the bathtub could rival that of Saturn.  Troopers that they are, the kids clean out the tub while they are in it, then gingerly step out of there and directly into the shower where now it's their turn to wash away the dog grime.

I don't know how long it will be before I wash the dogs again, but it's obvious it won't be in my bathtub again!  I'm quickly running out of options.  The ridiculous amount of money the dog groomer charges to wash dogs is starting to look pretty damn cheap right about now.

I open the bedroom door and the dogs plummet down the stairs and run happily around the living room, chasing each other in celebration of their new found freedom.  I look back to the bathtub, where the descending water level had slowed thanks to a wad of dog hair blocking the drain, and no less than four beach towels lie in a soggy heap next to hair-covered swim suits.  I toss my Leila-soaked tee shirt on the pile and just chalk it up to another day in the life of two Bernese Mountain Dogs that occasionally need soap and water maintenance.  What other adventures could they have lying in wait for me in the future?

Forget I said that.

Stay tuned.....

Road Trip, Berner Style!

My dogs seem to think that they are the only dogs on the planet.  Their world up until now has consisted of a house that contains us and a couple of scrawny cats and that's it.  When we pass another dog on our walks, they perk up and stare dumbfounded, like they are viewing an alien spaceship landing.  When we walk past a fence that has a dog barking on the other side, their heads whip around and they search in vain for the phantom demon dog that is obviously out to get them.  Their ears go back and they quicken their pace in fear, with Bodie continuing  to frantically look over his shoulder like the soon-to-be victim in a Hitchcock movie.  I realize that they need some social interaction of the canine variety.  Now that they finally have all their puppy shots they are free to fully realize the  universe outside the laundry-room borders.

I figured that the local dog park might be a bit too much for these babes-in-the-woods, with the large and boisterous dogs that frequent there.  They somehow resemble convicts in the prison exercise yard, sidling up to newcomers with a sniff and a growl that says "Whaddaya in for?"  We may have to work up to that.  But they need to go somewhere where there are new dogs that are under control, and new people to make a fuss over them.

Time for a field trip to PetsMart!

The kids and I figured that would be a great place to start.  Pet-friendly, with dogs on leashes and lots to look at and new things to investigate.  Our local store here in town is usually not crowded and pretty laid-back.  I needed more dog food anyway, so it was the perfect plan.  What could go wrong?

Note to self: never say "what could possibly go wrong."

The kids and I loaded up the pups into the SUV (no small task, since the pups don't really have their sea legs yet) and off to the store we went. It was a Sunday afternoon and I figured there really wouldn't be too much going on there.  We pull up to the parking lot and the first thing I notice is cars.  Lots and lots of cars.  Uh oh.  Maybe I underestimated the number of shoppers who also uttered "what could possibly go wrong" before they left the house destined for the pet store as well.  Just getting the dogs out of the back of the SUV was an adventure, as they spooked and bucked at every passing car in the parking lot.  We managed to half walk/half drag them to the store entrance where the "whoosh" of the opening automatic doors turns Bodie to stone, refusing to move another inch.  When that dog decides he is not going, it's like trying to pull a barge across the desert.  Luckily Leila dances past him which  gave him the courage to at least stand up, which is all the break we needed to drag him forward.



Forward momentum turned out to not be a problem seconds later, when the throng of people in line at the checkout stand, combined with the pet adoption set-up right by the front doors with barking dogs and excited children sent both pups into overdrive and they bolted forward at a gallop, vaulting my kids behind them.  With ears back and eyes like saucers, Bodie charged down the main aisle, making a hard right at Parakeets and Goldfish, then cutting back through Hamsters and Lizard Goods.  My ten year old daughter was holding on for dear life. 

Meanwhile, Leila was burning a path through Cat Food and Kitty Litter, when my seven year old son finally brought her to a halt in front of the Martha Stewart Pet Accessories display (Really?  Martha Stewart??)  All this time, Mom Of The Year here was pushing the empty shopping cart and snapping pictures while my kids tried to wrestle the pups.  Shortly after, we were joined by my daughter and Bodie, the former trying to hold back tears where Bodie had wrenched her wrist in his Kentucky Derby qualifying run.  I sat her down on a 40 pound bag of Beneful so she could catch her breath and gave control of the cart to my son while I took the reins of these ridiculous racehorses.  I held them tight on short leashes to let them know we were not going to have a repeat performance of that little number, thank you very much. 

By now the dogs had figured out that not only was no one in the store trying to kill them, but there was some serious good-smelling stuff in here!  They investigated the rawhide bone display and marveled at the squeaky-toy aisle.  By now some shoppers had stopped to give them a pet and tell them how lovely they were, and the two of them ate it up.  They were officially rock stars now, and they knew it!  False modesty be damned!

By now I had secured more dog food into the cart and the kids had picked out some new dog toys to add to the 40 or so already at home and we made our way to the check stand.  That is when a store clerk told us to wait, she needed to get one of the store's dog trainers over here.  I paled for a minute...what had we done?  Okay, my dogs were both the canine equivalent of the Tasmanian Devil but hey, they are just puppies and this is their first field trip.  At least they didn't pee all over the place.  Then a pretty girl named Sarah appeared with a binder in her hand and was talking to another clerk about the difference between a couple of dog breeds.  She looked at Bodie and Leila and beamed.  "I've never seen them as puppies before!" she said and came over and made a big fuss over the pups who licked her furiously.  Bodie rolled over onto his back, exposing his boy-parts to the ladies (charming) and Leila peed all over everyone (charming times two!)  Then Sarah explained that she had a Greater Swiss Mountain Dog, which is the short-haired cousin of the Bernese.  From behind the counter emerged an enormous Bodie look-alike, who calmly sauntered over and sat down.  I was speechless.  Bodie and Leila looked up at this creature like he was a Macy's Thanksgiving Day balloon.  It was amazing (and just the slightest bit daunting) to see what my two would someday look like.  This was Buddy, the three year old Greater Swiss.  My two kids couldn't get enough of him, scratching him behind the ears and under his chin.  Then Buddy lied and the floor and rolled over, legs akimbo just like Bodie had done moments before.  Good God, they ARE related!  Sarah explained that she had gotten Buddy as a rescue when he was two years old and already a mighty size.  We tried in vain to get a good photo of the three of them together, Buddy sitting patiently while my two danced a jig around him.  Seeing this wonderful fellow was worth the trip and all the hilarity that ensued.



The pups with Buddy



We made our way back to the SUV and heaved in a 40 pound bag of dog food and two 40 pound wiggly puppies.  We climbed into the car where my seven year old exclaimed with a giant exhale, "Well, that was an adventure!" 

That's putting it mildly, kid!

Loyal, Trustworthy, A Trip Hazard

It's nice to be loved.

How does your loved one show that they care?  Do they bring you flowers or make your coffee?  What about your pet?  Do they bring you the morning paper (for those who still subscribe to the old-school way of getting their daily news) or curl up in your lap and purr?  These two pups show me they love me in such a special and thoughtful way.

They try to kill me.  Daily.

How, you ask, could such fuzzy, lovable bundles of joy be so treacherous?  Maybe it's puppy paranoia, or maybe it's just that they associate me as the giver-of-food and provider-of-treats, but these two will not let me out of their sight for a minute.  Everywhere I go, they must go too.  Not by my choice, mind you, but they must think that they are going to miss out on something amazing if I go solo into another room. Many is the time I have narrowly avoided a twisted ankle or wrenched back trying to not to fall over them or step on them when they tangle with my feet.  Even when they are curled up on the rug, supposedly asleep, and I quietly get up and try to tip-toe away, their ears perk up and maybe one eye will slyly open, and before I know it they are getting to their feet and the march begins.  I have even tried saying "Stay!" and backing away, but they just look at each other as if to say "Is she serious?" and away they go.  I'm almost embarrassed when I try to explain I'm just going to the bathroom...really no need for an escort, thanks all the same.

Case in point when they came in from their outside romp one morning and were otherwise occupied with chewing on each other's ears.  I casually wander into the kitchen to fix some breakfast.  They stealthily sneak up behind me, silent as a ninja (no small task for a bouncy puppy with three metal tags on their collars), only to have me turn from the kitchen counter and suddenly stop short so as not to step on the black furry blobs directly at my feet, my English muffin flying off my plate and across the room like a whole-wheat Frisbee, landing with a thud on the floor (butter side down, naturally).   Or when I sit in the oversized computer chair in my office with no dogs in sight, only to be blocked in two minutes later by two giant lumps sleeping on the carpet.  They are strategically lying in such a manner that I cannot push my rolling chair back, as there is not enough room for me to do so without rolling over a tail or ear.  Of course, rather than try and scoot them away enough to gain suitable exit, I try to shimmy between the desk and chair arms and step over them so as not to wake them.  This rarely works but the one time it did I managed to sneak out of the office, letting sleeping dogs lie, only to have two fuzzy shadows tracking me by the time I made it to the fridge.

This ability to not go anywhere alone in the house is a little like an episode of "Big Brother, Canine Edition".  They look up at me like there is some sort of action item required of me that I am not privy to.  I don't think it's separation anxiety so much as it's just the need to keep an eye on me.  While I appreciate the fact that they seem to enjoy my company, I have come close to squashing one or both on many occasions while carrying a large box I can't see beneath, or dousing them with hot coffee as I turn from the pot on the counter.  If I sit on the floor to fold laundry, forget about it.  That means my lap is open season and one (sometimes both!) magically appear and climb up into it, blocking the view for miles.  At forty pounds, these guys are hardly considered lap dogs anymore, although they apparently did not get that memo.

I wander into the kitchen, ducklings in tow, to grab a soda and then plop on the couch.  Dog at feet?  Check.  Other dog on couch with me because she pretends not to know the "Off!" command?  Check.  I get up again to get the fleece blanket from the other couch.  Jingling I.D. tags give me a musical accompaniment  for my journey.  Back to the couch, foot warmer there on cue, knee warmer again pretending it's her God given right to curl up on the couch with me, where she can get a better view.  Right about then my husband comes home from work, keys working the front door lock.  Ears perk up, maybe even an inquisitive woof escapes from one, and they spring into action, racing to the entry way to see their favorite Dad, tails wagging.  Suddenly I'm chopped liver!  Hey, remember me?  The one you've been following all day?  I have been demoted from "She We Adore" to "Persona non Grata" in the length of time it took him to take off his jacket.  He says he hearty hellos to the bouncy noisy livestock at his feet.  "These dogs love me!" he says.  "I wish they could be with me all day!"

I just smile.  Be careful what you wish for!