Back to the butcher shop...

I woke up late this morning and knew immediately that something was up. All the kids had left for school, but the parents were still home. So I got out of bed and went downstairs for breakfast. As usual, breakfast was that nasty dry crap they always give me, but since the "incident", they had added a little twist afterward. After I finished my meals, now they would give me a piece of meat or cheese with some little crunchy things in it. The crunchy things tasted kinda gross, but I'd eat almost anything wrapped in cheese, so it was no big deal.

So, after breakfast, they called me into the living room. As I walked in there, I noticed they were standing by "the box" with the door open. I wasn't about to get back in that thing after what happened to me last time, so I tried to bolt. Unfortunately, the combination of my wound, the drugs I had been taking (I found out later that the crunchy things in the cheese were actually pills), and the gigantic cone on my head made me a bit less agile than I usually am (and I was kind of a klutz before), so I was easily apprehended. Still, I wasn't going into that torture chamber without a fight, so I planted myself and gave all I had in resistance. In the end, they won, but I felt a little better having made it so difficult for them.

As I suspected, we arrived shortly at the hospital. I couldn't imagine what indignities they might inflict on me this time. Maybe they would put bows in my hair and dress me as a ballerina. I shuddered in anticipation. I guess Dad could sense my apprehension, so he opened the side window of the box and gently stroked my ears (I love when he does that) until I calmed down a little. About this time, a nice lady came to get me. When I noticed she was carrying a pink leash, I got scared all over again.

Luckily, my fears were unfounded. All they did was remove the drain tube from my chest. It was painless (not that I'm bothered by pain, anyway) and only took a minute. When it was time to go back home, I still protested at being shoved in "the box", but not quite as vigorously. I don't want them to get soft, y'know.

When we got home, they "sprung" me from my cell and everything was business as usual (except that I was still viewing the world from the inside of a bullhorn). Oh well, I guess it could be worse.

Ouch!

Well, I sure did it now. I was running around the backyard as usual, chasing the bushy tailed vermin. I wasn't looking where I was going and ran right into a piece of pipe that was sticking about 8 inches out of the ground. Apparently, it was once used to hold up a tree or something. Anyway, it caught me right in the chest, leaving a pretty nasty gash.

When I went back inside, I was trying to act nonchalant, but my mother saw my wound and called for my father. One look at the flap of skin hanging off my chest and he said, "that's going to need stitches. Wonderful. So they shoved me in "the box" and hauled me to the vet. They had to leave me in the car while they filled out all the paperwork because even in my semi-crippled state, I'd have still tried to eat all the other cute little furry things in there. When they finally came to get me, my father and some other guy carried me all the way to the back of the place, through several doors and down a couple of hallways and set me down.

It seemed like I was there forever, but I'm sure it wasn't really all that long. Finally, they came and took me out of the box and checked me out. Before I could say, "Hey, what are you doing", they had shaved my legs and stuck a needle in one of them. The worst part was that they did a really lousy job. They only shaved the bottom of each leg. I looked like an idiot. As I was wondering how I was going to explain this to the other dogs in the neighborhood, I started to get really sleepy. I just couldn't stay awake.

I woke up feeling kind of drunk. My head was spinning and everything seemed really loud. Something else felt a little strange, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. As I sat there scratching my head, it came to me. I wasn't scratching my head. I couldn't scratch it because there was a lampshade around my neck! Great. If the other dogs were going to laugh at my shaved legs, they were going to have a field day with this. The doctor came in after a few minutes to talk to me. I almost said something about how retarded my legs looked, but I figured I better just shut up. After all that had already happened to me, I couldn't imagine what they might do if they were offended. Anyway, the doctor explained to me that I had really done a number on myself. Not only had I ripped a 6-inch gash in my chest, but I had also peeled it back like a flap and even torn my pectoral muscle. He told me about how they had to stitch my muscle back together before stitching up the flap of skin. He also showed me where they had inserted a drain tube to prevent fluid buildup between the muscle and the "loose" skin. I tried not to smile, but I couldn't help being a little proud of myself. I don't do anything half-assed.

Eventually, I got to go home. It didn't really hurt, but I milked it for all it was worth. I got lots of attention from everybody. I'll be sure to keep you updated as I recover.

Oh, the Humanity! (caninity?)

Today I suffered the worst of indignities. Dad came home for lunch and let me out for a while like he usually does, so I decided to take a little stroll around the pool. Now as you may know, the pool really isn't my favorite place to hang out, ever since the boys "accidentally" tossed me in it to see if I could swim. But I figured since nobody was around, I'd be safe. Unfortunately, that was not the case. I slipped and fell into the freezing cold water and had a very difficult time getting back out. To add insult to injury, the whole event was caught on the backyard security camera and preserved for posterity. I figure I might as well show you here before you see it on YouTube or something. Here's the link.

Click here to see the video (but don't laugh).

Getting ready to go

Well, the folks are packing up the big rolling turd tonight to leave in the morning. I heard them say something about going to a lake. I'm pretty sure they're going to take me with them again, since they put a bunch of my stuff in there and they've been letting me hang out with them while they get ready for their trip instead of avoiding me out of guilt like they usually do. When Dad was loading up the firewood, I jumped into the compartment and posed for a photo. Sometimes, even I can't believe how cute I am. ;-)

Luke

Now it all makes sense.

As I'm sure you know, I've been a little miffed about my family's recent RV purchase, my new prong collar, and the knowledge that I'd be a latchkey dog for most of the summer, since they undoubtedly had extensive travel plans that as usual, would not include me. Then, to add insult to injury, they seemed bent on training me to walk on a leash and behave nicely in public. I could see no point in this, since I would be spending my summer locked in the house, staring at squirrels through the window. Yippee. I must try to control my enthusiasm.

Anyway, I could see they were getting ready to leave yesterday morning and Sascha hadn't arrived yet to stay with me, so it was pretty obvious I was going to be on my own. At least when they leave me by myself, it's usually a pretty short trip. I was just going to have to make the most of it. So, as they came in the house for the last time before leaving (presumably to give me the "Be a good dog and you'll get a treat when we get home" speech), I got the surprise of my life. They put my leash on me and TOOK ME WITH THEM! Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt for all the bad things I had wished upon them (like a persistent foul odor from their holding tanks). Then just as suddenly, my feeling of guilt was replaced with jubilation at the fact that I would be the source of the foul odors on this trip! No holding tank stoppage would be necessary. I could pollute the air at will.

And pollute I did. Several times on the trip, It got a little stuffy in there, so I made the windows roll down (if you know what I mean). Hey, I had to remind everybody who's the boss, right? So we got to our destination (right on the beach at Half Moon Bay for those who care), set up camp, and went for a walk along the beach (but not on the beach because dogs aren't actually allowed on the beach. Something about the Snowy Plover...). I even got to sunbathe outside for a while. I had to be tied to the side of the motorhome, but I found a nice grassy spot and made myself plenty comfortable. We spent the night there and came home Sunday morning. It was a ton of fun. I think I'm going to like this camping thing after all.

I guess it's not all bad.

The bad news is that they've been putting that prong collar on me an awful lot.The good news is that every time they do, we get to leave the house and go for a walk around the neighborhood. I guess it could be a lot worse. Last night, I even got to hang out in the motorhome with them for a while. Of course, I still wasn't allowed on the furniture, but they did put a bed in there for me, so I guess I'll survive.

Guess what they got me now.

As if leaving me to fend for myself while they go on vacation wasn't enough, it seems my family now wants to torture me. They got me a new collar that has a bunch of little prongs inside it that stand up when I try to pull away. It doesn't really feel very good. I mean it's fine when I walk nicely, but when I try to chase a cat or something, I can't pull nearly as hard before the prongs poke me in the neck, causing me discomfort. So now I have to walk nicely on the leash without pulling or my neck gets turned into a pincushion (Ok, they're not actually sharp. I'm just being dramatic, but it still makes tug-o-war a whole lot less fun.) What could possibly be the point of this thing, anyway?