Oh holy bejeezus--would you check this out? It's hard to tell because Mom cuts all his food into training treat size pieces, but that's not boring cereal or rice puffs--that's a bona fide grilled ham and cheese sandwich. A HAM AND CHEESE SANDWICH!
And he loves feeding it to me too. He thinks it's the greatest game.
Mom and Dad have been trying to stop him, but the two of them are hard-pressed to out-wit his grins and my dastardly intelligence.
We're working on his throwing arm, but he's getting the basic idea. I think this new slave has promise!
Do you see that? It's photographic evidence that my property has been...converted! Unlawfully converted!
Those squeaky toys may have technically entered the house in the Kid's Easter basket, but they were obviously just tucked in there as a means to conveniently convey them to me. Pursuant to the customary terms of our unwritten family contact, all squeaky toys and small rubber objects that enter the house are the sole property of the terrier...fee simple absolute...and stuff....
This thievery cannot be tolerated in a civilized society. Yes, that's what it is--thievery! I think I need a criminal attorney, in fact. Actually, I think that's what Mom does when she's not busy being my slave, maybe I should ask her advice....
Scratch that. She obviously has a conflict of interest.
Mom says she hopes that someday the Kid will be my best bud. I'm hoping this is child protective services appropriate code for "ball throwing slave".
Right now though, there are all sorts of rules that I have to follow if I want to be around him.
For starters, I'm not allowed to chew on his toys. I don't understand the reason for this rule at all. I mean, he chews on his toys--why can't I?
Also, while I'm allowed to sniff him or lick him sometimes, none of his body parts are allowed in my mouth. In fact, no human body parts are allowed in my mouth, ever again! I used to love rough housing with Dad, and, of course, I know to never bite down--I only mouth his hand a little. But Mom said even that isn't allowed anymore.
Last--the most important rule--no sitting or standing on the baby. Mom says I may lay next to him if I'm calm and good. But, tell me, how on earth am I ever going to train him up to be my slave if he doesn't learn from the start that his proper place is under my paws?
I had a dream the other night. In my dream, I woke-up for what I knew was the first time that night, turned to look at our alarm clock, and saw that it said "7:30". A choir of angels swooped in singing and bearing a bottle of champagne, and Sweet Husband and I hugged each other in our pajamas as the cork flew.
And then the Kiddo cried and I woke up for real...at 5:32.
But really, even though my subconscious apparently disagrees, that's completely livable. We do last call at 10 or 11. He wakes up once, only about an hour before my alarm clock would go off on a "school day". And, because he's only up once a night now, Sweet Husband and I are trading "nights" instead of "shifts". So, every other night, I get to sleep all night.
[The Kid, sleeping through breakfast on his dad's lap at a busy restaurant.]
I never know what to say when people ask how things are going with the baby. There's no pat answer I can give that describes it, so I always end up reverting to his sleeping habits. "We're only up once a night now, so things are good." "He sleeps like a rock. It's so awesome!" "I don't understand how we got so lucky as to have a good sleeper." And so on.
In a karmic kind of way, it scares me to draw attention to it though. It's like saying "Voldemort" out loud. 'Cause even if this one keeps sleeping the night away (and that could certainly change at any moment) what if we decide to have another some day in the far, far away future? I'm a little afraid that we've gotten our fair portion of sweet, sleepy baby and any others would be terrors.
Reminds me of when we decided to get Moe. Porter had been so little trouble, that it was like, "How bad could a second dog be?" Come to think of it, that was the last time Sweet Husband and I slept in shifts--the months after we brought Moe home. He thought he needed to be let out three or four times a night, and cried so loud that ignoring him was not even a possibility.
Actually, maybe I'm looking at this all wrong. Maybe the Kiddo is karma's way of paying us back--in a good way--for not selling Moe-moe to the gypsies.
I've long suspected something was up with Mom. She hasn't let me snuggle on her tummy for months now, and, really, she was too fat for me to snuggle there anyway. Apparently, she was growing a small human in there, and a few weeks ago he finally came out to play with me.
Except he doesn't seem to want to play much yet. Mostly he just sleeps and makes poo. And cries--I do not like it when he cries. It sets me all a dither, and I whine at Mom and Dad so that they'll take proper care of him and make him stop.
In general, I like the smell of him. (Although, for some reason, Mom objects to me putting my cold nose on his forehead when he's sleeping.) I think, with time, I will be able to train him to be a quite useful Welshie slave. Perhaps we'll raise him up to be my exclusive ball-thrower, yes?
First, and perhaps most concerning, all this funny stuff keeps showing up at our house. My room is completely full of it--small clothes that are not made to dog proportions, stuffie toys that I'm not allowed to play with (although, on occasion, I have), a strange contraption that looks like a puppy crate without a roof....and then Dad brought home this chair.
While I fully approve of being given a seat at the human dinner table, something about this one just doesn't smell quite right. And it doesn't have a hole in the back for my tail to stick through--a very big design flaw!
Then, my Pretty Auntie came to stay with us a few weekends ago. She and Mom and Dad baked up a storm, but none of it was for me. And when I tried to investigate better, Mom dropped a scoop of powdered sugar on my tail. I won't pretend I didn't enjoy cleaning it off, but for a few minutes I was powdered-up like a baby-doughnut-dog and they were all laughing at me.
But then, something good happened. A package arrived in the mail, just for me! (Well, mostly for me. I think Mom may have skimmed a few things off the top as an "opener's fee"--she does have the advantage of having thumbs....)
Every year my Welshie brother-from-another-mother, Fergus, marches in the Alexandria Scottish Christmas Walk with a group of other Welshies. They all walk in the parade together and wear ever-so-manly looking kilts. (Here's a lovely portrait of Fergus modeling his.) Mom had promised we could go this year as long as "something impossible" did not intervene, which, of course, it did. (Somehow it always does when there's mud and fun to be had.)
But Fergus and his mum were still thinking of us, and whaddya know, they sent me my very own kilt! Combined with a shave-and-a-haircut, I think it makes me look quite manly!
Meryl: I thought we got rid of all the roosters, but it turns out there was one more we weren't aware of!
Moe: The chocolate stuff? So. Not. Worth it.
Sweet Husband: Next year can we just dress up the kid like normal people?
Porter: I don't know whether to laugh or run away. I don't think she'd try to put me in that costume, but, really, is food and a warm bed and all that worth the risk?
Meryl: Happy Howl-O-Ween everyone!
Went outside tonight to do my nightly P&P (that's pee and patrol), when I noticed something wasn't right in the chicken coop. Although I would very much like to have the chickens for dinner myself, you can bet your last squeaky toy that I'm not going to let anything else eat them. Mom's awfully fond of them, and, they're sort of becoming family...in the way that creatures can be family when you'd gladly have them poached with gravy...but, anyway, the point is no other critters are going to hurt them--not on my watch!
But just as I was getting into some good, scary barking at the young upstart that was trying to get my chicks, Mom came outside fit to be tied. Something about "neighbors" and it being late and "damned crazy terrier". After the third "inside" command, I figured I'd better do as I was told, chicks to protect or not. I went in, and, without even a word of thanks, Mom roughly wiped off the mud from my paws, scolding me the whole time.
And then, the lightbulb went off in her head. (Aside: If you're going to successfully train a human you have to always be watching for those lightbulb moments--the times when they all of a sudden "get it".) Her face screwed up in a funny smile, she grabbed a flashlight, and walked back out to the coop.
Sure enough, she found that this ferocious beastie had already breached the outer run perimeter and was attempting to crawl into the coop with the ladies. Two seconds alone with him and I could have finished him off forever, but Mom insisted that he was just a baby who didn't know any better. Because by that time she was loving-me-up-to-the-skies for my heroic deed, I was feeling gracious and let the culprit live.
Fergus! Taffy! Any-doggy! I need HELP!
Surely someone among the genius-Welsh-collective can help me solve this riddle. Because if I could just get through this vent in the floor, I could have unlimited access to the Peep-Cheeps.
I can hear them, but I need to know how to tunnel to them....
Mom and Dad have been gadabouts lately, I tell you--gadabouts!
First, all our family was in town--truly, in the past week I have been scratched behind the ears by almost all of my grandparents, both aunties, and my wee little cousin--which required some humans-only entertaining out. Then Mom had to go away for some work, and Dad used that as an excuse for a "Boy's Night". I am baffled that I was not invited--I am a boy, after all--and Dad came home smelling of cat so I know they must've done something fun. Then, tonight, Dad's Nice Boss gave them tickets to a funny show called "Avenue Q". Apparently, it was hilarious, but, again, no pups allowed.
While I was not totally abandoned in all of this--someone was always home for eating and peeing times, of course--my daily hour of snuggling-and-general-adoration was certainly being missed.
When Mom and Dad got home this evening, I sat Mom down and registered my displeasure. I'm not always 100% sure we understand each other, what with the language barrier and all, but tonight I think she got the message loud and clear--it's time for a few nights of staying in and paying attention to me! (OK, Porterhouse too....)
Moe: Throw it, throw it, throw it!!!!!
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Moe: May I help you?
Porter: The grooming is great, but the laying on top of me? Not so much.
A few weeks ago, Dad carried my basket upstairs at bedtime and plunked me into it. I generally like my basket so I was willing to be cooperative for a minute....that was my first mistake.
Then I hopped out of my basket to get into bed, and Mom went, "Eh, eh" in that way that means bad things.
Do you know I think they were expecting me to sleep all night in my basket?
The status quo is I'm humoring them by at least starting the night in the basket, but once they go to sleep they can't yell at me for crawling into my nice, warm, big bed. I have their best interests at heart really--how will they stay toasty without me?
Another of Dad's little jokes....
"Hey look! If we just put some Velcro on the ceiling Moe could hang out up here all day!"
I pretend to be amused, but only because it's my birthday this week and I'm angling for something good.
Mom says Santa will be coming soon. I'm watching for him very carefully.
It's my duty to bark at everyone who enters our house, of course, but also I want to be sure to get the jump on Moe vis-a-vis Santa's bag of treats. While Moe is much quicker than I am these days, I have infinitely more patience--thus, the waiting....
And I'm also hoping he'll give me something extra special if I return his hat!
In addition to carrying me like a goat, Dad thinks it's funny to put me in boxes.
Don't worry, he doesn't seal the lid or anything. He just closes it lightly over the top of me, then laughs as my head pops out.
He likes to do it with laundry baskets too.
I apparently don't understand his twisted sense of humor.
(Incidentally, the chew marks on the box--totally Porterhouse!)
While I do admit that I like to be carried and held every now and then--up to bed when I'm sleepy, under Mom's sweater when I'm cold--I am firmly stating here and now that this type of carrying is inappropriate Dad, very inappropriate for my status as supreme being of my house.
I am a dog and a Welsh Terrier--two qualities that make me one of the finest creatures on this earth. I can't just be slung over your shoulder like any old livestock!
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