Food … Please!

Hello! It’s me.

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A full fifteen weeks after having my “essence” removed (rendering me potentially useless to the fabled “Wendy”) and it is back to the grind. In my case, a dietary grind.

If Dad thinks he can withhold food, well, he has another thing coming. I’ll eat anything at this point.

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Yeah, look, there’s dog food right in front of me. And while I am starving to death, I don’t have to eat regular dog food. It’s not a requirement. For instance, that red plant looks pretty tasty to me.

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It’s depressing to have to eat red plants.

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This is what I’m trying to avoid.

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So I soldier on.

We went for a ride earlier today. As Dad left the bank, I made my request known.

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FEED ME SOMETHING!

Dad misinterpreted my request as “Do You Want To Go For A Walk??”

Fortunately, we walked past the grocery store … “SIR … SIR … COULD YOU UNBOX THE RAMEN NOODLES AND ADD BOILING HOT WATER AND LEAVE THE STEAMING PLASTIC CONTAINER ON THE FRONT SEAT OF MY CAR? YES?! K-THANKS, AND WHILE YOU ARE AT IT PLEASE REMOVE THE SEAHAWKS APPAREL BECAUSE I AM A PACKERS FAN K-DUDE?”.

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That didn’t turn out the way I wanted it to. Maybe it was the Seahawks comment.

On to bigger and better things. I tried to gnaw on a painted wall.

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Here’s the thing about painted walls. They lack flavor. I’m thinking you baste the wall in Buffalo Wing sauce, heat it to about 350 degrees, and serve the wall with an ice cold Rainier Beer and a Bloomin’ Onion, amirite?

On two occasions, Dad had to pry a half-eaten burrito out of my mouth – somebody missed the garbage can, so why can’t their error fill my empty tummy?

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Here’s another example of what happens when your tummy remains empty for an extended period of time.

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That guy’s so hungry that he’s got straw sticking out of his underwear.

My trip through town ends with a random sampling of acorns.

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Remember when I was young, cute, still a Man? I required a steady diet of string cheese and diced ham. And Dad obliged. Now I’m like an elderly Man cracking open Brazil Nuts at a Christmas Party.

Feeling Blue

Hello. It’s me.

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We inch closer and closer to Halloween … my second Halloween. It’s a time when playful children dress up in costumes and beg for treats, things like Mounds Bars, for instance. In my case, Mom & Dad dressed me up as a blueberry … all tricks, no treats.

Mom say when I stop picking at my wound, I can take the cone off. This is my desperate response to her proclamation.

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Dad sees the world differently than Mom – he lets me waltz around the house, cone-free. You’d think I would welcome the level of freedom Dad offers. You’d be wrong. He follows me around the house and grounds like the press corps following a Presidential Candidate through the diners and drive-ins of Iowa. It’s exhausting – I’m constantly looking over my shoulder for the next violation of my privacy.

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I pine for the days when I could just hang out and chillax. Remember the good ‘ole days, when I could introduce myself to you with a gleeful “HELLO, IT’S ME!!!” Or I could even offer you this dull look … still fulfilling the introduction to every blog post I “write”.

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Today, however, this blank look is reserved for Dad, who took me to the vet a week ago and things haven’t been the same since. Thanks. Dad. 7-10 days with a cone couldn’t come to an end soon enough. And if I keep rubbing my undercarriage on gravel, 10-14 days with a cone couldn’t come to an end soon enough.

Thanks. Dad.

#PrayForMe

 

What The %#&? Is Going On?

Hello.

It’s me.

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Ow.

Pardon me if I’m not in a talkative mood right now.

The day started off like any other, or so I thought. Then Dad takes me for a ride, and ten minutes later, I’m at the vet.

They took my temperature #again …#ow. Is that really necessary?

Dad leaves. Where are you going, Pops? Ok, I guess I’ll hang at the vet with Shelby. She likes me.

I was stuck with a needle.

Ow.

Feeling … very … scheeeeeeeeeepppppyyyyy.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Hours later …¬†OW OW OW OW.

Ow.

#owie.

I look around for help, but my vision is limited by what I am told is called a “cone of shame”.

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What the %#&? is going on?

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Mom says I was neutered. I’m not sure what that means, but I’ll tell you what … I feel like I was surgically robbed of bodily possessions that made me feel like a MAN.

A MAN doesn’t look like this.

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God help me.

Ow.

Get The Rat!!!

Hello. It’s me!!

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I’m at a point in my diet where I’m more than happy to eat a finger. Especially pinky fingers, because they are largely useless, amirite? Oh, wait, you need a pinky finger to hit the enter key. Nevermind.

Did you see the bruise on Mom’s foot? Here’s a closer look.

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Mom stepped on one of my chewies … I have chewies strategically placed all over the house … I’d rather gnaw on rawhide than eat dried-and-pressed meat byproducts. So if Mom has to deal with painful bruises, so be it. All problems can be fixed by a morsel of string cheese.

Anyway, there’s BIG NEWS in my life. No, it’s not about getting neutered in 36 hours, whatever that means and I’m sure whatever that it includes fun and playtime so no need to worry about anything on that front. The big news happened over Labor Day Weekend. While you were grilling steaks over charcoal (#jealous), I was at EARTH DOG!!!

What. An. Event!

I knew we were in for BIG FUN when I saw the sign at the entrance to the event.

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The sign has two things that I love … the opportunity to chase a rat … and the opportunity to diagnose a rusted metal threat.

Count me in!

Then things really got interesting. I’m looking across the facility, and I see MY BROTHER RUGER!!!

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We caught up on what has all happened since back in winter when we last met. I was like “you look great Ruger” and he was like “you look like a link of metwurst” and I was like “yeah but you’re not going to body shame me today because we’re here to get the rat” and he was like “I’m sorry” and I was like “no need to apologize because we’re here to get the rat” and he was like “I really miss you” and I was like “yeah and I really miss you” and he was like “remember when we used to run outside through the dog door?” and I was like “#goodmemories” and he was like “let’s go get the rat” and I was like “k-dude”.

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So my breeder, one of my #favs, introduced Ruger and I to the grounds.

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I know, there’s really nothing like a chilly, drizzle-filled day of gray gloom in early September, is there? You could have taken the picture in February and you couldn’t tell the difference. But honestly, I enjoyed the thirty-five day summer of 2016, I really feel like I got as much out of it as is humanly possible … or caninely possible … or whatever the term is I am supposed to use. Squirrel!!!!!

Back to the story.

So here’s the deal. I had to participate in a Beginner’s Class. Event organizers set up the schedule.

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I thought Pistil really shot through the course, though Wiley took a clever route and Sailor navigated choppy waters and Chica, well, you know all about Chica, right? No? Anyway, I digress. My job was to pick up the smell of rats, then dive into a ten foot long tunnel with a 90 degree turn in the middle of the tunnel #pitchblack, get to the rats (who are caged – no animals were harmed in the creation of this blog post), then dig at or under the cage while biting the cage and barking at the rats. If all of that is accomplished, then I pass and earn a coveted Qualifying Score.

The key, of course, is that Dad isn’t allowed to say anything other than “Get The Rat” just one time, as he releases me into the course.

Dad holds me back.

Tension fills the air … the same kind of tension that an audience of 40,000 feel when they are about to watch Usain Bolt run a hundred meters.

Hearts pound.

Mouths become dry.

But in spite of how Dad felt, I was ready to go!!

Off I ran to the hole.

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The event planners play all sorts of mind games … like having a judge at the end of the course. I wanted to skip the course altogether and just go say HI to the judge, because people seem to like meeting me and why bother with the course when I could just cut out the middleman and say HI to the judge? #Logic

The judge was having none of that. She held up a piece of paper (she can’t tell me what to do) in an effort to block my progress. Her tactics worked! I began to enter the tunnel.

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And then I thought to myself, “I need to see what is¬†written on that piece of paper!”

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At this point, the whole process is breaking down and all hope is nearly lost. The judge asks Dad to tap on the entrance to the tunnel. Then … things begin to change … my instincts began to kick in.

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And I say to myself, “GET THE RAT!!!”

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I’m gone, pups. GONE!

Nine feet later, the judge allows Dad to see what I am up to.

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Oh, I’m going for it, pups!

Here’s a video sample of the live action … please visit the website if you cannot see this video in your email client.

So, for those of you scoring at home.

  • Enter The Tunnel = Check.
  • Navigate The Tunnel = Check.
  • Dig Under The Rat Cage = Check.
  • Bark At The Rat Cage = Check.
  • Bite At The Rat Cage = Check.
  • Let Dad Pull Me From The Tunnel Without Backing Out = Check.
  • Run The Course Again Because It Is Sooooooo Much Fun = Check!
  • Earn A Qualifying Score = CHECK!!!!!

I was SOOOOOOOOOO excited to receive my ribbon!

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Again, no rats were harmed in this process. If the rats were not in a cage, I probably would have pulled them from the tunnel and lightly damaged them via puncture wounds obtained from the biting motion of my incisors, but other than that, everything would have been just fine.

When Dad pulled me from the tunnel, my brisket and legs were covered in sand. I doubt there was a better feeling in the whole world than what I experienced at that very moment!

I was the only pup in my group who earned a Qualifying Score. It seems I have a knack for this. I cannot wait for the next opportunity to advance through harder courses. I cannot wait to see Ruger again.

What. A. Fun. Event!!