Hello. It’s me!!

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.

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.

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!!!

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”.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

And I say to myself, “GET THE RAT!!!”

I’m gone, pups. GONE!

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

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!

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!!

Hello. It’s me.

That’s the kind of look that used to garner me a handful of precisely cut-and-cubed string cheese.

You remember that story about Pavlov’s Dog? Well, we’re all trained in one way or another. I trained my Dad to believe that I’d never eat regular dog food – my Dad trained me to believe that I’d be fed a sampling of human foods that I had the option to frequently reject.

It’s a mind game that up until last Thursday I was #winning.

Now I’m served a chunky assemblage of dry meat and grain shavings, formed into a collection of unappetizing pebbles.

How do you like the four strays at the bottom of the image? I mean, presentation matters amirite?

Not that I was ever going to eat the pebbles out of the bowl. Or Dad’s hand. So far, Mom has to put ’em in her hand. Her hands are nice, creamy, soft … they make for a fine dining experience. Dad’s hands taste like a combination of plastic laptop keyboard and utilitarian hand soap. #notappetizing.

Last night marked hour ninety-six of this miserable diet. I commemorated the anniversary by howling in the pantry.

What was I looking for?

No, not the quinoa … the Special-K bars!! Of course, I cannot sup on chocolate, but that’s not what this is all about, is it? This is all about unfettered access to anything readily available to Mom and Dad. And so far, they’ve held firm, something I didn’t expect.

But I have time on my side, my friends. Time. The gears of time will work in my favor, and will eliminate my self-imposed hunger pangs via the foods I prefer to sample.

Hello! It’s me.

One of the things that I love about Obamacare is that I get free visits to the vet. That’s right, if I have an issue or a multitude of issues, we just hop in the car and drive to the vet, where I promptly receive professional and inexpensive care.

Yesterday was one of those days.

I don’t like to talk about these things, friends. We have a certain agreement, you and I. I protect the Universe from threats like Rusted Metal, you shower me with love and admiration. It’s a two-way street that, quite frankly, works for both of us.

But something was amiss the past few weeks.

Like when you spend eight hours a day biting at your butt. We’ve all been there, dealing with pressure in our anal sacs. Burning. Swelling. Throbbing. Well, there’s only so much you can take before you stop wanting to do anything. So on Wednesday, I spent a large chunk of a glorious late-summer afternoon rubbing my rear end up and down the gravel driveway – abrasive and dusty, sure, but something had to be done to quell the burning.

Mom dials up the free health care line on Thursday, and we get a 4:30 appointment.

The vet props me up on the table.

She wiggles my rear end, then touches my right knee, then my left knee, then my right knee.

And I’m like “Dude, the burning sensation is in my anus.”

The vet looks up, and says, “His Knees Just Popped Out Of Joint“.

Mom says “Knees, as in plural?”

And then Dad looks at the vet and says “Wut?”

The vet says, “Yeah, I had a dog that had Luxating Patellas. The knees pop out of joint all the time. It’s a genetic issue common in small breeds, one that is exaggerated by being overweight. Your dog has a Luxating Patella – in each knee! And your dog is overweight.”

And then Dad looks at the vet and says, “Is that the reason he’s biting his rear end and is dragging his but across the ground?”

The vet gives Dad that “Geez, your light bulb is only running on 30 watts today, huh?” kind of look, and says “We haven’t even begun the examination yet.”

So here’s the 411, my friends. Both of my rear knees pop out of joint all the time, and this slowed me down a bit (I don’t like running up our ramps and I don’t like going uphill as much as I used to and I sure don’t like navigating steps like I used to), causing me to gain weight, and the weight issue was amplified by my desire to be an odd little eater coupled with a recent craving for Canadian Bacon, which amplified the knee problem.

You can click here to learn more about my knees.

End result? Strict diet of dog food (#yeahright) and the need to shed a few pounds … and if all goes well … we’re talking about possibly having surgery on both of my rear knees.

Then we began the examination.

My anal sacs were expressed. Chunky gunk rolls out of one sac, gunk that caused the discomfort Mom & Dad took me to the vet for in the first place. Our Vet says “We may want to remove those sacs too, given that they serve no purpose and are causing discomfort and this is the second time we’ve expressed them already.”

And then Dad looks at the vet and says “Wut?”

That’s the point where the examination ended.

The good thing about my knees is that they don’t hurt.

But my inactivity over the past six weeks caused a lot of weight gain, and the weight gain caused the knee problems to get worse, causing more inactivity.

So now we’re on a diet, and we’ll take a few pounds off, and then we’ll see where my knees are at.

And my butt feels better already!!

Hello. It’s me!!

Yes, my world has been turned upside down.

First of all, are things so unsafe out there that we have to lock down all city-owned lamp posts?

It gets worse.

This is what happens when folks overreact to the rusted metal threat.

But then I get home and I find out there is a new pup next door … Zoey.

This is where the longing sets in.

Zoey?

Are you over there?

I can hear you next door … now if you could please stop by, I’m sure Dad would open the door and we could play.

Dad? The door.

Not makin’ a lot of progress on this door, Dad.

I could sit here all day if I need to, Dad.

I mean, we’ll get to the point where you can barely even see me over here, waiting and longing and waiting some more.

Oh, the heck with it. Give me a carrot and we’ll call it good.

Hello! It’s me.

I take out pen, pad, and paw and jot down my thoughts about various things.

My friend Katie dealt with this last week.

That’s terrifying stuff. Seconds later, I’m watching the Olympics, and they put one of these things on the TV screen … a Cabybara (not to be confused with a Chupacabra).

Could you imagine getting raked across the face with that front left paw? Though I do admire the little bird … rock on, passer domesticus.

In my never-ending search for Wendy, I jot down notes from pups I meet.

This dude had ice cream on his paws, and did not take offense to the prolonged sampling of said treat.

This pup thought her Mom was sporting an absolutely dandy head ornament.

And then this one … this one told me to honor the signage and leave immediately.

So that’s what I did … I headed out on to the pier to take more notes.

One of the notes I took was to consider saving five million dollars for a fancy yacht.

Here is something interesting, dear friends. There are places where they are literally locking light posts to the ground.

I mean, what has this world come to? Are we really that concerned that somebody is going to carry a twenty-foot tall light post across town?

Here’s what we need to be concerned about … rusted metal.

Speaking of ice cream … if I could get my paws inside the garbage can, I’d ravage the thing!

Do I look thirsty there? You bet I look thirsty. Fortunately, the shoe lady keeps a quart of chlorinated city water in a tin bowl.

When I got home, I compared notes a friendly albeit inanimate object:

At home, Dad told me he purchased a sweatshirt from my favorite Womens Professional Soccer Team … the HOUSTON DASH!!

After reviewing the image, I kinda wish the shoe lady with the water bowl were nearby.

Some of the notes I took.

• Be it a Chupacabra or Capybara or whatever the thing was in Katie’s yard, you have to be VIGILANT at all times.
• I get a queasy look on my face when Dad pinches my tummy with his fingers.
• Where possible, lock down the light poles.
• There’s room for a small dog and a taxi cab in the same space, regardless of what the signage indicates.
• Campfires and lawn chairs are like peanut butter and jelly, though I never actually supped on peanut butter & jelly.

Hello! It’s me.

If you are like me, and I doubt you are, you are caught up in Olympic fever. This is me after competing in the Puppy Pentathalon. Yes, a gold medal is in my future.

Speaking of Gold, look at what my dear friend Katie put together for me:

If you think that one is a four paw effort, take a look at this one!

Let’s be honest. There are two types of art. There’s art that features me. And there is art that terrifies me.

Amphibians got an attitude, if you ask me.

Summer is progressing, my friends. Make sure you get out and see the sights.

Hello. It’s me.

It’s August 3 … the dog days of summer, as some call it. I call it “boredom”.

There’s really nothing to do. Here’s my daily diary for August 2.

4:17am: I pace around the bed. Light begins to fill the sky, about an hour later than two months ago. Is this a trend? What do I do if this is a trend? Should I tell Dad about it? No. He’s sleeping. I’ll sleep some more.

8:06am: Dad wakes up, and offers to take me off the bed. I refuse. If I wanted to get up, I’d have gotten up at 4:17am. I’d prefer to sleep some more.

8:08am: Dad. DAD!! Get me off of this bed! Why hast thou forsaken me?

8:11am: I ring the bell next to the front door. Dad opens the door. Dad tells me to go potty. I don’t want to go potty. I go back in the house.

8:13am: Maybe I would like to go potty. I ring the bell.

9:07am: A threat appears at the top of the stairs. I notify the neighborhood.

10:44am: Where are the toys? Why aren’t there any new toys?

10:46am: A Presidential Candidate endures a noteworthy gaffe.

10:48am: After ringing the bell once again, I play with the first object I find.

1:36pm: Dad takes me to town. Rusted metals abound. Threats are frightening, my friends.

1:52pm: Wendy? Wendy?

2:04pm: A Presidential Candidate endures a noteworthy gaffe.

2:06pm: Met an inanimate friend.

2:09pm: Does anybody care about me? Anybody?

2:14pm: Oh, they’re all inside. At the post office. Folks must be studying zip codes. It’s gotta be more fun than what I’m doing.

3:09pm: A Presidential Candidate endures a noteworthy gaffe.

3:23pm: Nap time.

4:07pm: Wake up.

4:11pm: Nap time.

4:18pm: A Presidential Candidate endures a noteworthy gaffe.

4:26pm: Wake up.

4:27pm Nap time.

5:04pm: Wake up.

5:06pm: Pace around Dad’s office.

5:09pm: Nap time.

5:26pm: Potty please.

5:59pm: A Presidential Candidate endures a noteworthy gaffe.

6:02pm: Mom, I’m trapped.

6:03pm: My treasure hunt leads me to the prize:

7:33pm: Sitting on the back deck, I notice a budding thunderhead off in the distance.

8:16pm: String cheese for dinner. Yum!

9:33pm: More sleeping.

10:29pm: Lots of sleeping.

10:47pm: A Presidential Candidate endures a noteworthy gaffe.

12:03am: Potty time.

12:06am: Bed time.

That’s the 411, folks. The anatomy of a day. A dog day … of summer, no less. Sure hope we don’t run into a Sharknado tomorrow … now that would be a threat!

Hello! It’s me.

May I have that package please?

Thank you! kbye.

Hello! It’s me.

Let’s just say I was unable to catch the fly on the window.

You’ve probably heard about Pokemon Go, right? It’s the game that folks are playing where they are trying to find and capture Zubats, Pidgeys and Rattatas on their phones via augmented reality.

Lemme tell you something. Every day is like augmented reality in my world. I’m constantly assessing threats, praying not to run across the fabled chupacabra, or looking with a soft heart for my beloved Wendy.

I like to keep my own score.

• Each Perceived Threat = 10 Points.
• Each Human Who Pats My Head = 50 Points.
• Each Canine Interaction = 100 Points.
• Each Threat Correctly Identified = 200 Points.
• Each Time I Get To Eat Human Food = 250 Points.
• Each Interaction With A Service Dog = 500 Points.
• Face To Face Meeting With A Chupacabra = Game Over, Lose.
• Face To Face Meeting With Wendy = Game Over, Win.

Today, it was all about setting a Personal Best score. I approached my job with unfettered dedication (visit the website if you cannot see the video).

I earned a quick 200 points when I identified this threat as “Rusted Metal”.

It doesn’t always go like clockwork, however. This is a perceived threat, in a street no less.

Pylons, it turns out, are a perceived threat.

I simply marked this threat as “assessed”.

After tallying a bunch of ten pointers, I began to hit the jackpot. Although, to be fair, this beefy pup told me that I was coming in hot.

But that was a hundred points, and I don’t apologize for racking up big point totals.

There were plenty of fifty point opportunities as well.

But I was looking for a big point total. The process is exhausting.

But just when it looked like I was going home with a paltry 750 points, give or take, I sensed a huge opportunity.

I make my move!

And then … YAHTZEE!!!

That’s a five hundred point service dog, my friends. My personal best (1,150 points) was now within reach. All I had to do was convince Pops to toss me a tenderloin tip, and I was home free!

By 1:43pm in the afternoon, I tallied a new Personal Best … 1,300 Points!!!

This is where you offer me enthusiastic applause.

Thank you!

Did I find a chupacabra? No.

Did I find my beloved Wendy? Not even close.

But I can rest comfortably, knowing I had my best day ever.

Hello! It’s me.

Use the comments to tell our ever-growing audience what you think is going on in the image.

As I rub eye-goobers all over Dad’s office rug, I am reminded of yesterday. It was a Sunday, and that means it was a day of rest at Casa De Guion.

If this were a random Tuesday, I’d be disarming various threats (visit the website if you cannot see the video).

But on a Sunday? You put a lite rock song from Gloria Estefan on the bluetooth speaker … maybe “Can’t Stay Away From You“, and you soak up some sun, dreaming of a chance encounter with Wendy … or of a bowl of vanilla ice cream … or the opportunity to carry a small albeit highly arid twig in your mouth for the final 300 meters of a walk to the mailbox #needwater.