Hello! It’s Me!

That’s me and one of my fans, from earlier today. You have to understand, people love me, and there is no situation they’d rather interact with me than when I am trying to summit my own personal mountain. In fact, she came up to me and said “Hola perro.” Adorbs!

Aptly named “Mt. Young”, the 630 foot massif was on the agenda for a Friday afternoon clamber.

Aside from lathering myself in tree sap, the climb went as expected. We reached the summit in about a half-hour (that’s 1.8 miles per hour for those of you who are interested).

My view of the surrounding islands was hindered by a leash. Undeterred, I took in the grandeur of the distant Canadian Gulf Islands and the Vancouver Island / Cowichan Valley area.

Do you want to know what the best part of climbing a mountain is?

It’s going downhill!

We surveyed the landscape one last time.

Then Dad called my name.

Dash?

Do you want to head back down the mountain?

And so off we went – here’s a video of the dramatic descent of Mt. Young, sans sherpa (please visit the website if you cannot see the video via email).

I know, that’s a lotta action for your dollar!

We got home a few minutes ago. I am resting my muscles, awaiting another mountain climb. Could a summit of Mt. Rainier be in my future?

Hello! It’s me.

These idyllic spring days warrant a lot of monitoring, friends. You never know who or what is going to try to sneak past your line of sight … deer … chupacabra … or a utility worker checking on gas lines.

This is how I deal with threats … please visit the website if you cannot see this via email.

Now, your experiences may differ, but I’ve found that the high-pitched version of the bark tends to vanquish any semblance of danger. You should see how bees fly away from me when they hear me roar!

Hello. It’s me.

Dad says, “I’m going to take a shower, you behave now, ok?”.

Yeah, right!

The rug pad has been bugging me for a long time. Hiding there, never willing to make a public appearance.

Minutes earlier, Dad caught me digging at the rug. He said “no”, in that half-hearted way that tells you that he’s more annoyed than issuing an iron-clad ultimatum.

So as the shower began to saturate Dad with cleansing albeit highly chlorinated well water, I began to cleanse the room of the nuisance hiding under the rug.

It’s amazing how fast the thing came apart. A tug here, a gnawing motion with my teeth there, and the thing essentially shredded itself. It’s not my fault – it’s poor American craftsmanship that should be blamed.

I guess I got greedy when I waltzed into the bathroom, tail wagging. Covered in soap, Dad says “you’re being such a good boy!” He’s praising me, friends. Praising me for my yet-to-be-seen deeds.

Then I rang the bell next to the front door. Dad opens the door to let me out. “Go potty” he says. Then he turns around, and looks in the living room.

It was at this point that Dad started saying words I only hear him say when his favorite sports team blows a lead late in the game.

He said “no” in such an affirmative manner that this time, I believed him.

Let’s just say I steered clear of Dad for awhile.

Hello! It’s me!

There’s nothing like a belly full of food to allow one a good snooze. Unless you are a fussy eater.

I am a fussy eater!

This is how Dad thinks I should sup.

This is how I think I should sup.

I think you’ll agree that a heavily salted ribsteak with buttery mushroom accompaniment outperforms a bowl of bits every day of the week, amirite?

So I have stopped eating my food. No more.

Seriously. I won’t eat dog food anymore.

Sometimes, if necessary, I will digest a Milk Bone dog biscuit (I’d prefer a human biscuit, but no dice on that front). I do love string cheese and chicken, but I’m done with dog food. And Mom & Dad rarely give me table scraps, so it’s kinda hard to find suitable culinary delights these days.

No more dog food.

And I’m certain that you, the loyal reader, do not eat dog food either.

So here’s your chance to “join the conversation”, as the pundits say. What would you like to see me eat? Ribsteak? Dog Food? Or something else?

Hello! It’s me!!

Maybe this happens to you, too. There’s this magical time of day when a delivery person arrives. He or she brings packages. Food from Blue Apron. Gadgets from Amazon. Envelopes requesting payment on a mortgage. It’s soooooo exciting! Soooooo exciting!

Delivery people love me, let’s be honest, and who can blame them? They politely ignore my incessant howling when they arrive and the front door is wide open and Dad is busy talking to a client on the phone … they calmly waltz over to the front door and shower our household with magic, rubbing my belly in the process.

The internet economy is a thrill-a-minute. I’m just happy I have a front row seat for all of the action.

Hello. It’s me.

You’d think my parents and their friends would want to spend every possible minute with a puppy. Right? I won’t always be like this … soft … warm … periodically manic.

But today, Mom had folks over for crafting. I was excluded. Had to lay on the floor, door closed, hanging out with Dad. On a rug populated with a color palette including purple. Let that one sink in for a moment.

Time goes by faster when you sleep, so that’s what I did. I slept. By myself. Alone. Excluded from activities.

You may now play a song by Bread, to enhance the feelings I experienced today.

Hello! It’s me.

Spring days are filled with adventure. I find the harassing nature of “musca domestica” particularly vexing. The revolting insecta cling to the window … but when I stand to observe the housefly, it scurries away. Sometimes higher up the window. Sometimes to another window. Sometimes to a half-eaten banana in the kitchen. But always flying away.

Do you ever dream about flying? I do. But if I could fly, I’d have to deal with feathers in my mouth, and nobody wants to deal with that.

Hello. It’s me.

That’s the “after” photo. Long, long after … THE TERROR.

Lemme explain.

First, something burns in the oven.

And when something burns in the oven, this little device talks to all of the other little devices across the house … they beep … they beep at a decibel level that causes me to experience … THE TERROR.

And when I experience THE TERROR … I curl up in the fetal position and I shake for approximately forty minutes. Forty minutes. Of shaking. Shivering. TERROR.

Now, I don’t care what Blue Apron has to say about cooking mushrooms … you don’t cook mushrooms in the oven for 23 minutes at 475 degrees … because when you do that, you invoke THE TERROR.

Let me be perfectly honest here.

I’m not a fan … of THE TERROR … at all.

Hello! It’s me.

Hello. It’s me!

That’s a small molar, friends. Over the past two weeks, I have been swallowing teeth like an NFL quarterback swallows vicodin.

Is it ok to say that? If not, I’m a pup, I don’t know better #putdashintimeout

It hit 89 degrees in Seattle today … 65 at our house. With seals and sea lions swimming by and eagles circling the perimeter looking for tasty salmon, Dad imprisoned me on our deck. So this is how I spent my time … I hounded creepy-crawlers! (visit the website if you cannot see the video).