A Trust Fund Dog?

Sorry for the delay in providing the next post. What can I say, I'm a dog.

But, a dog who's most definitely living the good life. Bill just got me a house of my own! And, as you can see, it's no ordinary pad. It's spacious and has a vaulted ceiling that most dogs can only dream of.

Curled up in the house (with a little extra support for one of the pillars)

Feeling as if I've lived there my whole life

Ever the gentleman, I let Ginger have a taste of the good life.

You're probably asking yourself if I deserve this. I, myself, pondered that very thought ... for about three seconds, when Bill whistled, signaling that a treat was about to come my way. Candidly, though, I feel I'm deserving of my own condo. I've lived an admirable life -- I haven't tried to bite anyone (except for when a jogger tried to scare the bejesus out of me), I've let kids pet me (provided they do it the right way where I can see their hand the whole time) and I've never been a public nuisance.

At my age, I'm going to enjoy every pearl of life that comes my way. Now, if only my condo had a place to store precious bones.

Dreaming of another condo in Maui

Happy New Years, everyone. I hope these are the best seven of your life.

Mr. Ed

Eddie as in Edgy

I spent the first year of my life in Northern California.

Although I was born in relaxed California, I'm not exactly the most relaxed dog. Intelligent, yes. Laid back? Not by a long shot.

My feeling is how do you know for sure that people who approach you aren't out to take your kibble or worse, dognap you? I must say it can do a number on the self esteem of otherwise secure people. They enter my house as self-assured doglovers and leave shaking their head as to how I didn't let them get within five feet of me.

If you didn't know better, you'd think I was abused. But the truth is that I was born this way. The old man has had me since I was eight weeks old and never done a thing untoward to me. I actually went to therapy for a short time when I was about five after I started chasing and nibbling on the ankles of people who came up behind me by surprise. Following therapy, I would always receive a treat whenever strangers approached so that I'd supposedly equate strangers with good things. It worked marginally.

Alas, I've learned to accept myself as I am. And I think Mr. Bill has as well.

And On the Topic of Snow...

Fruits of Mr. Bill's labor keep the backyard interesting in winter.

Tonight's snow -- which, by the way, is covering all traces of rabbit poop, a frozen delicacy this time of year -- harkens back to many great memories I've had in the winter wonderland. In particularly snowy winters, Mr. Bill has carved out quite intricate mazes for me to traverse in the yard. I rather enjoy it, as I've always been an athletic dog and once excelled in agility class (perhaps more on that another day).

It's a little odd to see a middle-aged man, shovel in hand (he does not own a snow blower, which would make things much easier), digging to China through feet-high snow. But that's what he does. Here's an example of his handiwork and my incredible athleticism (and I was about 80 when this was filmed). Enjoy!

Shortcomings

I've got to be honest with you. I'm short. There, I said it. You were probably wondering anyway but were too kind to ask.

To be sure, I'm not as short as if I were one hundred percent Dachshund or had any of that miniature variety in me. Bill likes to tell people that "next to a regular dog, he looks like a dachshund, while next to a dachshund, he looks like a regular dog." You get the picture.

The annual snowstorm mug shot.

Tonight, we're having a little snowstorm here in Minnesota.  As the snow begins to pile up, it's hard to get away from the fact that I don't have the clearance of an 18-wheeler, and I must count on master to clear a path for me in the backyard. Perhaps there is no other way to assess the devotion of an owner than to see how regularly he shovels snow from the tundra for his height-challenged dog. I've got no complaints there. My heinie always stays dry.

A Consignment Purchase

I had good looks from the start.

It was the week of Thanksgiving in 1995. I was hanging out at Penny’s Paws and Claws, a pet shop in the burgeoning California central valley town of Folsom, with a bunch of other puppies. We had a steady stream of visitors that fawned over us, picked us up, talked to us as if we were babies, and generally made us feel like the most important things in the world (and really, who could argue that?).

I studied the visitors closely once I realized that any of them had the power to take me home. I listened carefully to the questions they asked Penny, looking for any clue about a prospective owner’s style.

Most asked about a dog’s personality, lineage and approximate size at maturity. One guy asked all those questions, and more. He had great trepidation about buying his first dog and sought to reduce the risk. So the man worked out a deal with Penny to purchase a puppy on a one-week trial basis.

That guy was Bill. And the dog was yours truly. After another hour's worth of questions, I finally hopped into his car and off I went. I was finally free -- yet I felt like I was on some sort of probation that made no sense to me.

Blog? Schmog!

In the twilight of my life.

For once, I'm giving in to my ever-adoring master's long-held wishes.

His grandfather was a writer and occasional Einstein penpal. His father wrote books about baseball. And master himself likes to think he can turn a phrase. So why shouldn't his dog write, or so went his delusional thinking.

So here I am, toiling away as a writer in the last of my years. Honestly, this isn't how I pictured myself at the ripe age of 105, but I've elected to see it as the beginning of a final, lasting act to please Mr. Bill.