Don't try this at home

How many of you have seen that guy the Dog Whisperer rollerblading with his dogs on TV? How many of you have heard the disclaimer at the beginning of the show that says not to attempt any of his techniques without consulting a professional? It appears that Mom missed that little snippet of advice.

Caution: Reader Discretion is Advised
The following blog post contains graphic descriptions of physical injuries, including dangerous situations, blood, and gore, that may be unsuitable for some readers.

It was your average Saturday afternoon, I'd spent the morning napping, doing some doga on the balcony, chasing the swiffer, nothing out of the ordinary. Mom and Mama went out to run some errands, and then came back for my mid-day walk. While I was stretching and getting ready, I saw Mom putting on a bunch of funny pads and a helmet--she looked like a gladiator (the American variety, not the Roman), but I was polite and didn't say anything, because I didn't want to hurt her feelings. She isn't the most graceful, and I thought maybe she finally wised up and wanted to protect herself while doing dangerous activities like walking. Anyhow, she put on a backpack, and we headed to the park.

When we got to the path, Mom sat down on a big rock, and started taking her shoes off. I got really excited because I thought maybe I'd get to snag one to carry around and snack on during the walk, but she put them back in the backpack. Then she pulled out a pair of rollerblades from the backpack--I have NO idea where these things came from, but they didn't look like the kind you usually see on blonde, buxom Californians with exposed midriffs in movies from the 90's. No, they were more like hockey skates, and they looked a little chewed up, like that one sandal I got my teeth on a while ago. The one thing I noticed was that, unlike the native to the California beaches, these skates had no brakes. I didn't think much of it, because I was SO excited that Mom would finally be able to walk as fast as I like to walk in the park, which is somewhere between greyhound and cheetah.

So, Mom laced up the skates, grabbed ahold of my leash, stood up, and immediately fell down. I was momentarily disappointed, but before I could figure out what to do next, she was up again, and rolling down the path. I trotted along beside Mom, wondering why we hadn't done this months ago, when I sensed danger. We were going pretty fast, and up ahead was a little bridge over the creek that runs through the park. The path curved pretty sharply on the other side of the bridge, and according to my keen sense of balance and mathematical calculations, I didn't think we'd be able to navigate the turn at such a high speed.

I tried to slow Mom down by dragging my paws and stopping to sniff the grass, but it didn't do any good, she just pulled me along behind her like a rodeo bull dragging a cowboy. That's when I knew we were going down. Sure enough, as we started down the bridge, Mom's feet, skates and all, started flailing wildly, and the next thing I knew, she was on the ground. I ran up to her and assessed the situation. Her breathing was ragged, and there was some blood, but she had a strong pulse, and her pupils weren't dilated. I jumped up and barked for help, but I was still tethered to the leash, so I couldn't run home to Mama. Luckily, Mom had her phone, so we called the house, and Mama came down with the car, and we loaded the injured party into the triage area. After some initial bandaging, we were able to drive home, and get the patient more comfortable.

Mom was fine, aside from some pretty nasty bruises, and she says she's going to practice on her own so that we can try again soon. I'm not holding my breath.

You decide...

Hot tubs, chopped liver, leather furniture...is this what doggie heaven is like?

Dearest readers, there comes a time in every dog's life when he experiences something truly astounding, and the meaning of life itself is revealed to him. I, Oliver, experienced that moment last weekend. I tasted chopped liver.

Now, some back story is required for you to understand how it came about that I tasted this nectar of the gods. First, you know I had been preparing for Passover for quite some time. All my cousins were going to be there, and I wanted to be at my best. It was a beautiful spring day, and while we were waiting for my cousins to arrive, Mom and I went out on Grandma's back deck. Grandma's house, and, subsequently, deck, are pretty small, and most of the space is taken up by what I had previously believed to be some sort of special tanning bed. It is, in fact, a giant hole in the deck! Of course, I investigated further...Mom had her feet in the hole, so it couldn't be too dangerous...

I walked all the way around the hole, several times. I sniffed it, I stuck my paw in it, I licked it, and I could find nothing objectionable about it, but, neither did I find it particularly interesting. I sat down next to Mom to get some sun and have a little snooze, but that didn't last long. Three of my standard Poodle cousins came barreling through the back door and onto the deck. As long as there are no steak bones involved, they are a fairly gregarious bunch, albeit quite large, and so began the requisite butt-sniffing and frolicking. Then, before I knew it, I was lost in the shuffle, and I lost my balance and went head over paws RIGHT INTO THE HOLE!

Well, I must tell you, I'd never felt anything quite like this before. It was kind of like getting a bath, only the water was hot and bubbly, and it wasn't just spraying on me, it was surrounding me. For a moment, I panicked, but then almost as quickly as I fell in, Mom was scooping me out. Grandma jumped up and got some towels, and everyone made a big fuss, which I enjoyed. Can you blame them, look at me...

So, you ask, what does all this have to do with chopped liver? Well, I looked so pathetic and everyone felt so bad for me after I got pushed into the hole, that they all started sneaking me little smackerels of chopped liver from the table. You might think that one little lick of liver isn't such a big deal, but when there are a dozen people who are all feeling sorry for you, that's quite a snack!

All in all, it was a most exhausting day. After my cousins left, and everyone else was hanging out in the hole, I snatched a prime spot on the couch to sleep off my liver overdose. Thank goodness Passover only comes once a year!

While I was out...

Have you ever seen that decorating show where someone thinks they are going away to visit their sister or something, but really while they're gone an interior designer and a carpenter and a TV crew show up at their house to help their totally clueless significant other redecorate their room? Oh, come on, don't try to tell me you never watch that trash, I know you've seen it. Anyway, IT HAPPENED TO ME!!! Minus the TV cameras--they must have been filming some other show that day. I am not even joking--here's what happened. My chauffeur (Mom) dropped me off at the salon for my grooming appointment. No worries, I'm even cuter than before, except for one unfortunate feature of my new haircut, which I will photograph for you this evening, that makes me bear a startling resemblance to one Mr. Ambrose Burnside.

Anyway, things only started to get exciting when we got home. I walked in the door, and it was the big reveal! My crate was still there (thank goodness!), but everything else was different. All the furniture was moved around, even the carpet I had worked so hard to shred to pieces was gone! At first, I was a little taken aback. Where were all my toys? Would I still have a runway to use for my Risky Business moves? How could Mom and Mama do this without consulting me, the fashion expert?

Then, I calmed down, examined the whole room, gave everything a sniff-down, and ascertained the location of all my toys. Everything was present and accounted for, and the move even made my runway a teeny bit longer for extra sliding distance. Indeed, I had even more floor space around my crate, and to make me feel at home, the moms had gotten me a replacement toy for my dear departed lamb. (Oh, yes, just as the Freds have left us, so the beloved lamb, which I had slept with every night since my arrival in the People's Republic, went on to wherever good toys go when they die.) This toy says, "Toughies" on it, "Tough rating-7 out of 10," (one being as flimsy as a sock, 10 being as indestructible as the side of the bathtub) but I don't want to get my hopes up that it will last for very long.

In any case, everything was fine, and we even got to stop at the dog park, where I met a Beagle named Edgar who is the only dog I've met who comes close to matching my keep-away skills. Edgar, if you're out there, you're da bomb. I'll meet you at the park this Saturday morning. And bring your own stick, you mooch!

Now, I must turn my attentions to preparing for the Passover feast at Grandmas. My cousin, Winston, is technically the youngest, and says he's going to do it, but I'm going to prepare for the four questions just in case he can't put his matzo where his mouth is. I'm also planning a dramatic recitation of Dayenu, complete with costumes, props and choreography by yours truly. If only I had been given one sock to chew...Dayenu!...

Walden Three

Recently, I have been frequenting a place called the dog park. It is a wonderful and fascinating place, sort of a social experiment in dog and human interactions. I like visiting the dog park for several reasons:
A) The dog park is full of humans who appreciate dogs, and, in particular, appreciate my dapper good looks. I tend to get a lot of attention, if I do say so myself.
B) There is unlimited water at the dog park. It is all over in plastic bottles, giant metal bowls big enough for me to stand inside (don't try that at home!), and coming out of a hose.
C) There are lots of toys and sticks at the dog park that belong to no one in particular. I approach these items with the mindset that they all belong to me.
D) There are lots of big dogs at the dog park. You might think this would be a problem, but in reality, it is excellent. Big dogs are not always the brightest. All it takes to get a big dog to chase you is to run up to it with a stick, shake the stick in its face, and run away. They'll chase me every time, sometimes for hours. This pleases me.
E) What happens in the dog park stays in the dog park. Let's just say I tend to be what they call a "big man on campus." I'm sorry I can't tell you more, but that would totally defeat the purpose of point E. You'll just have to come with me sometime and see for yourself.

Here are some action shots taken by Aunt Martha at the dog park:

Me: Is it dead?
Pug: I don't know, dude. Touch it and find out.
Me: Have you gone mad? I don't touch dead things. You touch it. Pug: No way, man! Me: Let's get that dim-witted Retriever to do it. Pug: Good idea.

"Fake right, break left!"

Hello? Are you in there?

Alright, after the Freds, I just felt a little down, and I didn't want you all to be sitting there, in front of your computer screens, while you're supposed to be working or paying your bills or e-mailing your mother, and feeling really depressed about the loss of the Freds. Don't feel too sad for me, it's really not all that bad. I mean, it's not the same as a Fred, but I still have my chili pepper, remote control, lamb, hamburger, human-shaped blob, and socks. So, buck up, it's almost Friday! As a happy Friday present to you all, I've put a new picture in my profile. Mom caught this shot as Mama and I came in from a walk--I needed a new pencil for taking notes when I can't get to the computer, so I picked one up while we were out. On our next walk, I'm going to try shopping for a webcam.

Elegy on a Fred

Dear, dear readers, today is a very dark day in my life. Today, the last of my Freds is dead. All my Freds were loyal, loving, and always smiling. They enriched my life in immeasurable ways. For a while, Mama was suturing up my Freds when they were injured, but eventually it was too much to keep up with, and I had to put them out of their misery. Here's a photo of me and SuperFred in happier times...So, first SuperFred, who was a Puppy Kindergarten graduation gift from Mama, and had two open-fluff surgeries, finally succumbed. Then, just tonight, the original Fred, the first Fred I ever had, given to me as a Festivus gift from my best pal Winston, sang his swan song. Mom captured the drama of the moment...
Yes, that's Fred's guts spilled out all over the couch. It wasn't pretty, but I'm glad I was there for his final moments.

The problem now is that I've always had a backup Fred, so when one couldn't hang on any longer, another was waiting in the wings. I'm not sure what I'll do now, it will be a long and lonely night...