Belling the Dog

When I first came to live with the photographer, he bought me a brand new collar. He also bought a tag with my name on it, added it to the collar and told me I looked very handsome.

He took me to the vet, who looked me over, gave me some shots, and after pronouncing me a good dog, gave me a tag to add to my new collar. The photographer told me it was to show what a healthy dog I was.

Then a tag came in the mail from the city to prove I had been registered. He added it to my collar and told me it showed what a responsible dog I was.

After I went exploring several times (all on my own) the photographer bought me a tag with contact information on it. He added it to all the other tags and told me now I could find my way home no matter where I traveled.

Last week at the studio, the door was open so the electricians could come in and out to do their work. I wasn't really interested in what was happening in the hallway as long as my humans stayed in the room. I take my job seriously and am determined to make sure my humans are well behaved.

At first, they were both occupied with a project. The artist was busy working away when the photographer decided to wander out into the hallway.

Being the good dog that I am, I wanted to check on him to make sure he wasn't causing trouble.
Every time I started toward the door, the artist would get an attack of insecurity and call me back. I sat at her feet and let her pet me until she was calmed, then I would try again to check on the photographer.

Several times I tried to make it to the door. Each time I would take a few steps and she would get upset and need me to take care of her. I knew she was fine and I really needed to see what the photographer was up to.

I sat for a few minutes, then very quietly crept away. I made it all the way to the door before the artist realized I was gone.

That was when it hit me. I didn't have all those tags to look handsome, to prove I had shots, was registered, or so I could find my way home. They gave me all those tags to wear so I would make noise!

Oh those sneaky humans. Now that I know what they are up to, I have learned to walk in such a way that my tags don't jingle.

All I have to do now is figure out how to get some sort of jingles on the humans, they will be so much easier to keep track of.

Love,
Buddy

What do you get....

What do you get when you have an artist walking two dogs; Spencer on one side and Buddy (thats me!) on the other, and a cat runs in front of them?

Abstract Artist!

Love,
Buddy

I am not spoiled!

... but life is really good.

Love,
Buddy

Happy Mother's Day

Are you at a loss of what to get your mother for Mother's Day?

Do make her breakfast in bed.
Don't leave the kitchen in a mess for her to clean.

Do offer to take the kids to the park so she can have a nap.
Don't come home and ask "what's for dinner?"

Do mow the lawn.
Don't give her a lawnmower (or a vacuum cleaner).

A mom with a newborn is still happy she had kids. She will be delighted with any little thing especially if it has crayon scribbles and grape jelly on it.

A mom with toddlers/elementary school age kids will be happy with a couple of hours of alone time.**

A mom with teenagers is beginning to question the wisdom of having children. She'll settle for a meal where everyone is civil to each other.

After the kids have all left home, mom will be back to being happy she had kids, and she'll be delighted with any little thing, even if it has crayon scribbles and grape jelly on it.


**Taking care of your own children is called being a parent. Taking care of someone else's children is called babysitting.

Love,
Buddy

Sharing

There are some things that I just shouldn't be expected to share!

All last week I had a guest, Spencer. (I was dog-sitting)

Now Spencer is a perfectly lovely dog, a bit spirited at times, but as well behaved as can be expected of a teenager. I didn't mind sharing my home, my bedroom, my food, my studio, my walks, or even my humans (though I wasn't terribly happy about the latter).

I do however, draw the line at sharing my Marsha Bone. My Aunt Marsha gave me that bone for Christmas. I have been saving it, savoring it with not so much as a toothmark on it. Every morning I use it to play chase with the humans. There is no way I am going to let Spencer lay a paw on it.

At first I tried carrying it around but it was difficult, not to mention rude, to talk with a bone in my mouth.

I tried chewing it. That only worked for a little bit. It turns out that when you chew a Marsha Bone it gets soft and I chewed the end off. Then I had two pieces to worry about. Darn!

I had the artist hide the biggest end on the cabinet under the stairs and I hid the little end in a pile of boxes, then went to defend the big end. I stood on the stairs and did my best impression of a police-dog.

Finally the artist took both pieces and put them so high that not even I could smell them and I no longer had to worry about Spencer getting them. Whew!

Sharing is over-rated. (unless I had the opportunity to share fleas)

Love,
Buddy