Sprite's Keeper

RTT: It's been a while for me..

I think Stacy is still leading the revolt against ending Random Tuesday Thoughts. Or Keely has picked up the gauntlet again?

Let me cover my tracks and tell you to click on both sites and say hi. This way, you DO make it to the right place (eventually) and I can fact check one less thing today.

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I think Harry has a tick in his fur. Rather, in his skin, since we shaved him near bald this last weekend to stop him from becoming a plant seeing as every weed out there likes to attach their crap seeds to his long hair, so there's really no fur left. In fact, when all the hair came off, we realized how gray he was getting, punctuating the fact (repeatedly) with "Dude, you're getting old!"

Today he turns nine, which works out to, um, add seven... carry the one... really lucky in dog years considering the amount of times he's peed under our dining room table just to be a schmuck.

So, I keep reminding myself every couple of minutes to tell John about the tick since I refuse to do anything about it myself. It's more of a squeamish thing, I think, or it's a, um, nope, definitely a squeamish thing. John is working late tonight (Monday) and I'm trying to stay coherent since the drowsiness is really starting to kick in.

Harry must be noticing my phobia for, even though he's known for being a loner, a rebel, he's extra cuddly tonight, wanting to hop into my lap for some love just to be pushed off amid screams of "Unclean!" (Subtle, no?)

******************

Lately, I am addicted to House Hunters on HGTV. Not the International one, those shows seem to center on people looking for a vacation home in Belize somewhere in the million plus range. "Only five bathrooms? How will my husband and I survive??"

Of course, on most of the episodes I see, I can't help but notice that there's one home out of the three possible that is within budget, nails everything on the wants list, is within walking distance of someone's work, and is move in ready. The prospective buyer gushes about the place only to turn around and pick the one that's over the high end of their budget, had nothing they wanted, and has a crack in the foundation and water in the basement. And then, after they pick it, they praise it up and down about how it's exactly what they were looking for and the water in the basement is a good thing for they now have an indoor pool.

I have actually pressed the rewind button on my Tivo just to make sure they're lying.

They are.

****************************************

Taken from a Facebook status:

John: You can't make me laugh.
Me: Yes I can.
John: Just try it.
Me: ....... Sasquatch.
I win.

************************************

Another Facebook status: (Have I mentioned how tired I am tonight?)

"Can I be the kid?"
"Mommy, you can't be the kid."
"Why not?"
"You're a dolt."

She only has a few more years to get away with this, so I'm letting her have it.

**************************

Okay, one more Facebook status: (Seriously, these little joke apertif's make up most of my Facebook content. I am not known for my insightful commentary..)

Sprite: Where are we going today?
Me: We may go to IKEA.
Sprite: What's IKEA?
Me: A store.
Sprite: It's not a store. It's a playground.
Me: For Mommy it is.

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OOH! I just saw this one! Personally, I think it didn't get enough notice for the hidden meaning within the joke, I guess a lot of people were just too in shock over the news to notice it:

ABC canceled All My Children and One Life To Live. There's going to be a lot of pensive staring out of windows tonight..

Please tell me you found that funny. I laughed myself silly over it for ten minutes after I posted it.

Alright, this should be enough for my first foray back into the land of RTT. And I think I have jetlag for some reason even though I went nowhere near a plane this weekend.

******************************

Oh, and John? If you haven't heard yet, Harry may have a tick in his skin. Can you check? Preferably when I'm nowhere near? Thanks.

*shudder*

I was going to post office pictures today, but my dog ran away with my post.

Seriously.

Blue got out again. And as of 5 AM this morning when this post publishes, she will have still been missing. (I would love to check my grammar on that last sentence, but between the worry and the calls from Sprite "Have you found Blue?" "Is she back? Blue is my best friend." "Mommy, when Daddy comes back, tell him we need to find Blue." and my responses "No, not yet." "No, I know she's your best friend." "Sprite, we're LOOKING." "GO TO BED!!" and the fact I just feel so dejected right now, memories of 9th grade English are not coming forth.)

I haven't mentioned that she also got out last Friday. My parents were visiting and arrived at our house while I was picking Sprite up from school. I was in the empty classroom, rushing to shove Sprite into her dance outfit before the other kids came in from the playground, when the cell rang. I glanced at the number and answered. "Hey, Dad. Are you here?"

"Yeah. Listen, Jen, we let the dogs out and now we can't find Blue."

"Shit."

"Mommy, that's a bad word."

"Crap. Um, no, sorry, Sprite." I shooed her into finishing up while I thought about what to do. "Okay, Dad, we're coming home."

No dance class for us. The dog came first. Once we had Sprite's things together, an idea came to me and I called my father back.

"Hey, Dad? Take the container of bones out and look over by Dan's house. There's a thicket of bushes that Blue likes to sniff by. We're on our way."

The phone rang two minutes later.

"Found her."

Dance class was saved.

Of course, two weeks before that, she had escaped through another hole in the fence, not the one we had already patched up from her first jailbreak, or the one she subsequently dug her way through with my parents on watch, aided this time by an armadillo who had been sneaking into our vegetable patch only to realize that we had no vegetable patch, just weeds. No, this was a brand new route. And of course, John was working late and it was just Sprite and me.

Riddle me this. Harry is the smaller dog, Blue is much bigger around. Why is Blue the one escaping while Harry waits patiently to be let in?

Anyway, I loaded Sprite and the smarter canine into the van and started our tour of the neighborhood, helped by the later setting sun. We weaved our way through streets, looking in her usual spots, checking out sources of whining or barking in other areas. John ditched his evening plans and joined the search party. As the sky grew dark, we were about to give up when John proposed one more go around. Driving slowly through, we turned down one street after another, close to our home, calling out for our lost dog.

A cruiser came past us, continuing down the block before turning around at the end of the street. Oblivious to it, I pointed John down another road.

Seconds later, the red and blues were on illuminating our van. What a picture we must have painted, a preschooler in the back seat, out clearly past her bedtime, a terrior who was crying out from the back, and me nagging John, "pull out your license! Oh my God, where did you put the registration?"

John flipped up the interior lights so the approaching officer could see everything within and explained the situation to the thankfully sympathetic County Sheriff who promised to look out for a beagle, but wanted to let us know that a concerned neighbor had called them due to our suspicious activity.

Probably the same neighbors who had seen us in the exact same van for the past three hours calling out for our pup while it was still daylight.

(Why drive to look for our dog? Well, with a four year old, walking and running are not options. Riding your bike is not an option. Keeping the kid confined, preferably with restraints, is the ONLY option. Plus, we live in a rural area, the benefit of this area being that there's a lot of thick brush everywhere making it difficult to hide a criminal who's scoping houses, the drawback of this area being that there's a lot of thick brush everywhere making it perfect to hide a vertically challenged dog who thinks her nose supersedes some stupid fence.)

As soon as the officer walked back to his car, we admitted defeat and headed home, but not even ten minutes later, John decided to give it one more try and headed out on his own with flashlight and the van.

He had her back within thirty minutes, having followed the sound of her jangling collar and the loud chat she decided to have with some neighborhood dogs a couple of streets over.

This time though? Her jangling collar was found snagged on our fence, right where she escaped, the other collar she's wearing has no ID on it. This offered no assistance as we were now looking for a silent dog who, unless she's in trouble, doesn't make much noise.

I took the bike out while John and Sprite patrolled by van, taking different streets, turning down one, then another, winding our ways through in jagged "Z" formations.

Nothing.

I stalked every dark form I spotted from yards away, pedaling as fast as I could before I identified a cat, a duck, a box. (The box wasn't black, but anything low to the ground was getting a closer look.) I followed every noise I could hear, barking dogs a hopeful smoke signal.

Nothing.

I pulled into driveways, finding the very chihuahuas Sprite's been auditioning to replace Blue, yapping like mad just because their shadows were yapping back.

Chihuahuas are definitely off the list for future pets. I don't care how many idiotic movies they make about them.

John thinks he's going to try once more tonight. I can only hope I strike through the five am update with some good news.

She's about to turn 11. She's old, she's epileptic, she has a heart murmur, she's dumber than a milk-bone, yet seems to be a master at escaping, escaping the very home that keeps her safe from a world that is less than sympathetic to the less than strong, she's got a mass growing on her right side, common for female beagles that gets larger every time I check it. She's weak overall and too nice, a perfect victim.

Every time she does this, we claim this is the last time we'll look for her.

Every time, we prod each other into just one more search.

10:30PM: We're both sitting in bed, deciding who will be the one to go to Lee County Animal Services to file the missing dog report tomorrow. We've already checked out the website, already told Sprite that we would try to find her tomorrow, put a forlorn child to bed thinking her beloved dog is not coming back. By the way, did you know "she's my best friend"?

I'm typing this post out when I hear a short little bark, a hound dog pitched bark, a Blue sounding bark.

I turn to John. "Did you hear that?"

He looks up from his laptop. "No. What?"

"It sounded like Blue!" I leap out of bed, immediately shoving my feet into flip flops while John runs about, grabbing a shirt.

I think I heard it from the rear of the house so John heads to the back door, armed with a flashlight to check the fenced in yard, maybe she decided to make good on her bad behavior and squirmed back in under the gate?

While he looks, I call for Harry who's been hiding under the bed. He walks out, interested in going outside, but hasn't displayed any alert behavior leaving me as the only one who heard the bark.

Maybe I'm wrong?

John comes back in, shaking his head. "I'll check out front."

We both walk out the open garage door, looking out onto the dark street.

"I think I heard some barking over there," he mentions, pointing toward the North. Just below his finger, I notice a dark form coming closer, as if she had been hanging out in our front yard for the past five hours all along.

"Blue!"

She walks right over to John as he leans down to ruffle her fur. I promptly burst into tears. What can I say? I love that damn dog. And we're both just in shock that, for the first time, she's come home on her own.

The kid is sleeping right through everything.

We usher her inside, declaring leash only laws on the wayward one until we can finally fix the fence problem once and for all, letting her rehydrate since she beelines for the water bowl as soon as she's inside. "Drink up, bitch," John comments as he walks back into the bedroom.

Blue is now snoring underneath our bed, right where she belongs.

And John and I can't wait until Sprite wakes up in the morning..

Dear Blue, Watch Your Back..

It's all John's fault. Even he knows it.

About a month ago, John had Sprite out of the house while I tackled all the painting projects on a sunny Saturday. Their plan was to spend the day out, with a round of mini-golf, lunch together, and some park time since Florida had allegedly forgotten it's supposed to be brutally hot year round. (Florida remembers now...)

In the midst of my chore, my cell phone kept pinging with texts from John for status updates on what they were doing. I would intermittently look over and check on their fun, until a message caught my eye:

John: Guess what we bought?

My phone sounded off again almost instantly, a picture:

 

Me: WHAT?!?!

John: Too bad the beagle was sold, but Sprite loved the chihuahau, I couldn't resist.

Me: You're fucking with me, right? (Yes, I curse occasionally when texting. And cooking. And driving. Maybe sleeping, but I'm unconscious, so does it really count?)

The phone beeped again. Another picture message:

 

John: They only give balloons to those who buy a dog. She's picking hers out now!

Me: JOHN...

John: ......

That's right. He stayed silent.

I knew he was kidding, mostly. Out of the two of us, if someone were to knock on our door and announce their immediate love for our dogs, John would hand him the leashes without pause because yes, dogs can be a hassle. I'm sure he would think twice about Harry since Harry is the smarter of the two, but John moans and groans about the constant upkeep which accompanies canine companionship and the shedding involved.

Of course, Sprite came home without a new puppy, but excited overall about the chihauhaus she had gotten to play with, especially since they looked like the ones in "the chihauhau movie, Mommy!"

The next day, we were getting ready for an outing when Sprite mentioned, "Blue is sick. She's going to die."

I looked up from her sneakers as I processed what she had said. "Blue's not sick. Who told you that?"

"Daddy."

"JOHN!"

Ah, four year olds. John had let her play with the cute little puppies, and when she asked to bring one home, (she never says "buy", it's "bring". I know she knows we buy things at the store, but I think she's already thought about the financial stigma attached to "buy" so she says "bring" to soften the blow. Doesn't work, but it's a nice try.) he told her that our house was already full with the two we have, but maybe when one of them passes away, we could get another dog.

Now, Sprite took this to mean that, in order to get a new dog, she had to "off" one of the current staff.

Nice, John. You just put a target on Harry and Blue. And since Blue is the one who's usually banging her head into the glass door because she can't realize it's closed even though Harry knows and purposely waits for it to be opened while the beagle pushes on, and since Blue is the one with the overall health problems, Sprite has set her sights on Blue as the one who will just keel over because Sprite wants a newer, yappier model.

Sprite had been introduced to the topic of death by HBO Family Channel and a seemingly innocent cartoon about a goldfish named, um, Lenny? , a program that started with a boy who loved his pet and all the fun this pet would bring until the writers decided to really hand it to the parents who were either semi- paying attention or dozing off right after the opening credits by killing Lenny. I remember John telling me about it when he called me in one of our mid-morning "How did drop off go?" status updates. Surprisingly, to us at least, she handled it well, most likely because the show glossed over the whole "God and the ever after and heaven" perspective and just dealt with the kid's reaction to losing a friend. Hand it to HBO to open THAT can of worms.. But Sprite just seemed to go with the flow of it all, not really asking more questions, leaving us to approach it when she would, say, throw Prince Naveen from the peak of her Barbie castle and proclaim him dead. (Not that I blame her, he IS kind of a jerk in the first half of Princess and the Frog.)

Aside: While writing this post, I called John to ask him the name of the pet goldfish that swam the greater tide(y bowl).

"I had maybe a quarter of my left eyeball on it. I don't know."

I will quote him on this for the rest of his life, I loved it so much.

Aside over.

Now, with the prospect of a new puppy in her sights and her mission to make it happen, the daily updates on Blue have become grim.

"Blue is coughing. She's dying."

"No she's not. She may just have a cold."

"But she coughed. She's sick."

"She's alright, Sprite."

"Can I name my new puppy Princess?"

See what I'm dealing with?

 

She's fine, folks. NOT on her way out no matter what the kid says...

 

Looking for Stupid

Have you seen Blue?

We've been looking, but she may have left Southwest Florida by now.

Damn dog dug a hole under the fence and scooted out to follow her nose. Unfortunately, as we've witnessed many times over the last ten years, her nose does not know how to lead her home. We usually end up tracking her with Harry leading the way.

Last night, I thought this would be the case as I peered into the back yard and saw only Harry waiting to come inside. Yelling for Sprite to put on some shoes and grabbing flashlights to point into the setting twilight, we ran outside and yelled for her. Nothing. No sound.

Maybe she had run down a few blocks, although it was highly unlikely since 1. she's fat, 2. she's lazy, and 3. she's pretty stupid. Hustling Sprite and an increasingly irritated Harry (his bitch was missing, he was moody) into the van, I toured through the neighborhood, my high beams on, a metal container of milkbones shaken by my free hand since she usually responds to the noise.

Not this time.

Frustrated, and a little worried, I called John, who was still making his way home from work. "Blue got out again."

"Damn it! Did you check the brush next to Dan's house? That's where she was last time."

I immediately turned around and drove back down our street, past our house and to the end of the road where wild bushes, thick weeds, and overgrown trees dominated the space between our neighbors and the canal.

Parking, I instructed Sprite to stay in the van while I brought Harry out with me to be my nose and the can of noisemakers to get Blue's attention.

"Blue!"

"Clang! Clang!"

"BLUE!"

"Clang! Clang!"

"Found her!" Sprite's voice chirped from inside the van.

I spun to see her face and which direction she was looking in. Which was straight back at me. "You said you found her? Where?"

She smiled cheekily. "No, I said louder."

Oh.

I peered down at Harry, who was not interested in finding his companion anymore but in my flashlight beam which he was trying to eat off the ground. I moved the flashlight and he pounced on the traveling spot. Oy.

"BLUUUUUEEEEE!"

"Louder!"

"Enough, Sprite. I'm trying to find Blue."

"She's not here. She's far far away."

My stomach surged, knowing that might be true, the longer we stood here without a hint.

Night having fully fallen, we had to give up and wait for John to come home as it didn't make sense to drag a four year old all over the dark neighborhood.

"Mommy, is Blue coming back?"

"I hope so, hon."

"She's my best friend. I call her chickee-poo."

"You do?"

"Yes, and I hug her ALL the time. She's my best friend in the WHOLE world."

Way to load up the guilt, kid.

************************************

John came home twenty minutes later to find Sprite drinking some hot cocoa (I've tried for the last two years to introduce the stuff and it took her friend Brennon telling her it was his favorite drink for her to adopt it as HER favorite drink and demand it suddenly.) and me wringing my hands in worry.

 "Did you find her?"

"Daddy! Blue is missing and she's long gone and look! I have cocoa!"

He smiled at Sprite before meeting my eyes. "I'll go out, but don't expect me to find her too easily."

I understood why, Blue is mostly black with the typical beagle brown and white patches, and the trademark white tipped tail, but it didn't bring down my concern any.

Blue's been diagnosed with epilepsy for many years now. Her siezures, while mostly minor and intermittent in her puppy days, have been growing in intensity and frequency. About two months back, she had an episode while my parents were visiting, scaring them and Sprite, who was now at an age where she could see something was definitely wrong with her faithful friend. I corralled the careening dog into one spot, trying to calm her down, her heart racing, I could feel it beneath my hand as I tried to keep her still, I knew SHE was afraid of what was happening, why she couldn't control her legs, why her front paws weren't holding her steady anymore. She slid down in front of me, salivating heavily, her head falling, as if getting all of her bulk as close to the ground as she could would stop her body from disobeying.

John, seeing my reaction at the possibility that this was it for our ten year old dog, picked her up and closed himself in with her within our bedroom to give her some more calm and stop Sprite from screaming.

About fifteen minutes later, he let her out, and she acted as if nothing had happened, bee-lining for the water bowl to rehydrate.

They've happened since, some not as bad, some making us wonder if she was actually in pain. The vet has told us she's not. It just freaks everyone out, including Blue, when it happens.

Knowing this issue could be a detriment to a wandering dog with a willful nose, I stayed back with Sprite and hoped for a miracle while John nuked some chicken nuggets to entice her and took off in our van again with his own flashlight.

******************************************

"Mommy, is Blue coming back?"

"I hope so, Sprite."

"She's my best friend."

"I know."

*****************************************

By now, three hours had passed since we'd last seen Blue running into the backyard. Getting Sprite ready for bed, and fielding the constant questions of where Blue was and why would Blue leave us and will Blue be back in time to sleep in Sprite's room and why don't rainbows have the color black, (looks like not ALL of her thoughts were focused on our missing dog), the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"I'm hot on her trail. I can hear her!"

"John?"

"I'm three streets over, I just have to- I have to go."

The line went dead.

 *************************************

The garage door opened and John walked in, Blue stumbling in ahead of him.

Sprite and I rushed them, happy to have our dog home, happy that Daddy was the hero of the night.

"Where was she?"

"Deep in the brambles. Some smell in there keeps drawing her over and she tried to push through. I knocked on a few doors to be allowed in their backyards and could hear her caught in the brush."

Blue was head down in the water bowl, replenishing, not listening to us as her tail wagged wildly due to Sprite's fawning attention.

"Did you get her out of it?"

"No, she was too deep. I just kept calling her, and stood there for about ten minutes listening to her fight her way through. Finally, she came out."

 We both looked down at the dog who had eaten up our entire evening. And the child who was exclaiming excitedly over her and asking question after question about her adventure, knowing she wouldn't get an answer, her imagination would fill in those details.

Stupid dog.

 

 

Houdini

Dad checked his ringing cell as we walked alongside the Reflecting Pool toward the Lincoln Memorial. "Jen, it's John."

I took the phone from him and flipped it open. "Hello?"

"Hey." His tone was off.

"What's wrong? Is everyone okay?"

"Yes, now it is, but I'm going to kick him in the teeth when we get back."

I stopped walking, my dad outpacing me before he realized this was a standstill conversation.

"What? What happened?"

"Harry ran away."

Oh, no.

Due to outside circumstances, John and I had asked our neighbors to look after Blue and Harry while we were out of town. Taking advantage of our fenced in backyard, we set up a schedule of crating them during the day (typical for our workday schedules) and letting them into the back porch and yard at night to get some exercise, and just shake off the bars for a while. Of course, one would surmise that this arrangement would work better in the daytime, but we live in Florida, land of the heat wave, in the middle of summer, the DOG DAYS OF SUMMER, we take our heatstrokes pretty seriously..

This set up went well the first night.

We didn't account for the nasty electrical storm the next night. (Those dogs are pretty afraid of lightning and thunder yet go Kujo on a passing cat's ass? Maybe if felines were to start meowing thunderclaps, they wouldn't get chased as often.)

Here's the story as we heard it:

During the deep of the night, when the storm was raging, Harry managed to dig himself a path underneath the fence and ran out, leaving poor Blue to fend for herself. He then ran through a canal, not a dry canal, a FULL OF WATER canal, which bisects the neighborhood, and ran another four blocks or so, just because he could, before finally coming to rest on a strange front porch where he sat underneath the awning waiting to be let in.

(I asked if this house looked like ours, maybe that was why he picked it? The response was no. So chances are there was some homecooking going on that night.)

A young man opened his door to find a small, drenched terrier shivering on his stoop. He quickly found this dog to be friendly and brought him inside to dry off a bit and get warm.

Here's where the story could have gone a different way:

Harry is a lapdog. Okay, actually, he's not. He acts like a schmuck when any kid with sticky fingers tends to get too close to him, but he LOOKS like a lapdog. The mix of yorkie and rat would make him very desirable as a pet should someone decide to take him off our hands. Not that we're offering. We actually love that little mongrel madly.

The young man had a choice. He could keep Harry, never trying to find the owners, which would have made for some very sad times at the Keeper house, (Gah, just imagining having to explain it to Sprite is not pretty.) or he could be an upstanding citizen and call the number on Harry's tag.

Oh, wait. About the tag:

Harry's name tag had fallen off a LONG time ago. His vet tag and license identification were still attached to his collar, but anyone calling him Sparky would not have gotten a response. My netbook may have barked or begged, but not Harry. We'd known about this little issue for a while, but also knew Harry as well. Harry only runs away from us when he's trying to catch Blue.

Blue is the one we don't trust. Blue is the one who will follow her nose to the ends of the earth and become anyone's best friend. Harry is the one we send after her when she's too distracted by the far away smell of bacon (something she NEVER gets at home) and Harry is the one who nails her while waiting for us to catch up. If he nips her a few times on the ears for not listening, then bonus.

Back to the original tangent:

Being late in the night, or early in the morning, this man waited until daylight and called the number on Harry's vet tag, provided Harry's digits, then secured John's home number and cell phone number so he could call John.

John took his call and thanked him profusely once he realized this was not in fact a prank call. I believe his response was, "Are you sure it's Harry and not Blue?"

He then called our neighbors who had been searching the neighborhood for almost THREE hours as they realized only Blue was accounted for and immediately went out looking and calling for our lost mutt.

Now THEY were not aware that Harry was, at that moment, being fed some treats, while they yelled themselves hoarse looking for him. They were trying to locate him before calling John to give him the bad news, but John beat them to it by calling their cell phones first.

Their daughter, a lovely girl who's recently graduated high school and has spent many a weekend looking after our canines, answered the phone and blanched when John identified himself.

"Mom," she stage-whispered, pointing at the phone frantically, "it's John!"

How would they break the news that they had lost Harry?

He ended their suffering by pre-empting their confession with "I just got a call that someone found Harry."

Long story short, our loving, holy crap, do we ever owe them, neighbors picked up Harry from the good Samaritan's home, brought both him and Blue over to their house for the rest of the weekend and even gave them baths before we got home late Monday evening.

This story can only be summed up in two realizations:

1. Good samaritans still exist. (I'm hoping we can do something nice for this young man. Lifetime computer repair for our neighbors is a given.) (Yes, I will totally whore John out because of this.) (He doesn't mind.)

2. Harry can swim. Stupid dog has had me fooled for 8 years..

Her Family Tree Is Invitation Only..

Luckily, I'm with the DJ.

"Wow, you did a great job on your family tree!"

"Yes, I do."

"There's Mommy and Daddy and.. huh, you gave yourself curly hair."

"Uh huh."

"And there's Grandma, Grandpa... Is Grandma Baba or Nana?"

"Um, I dunno."

"Good girl. Stick to that story. Hey, even Blue made it onto your tree! Those years of torture paid off, I see."

"Mommy, can I have a big juice?"

"Sure. Oh, wait. Harry's not on your tree. Why didn't you add him too?"

"Harry not nice to me. He not in my family."

"Well, maybe if you were nicer to him-"

"Harry is NOT in my tree."

I'd better start using those time outs sparingly, I guess. 

Good Boy

"Sprite, stop cornering Harry!"

I stepped behind her, her own back never turning, as she stared down at the snarling terrier. This would not end well.

Sprite has been Harry's nemesis for years now, taking on the title of foe right around the time she began crawling and he realized she was coming after HIM. Blue, our beagle, could care less about how heavy handed her love is, as long as she gets love, she'll take it in whatever form. Harry though? He's smart. And has a Napoleon complex, so his ego is pretty big too.

His eyes locked on her, Harry continued growling as I grabbed Sprite's arm and pulled the laughing child out of his personal space and turned her to face me. "Sprite, you know he doesn't like that."

Sprite's eyes danced with mirth, her plan of attack still not aborted. "Harry needs a hug!" She then pulled away from me to face her opponent once more.

Harry showed his teeth now, not happy with her refusal to back down.

I needed to do something or he would have a coronary with the stress of it all. But what? Strong-arm her out of the kitchen?

"Harry, bad boy!"

Sprite whirled around to look at me. I didn't meet her eyes as I put on my best mean face and berated the dog for basically sitting there. "Harry, that was very naughty! Go to time out!"

Harry hung his head and moved out of the kitchen, heading for the entry rug where Sprite usually spends her solitary confinement. He then sat gingerly, looking back up at me.

The damn dog had gone to time out!

At a loss for what to do next, I just pointed at him. "Three minutes."

Sprite, not wanting to associate with the canine criminal since that would mean getting intimate with the time out mat, moved on to wrangling Blue as Harry stayed within the "prison walls" and yawned, finally safe.

"You're welcome," I remarked, walking back into the kitchen to start dinner, pausing quickly by my purse to grab the camera and document the moment for prosperity's sake, and the fact that John would surely not believe it when I told him.

Good boy, Harry.
 

Aftermath

Just two hours after declaring a sick day:

 

The "under the weather" toddler's room is destroyed.

 

The sock drawer is broken into.

 

Pairs are cruelly yanked apart after minutes spent matching them together.

 

Certain dogs who know better take advantage of the parental figure's assumed ambivalence and decide to convalesce on clean sheets doled out by the "sick" child.

 

The parental figure can only gaze at the toddler's pull out couch and spend some time trying to devise a way to relax comfortably on it while the "woefully ill" toddler continues their spree of chaos.

 

Does this toddler, interrupted in her quest to potty train Tigger, look sick to you?

 

Didn't think so.

Video Killed The Radio Star

John and I ran across this last night. We both had a pretty good laugh at it and thought it was worth sharing.

 Please understand, no animal was in any danger during the filming of this video, back when Sprite was 2 months old. I was kidding when I said it. (Yes I was.)

(Was too.)

Napoleon Complex

"He's got the whole world.."

 

So, we finally found a use for this hazard  "toy".

Harry enjoyed a few rounds of fetch before making quick work of destroying the stress ball. I guess it couldn't handle the pressure. Of Harry's teeth. (Ironic?) (No, more like rubberic.) (Or maybe rubberish.) (I know it's "rubbish", but it's the weekend! Live a little!)