The Hole

Ricky has asked for me to be put in the hole, that is what he calls my crate, as his birthday present. I didn't ask for that kind of stuff on my birthday. I hope Mom gives him some extra food like on my birthday. If he gets extra food I will too. Cupcakes maybe.

My Birthday

It's my birthday today. I'm ten today and it feels good to be it. Mom asked me what I wanted for my birthday and I've requested Beetle be contained in the box for 24 hours. I'm waiting. We've gone to the beach and I get some sort of special treat like a cupcake. Once I received a bag of sandwich meat for my birthday. Now that's a present with thought.

If she puts Inigo in the crate, I wonder if the 24 hours starts then or at the onset of my birthday. I'm well over half way done and he's not in the box. I'd hate to get gypped.

I should close, as it is my birthday and I wouldn't want to appear rude.

Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

I 'm not sure that I believe Ricky. I don't thinks he tells all of the words like there s'pose to be said. I think he tells tales about his leg but he blames me when his leg accidentally gets inside my mouth and it sometimes gets bit a little. He should watch that.
I wanted to say that I'm a good swimmer. I can fetch sticks and balls better than Ricky. When they fall in the water too. Ricky loves me.

First Cake

I've been meaning to mention. Inigo had his first birthday the other day. It was a day or two ago, April- 11th, I think. no big deal. He got a cake.

The cake was homemade from one of Mom's friends, she thinks all of his little idiotsyncrasies are cute. The cake had a little cookie and fondant (that's a fancy name for frosting You can't eat) voodoo effigy of himself perched right on top of the cake part. Further-more, the whole of it had handmade fondant miniatures of his lair pride: shoes, electric blanket, fish skeletons, peppered around his little snicker doodle self; like his wanton destruction of every ones belongings is cute and should be immortalized even for the life of a birthday cake. It's not and it shouldn't.

Honestly, I tried in vein to get past Mom and gain purchase of the cookie filled frosting skin; give it some well deserved preemptive thrashing while he was outside squeezing out a stinky little yard worm. A little bad mojo into the business end, whatever end that is, of that little fondant Inigo to slow the real one down when he comes for me with his little gnashing teeth. No such luck, Mom's skills have been sharpened with his continued presence.

My only consolation to the birthday of Inigo is that my birthday is soon, May 2nd, and the Inigo shape was forced into a zip-loc and retired to the back of the freezer behind a frostbitten bag of peas.

That fairly well sums up Inigo's big first birthday. Oh, and apparently he can fetch and swim.
Blathering on between bites of my left leg he says, 'Really, really, really good."

Oh Bother, Where Art Thou

I've been plagued with ailments as of late; foremost, the injury of which I sustained from the teeth of Inigo's eager jaw. Mom comes home and he gets so worked up he wraps his little rugged gums and teeth around everything; Mom's shirt sleeves or her left pant leg, my leash and my left leg (which has no benefit of sleeve or pants). Annoying on it's own the chewing is, but most frustrating when I'm actually trying to use what he is eagerly biting. Why he chooses the left leg of his victim is beyond me. However, it is my left leg which has most recently been effected. It gotten better.

I've had problems with my eyesight too. Mom says I have catreacts. I probably got them from Sissy's cat Bug; the fear of her fogging my vision glazing my pupils so as to erase or minimise at least the udder dread I feel when I'm brought: leashed, soullessly and struggling into her domicile. The memory of her lashing out of her lurky spot and stranding herself, if only for a moment, on the island which is my head has been burned forever in my retinas and now clouds my vision.

Inigo oft refuses to enter taking full advantage of the length of his leash and waits outside the door. Mom non the wiser, the closed door between them artificially crimping the feel of slackiness to the leash, tricking her into believing Inigo actually followed her past the doors threshold. Oh he's safe. Mom will catch on, "Yoink!" he'll get sucked in and most likely pounced on. It's a camber of horrors really. Lately, Bug has been better, but my retina's are burned. I have the catreacts.

Here I sit, healing. Favoring my left leg, unable to gauge proper distance due to the catreacts, unsure if Beetle is waiting to launch himself at me should I jump down or sabotage my efforts should I jump up. Life is a series of obstacles, I wish I had a treat. Treats make it better.

The Rainbow Bridge

It's been one year today that I lost my friend Duchess.

I remember like it was yesterday; how I couldn't bare going into her house because I knew she was ill. I'd stand on her back porch not daring to enter no matter how the tasty and familiar aromas reached out like tendrils from the backdoor and tempted my nose and stomach; the promise of food could sate my ready belly but the heart break I new would one day befall us all is what would fill me. It is a secret she and I held alone, a secret I longed to share and it was at those moments the chasm between Mom and me was the greatest; I needing so to tell Mom but having no human words, I remained silent.

Mom would grumble at my refusal to enter, grab me up wholesale and bring me into the light and warmth of the house. I would go to Duchess sniff her ears; ears that still moved like radars tuning into all of her surroundings enabling her to process her world via her heart and express it through the folds of skin appearing around her eyes as she smiled up at me, eyes I would kiss. I needed to go be with Mom, to mend my breaking heart, pull together it's unravelling strings that threatened to leave my heart and me in pieces.

On march 29th 2008 Duchess left us for the Rainbow Bridge, she's okay, waiting on the Rainbow Bridge to be reunited with her family and friends.

It took me more time to be able to reenter her house after she was gone. The loss of a great friend is a great loss indeed. There is a place in the house that holds her picture, at my height so I can see it when I need to. Sometimes there are biscuits shaped like bones or hearts left near her picture.
It's okay to eat them.

Tuna Surprise

I've got to give it to Dung Bug, he made a great score this afternoon, Mom didn't even know she'd been hit. I'm still in a state of shock and awe at the speed of which Beetle moves on those little truncated stubs he calls legs juxtaposed with the speedlessness of Mom's apparently equally truncated slug she calls a brain. She's seriously slow on the uptake.

Apparently when all of Inigo's unfettered, undisciplined, careless energy is condensed into his four sausage limbs and pea sized brain it can be channelled into what can only be described as a food thieving laser of world domination proportions. It need only be focused on, say, a victims cheese and zap the cheese is gone, the victim is left wondering if they ever pulled cheese from the fridge in the first place. It's fairly remarkable to witness.

Mom was retrieving food stuffs from the refrigerator I was being super vigilant; my need to keep my eye on food over-road by my desire to keep my eye on Mom, I kept myself safely within the drop zone for any potential accidental releases, the heal of bread or a little piece of cheese. She placed a slice of cheese on the edge of the table and brought two slices of bread to the toaster. Busying herself with the toasting Inigo focused his laser on the cheese slice.

His stubby legs deployed his brick of a body over my head with surprising slowness; my brain dragging all of my eye's images through thick syrup before processing them in my brain, landing on the kitchen chair as effortlessly as a gymnast mounting a balance beam, with grace and hardly a whisper from the pads of his feet. I held my breath and stared as his canines hitched to the back end of the cheese slowly dragging it curling into his open maw. I could almost taste the cheese as the slice folded in on it's self and lingered for a moment in my view before it slid down his throat to swim with the belly swill of prior consumptions.

The room was still moving like a thick slow fog as Inigo unfurled his tongue from with in it's chamber of horrors and protruded it's length for the tuna bowl; he slowly turned his head, mocking me as our eyes met, he gave his full attentions to the bowl. His muzzle sank beyond the rim as he lowered his head into the mechanically processed fish, fragrant onion and dill released from the tuna mass. The sound of the fork being slung around the bowl by his tongue is a sound Mom had long ago been familiarized with. It was the sound of his undoing.

INIGO!!! Her words pierced the the sticky slowness like a butter knife, slit it down the middle and exposed the real time inside like a fresh wound. She shot across the floor to put out the little fire on the kitchen table that threatened to consume her tuna sandwich layer by layer before she could build it. Inigo made his escape and peeked around the doorway licking his lips for any last taste of the fish mash and onion and dill that might remain.

Mom examined the tuna and gave it a stir, as if stirring it changed the fact that Inigo had his grubby beak all up in it. Giving Beetle the stink eye Mom grabbed the toast and spread a layer of tuna mash on it, she reached for the missing cheese and then looked at Inigo again; from his hiding place he lifted his chin and gave a little cheesy burp.

Damn he's good I said to myself. My stomach, an empty chamber, rumbled an echoed and hungry reply.

My Beautiful Kona

I feel I am in love. She's beautiful, I see her still, springing on the glistening beach the rays of sunlight sparkling in her eyes the breeze catching her ebony locks as she kicks up the sands. I wanted for her to stay still for just a moment so I could charm her. I'm afraid I made a fool of myself, all high pitched yipping but I couldn't seem to contain myself. oh-I long to see her again, beautiful beautiful Kona my ebony laberdoodle...I think I love you.

The Ginger Tail

It's a drizzly day the sun hasn't been able to break it's way out of the gray felted clouds once this morning. The snow from the last few days has melted into a recent memory, mostly by yesterdays rays and finally by today's drizzle. We are all having an unmotivated day.

Once when asked about her mood, my sister replied, I'm not like this, (she displayed an over smiled smile) and I'm not like this, (furrowing a deep frown) I'm like this.(pulling her mouth into a line showing neither pleasure or displeasure of any remarkable degree) This is my day today drizzly and fairly unremarkable. Since it's that kind of day, I've decided to write about the first thought that turns the edges of my mouth into a smile.

The Ginger tail:

I'm not making this up; I swear an oath, I will eat dead wrapped in rancid drizzled with curd if I'm lying.

Ginger lives in Las Vegas with Gran ma and Gran pa, she's like a showgirl dog; beautiful blond hair that smells like she came straight from a salon where they put bows on her ears and bandannas around her neck. She smells of fancy perfumed soaps and her hair is clipped to give curve to all of her curvy parts.

Ginger was walking with Grandma at the park one sunny Vegas day; the children's joy hung round the air as they swept by on their swings, sneakers plowing rows in the sand, the sun's rays warmed the walk and sucked the moisture from the grass one blade at a time and unsuspicious birds that aught to be suspicious, pecked about looking for grubs, berries and seed; every sight teasing Ginger's eye and every smell tempting her nose. All was mostly right and mostly orderly with Ginger, Gran ma and the pecking bird, when suddenly Ginger sprung herself to just about the end of her slackly leash; like she was partial to and pleased to do, she out stretched her maw and wrapped it's whole tongue filled self around a fairly sizable and unsuspicious bird just as it was given to flight. The bird was pecking grubs, berries and seeds within Ginger's reach and quite simply failed to be given to flight in a timely and orderly fashion thus finding itself looked at, sprung to, and pecked by Ginger before it could know it should be doing something about the looking, the springing and the pecking.

Ginger opened wide her mouth; in such way as to suggest she had the dislocating jaw of a python snake and folded that whole of the bird; beak, feet and asshole included, right in. Gran ma was in a fairly alarmed and agitated state, as one might suspect one to be while watching her pretty little dog with a dislocating jaw eat down an unsuspicious bird not quite given to flight; trying to simultaneously reel Ginger in and search her mind for any and all bird extraction techniques gran ma might have hidden amongst all that alarm and agitation.

Gran ma grabbed and gripped on to the wings, which were trying in earnest to continue the exercise of being given to flight, grabbed and gripped the bird the best she could which was difficult what with all the flapping and grabbing and gripping by both her hands and the unsuspicious bird. Gran ma tried to prise the bird from the confines of Ginger's over filled dislocating jaw; which was all frothy by now with bird stuff and Ginger stuff, trying hard in a throaty gulping kind of way to shove the recently ate bird down to the catcher's mitt that is her belly. The bird, rightly unsuspicious and rightly unexpecting, was in mid grab by gran ma when it's wings popped off and remained popped in gran ma's rightly unsuspicious and unexpecting hands.

Gran ma stood for a moment, looking at the wings disembodied and plucked resting in her hands all popped off, tossed them to the ground and searched deeper among all the mental alarm and all the mental agitation for other and possibly better extraction methods than the grabbing and the plucking and the tossing of the wings which left the whole of the bird fairly well resuspicious and fairly well lodged in ginger's dislocating jaw. I'd think an unsuspicous bird that's being looked at, sprung at and pecked at might want wings not so easily plucked from the sides of it's body so that if by good fortune it found it's self on the outside of Ginger's mouth it could still be given to flight.

There stood Gran ma, plucked wings, loosed feathers all over the ground and her salon dog with it's fancy smells and fancy bows consuming a bird somewhat larger than even her dislocating jaw can comfortably masticate. Ginger gulped the bird with her own brand of alarm and agitation needing to eat it fully before Gran ma could find a way to grab and grip it again and extract the disappearing mass of feathers. The last thing the suspicious bird saw on it's way down her slick and gulping throat was it's own wiggling feet and possibly its given to flight but flightless wings laying on the ground. The bird was gulped, gulped gulped down into the acidic swill of Gingers blond neatly clipped and neatly styled showgirl mitt of a belly.

I've tried to imagine the look of alarm, the look of agitation mixed with shock and maybe some bit of awe as the scene played out on Gran ma's changing features and the look of a satisfied gastric glow playing out on Gingers, the dull realization that there would be no more gulping and there would be no more viewing on either part of Ginger or Grandma and certainly not on the part of the bird which was neither suspicious or unsuspicious by now. Finally the wonder of how exactly what went in would be coming back out; that final thought being of Grandma's alone.

How did it all come out? From what I've been told the ate bird churned around in Ginger's belly for a couple of suspicious hours and rightly found it's way out the proper hole with exception of the beak, feet and asshole which were uncerimoniously regurgitated on the back lawn. The wings? They were found the next day right where they were grabbed, gripped and tossed, then Ginger...
ate those too.

Nothing Like the Smell of Duck Hunt In the Morning

I've never felt so connected to my ancestral lupine brethren as I do on a duck hunt in the morning. I, a great wolf knight; hackles stacked on my back I'm half my size again, stalk the duck on the river's bend. Inigo Montoya, my fearless squire keeping equal time,healing my right flank on his little truncated legs. Creeping stealth our long shadows are our companions, seeming to double our army from two to four, no doubt doubling the duck fear when we finally strike down with our mighty claws and teeth.

In concert we wind the upper edge of the bank unseen to our little feathered prey. I suspect floating duck are pods or schools while their kind in flight are described as a flock; I count nine duck head. They alternately hoist their wiggly ends out of the water, tiny orange paddles kicking the air as they nibble at the mossy bits under the glassy surface. We circle wide, my squire has concealed us with the kind of stink that even suspicious ducks would assume wolves would not have on their persons. Our cover is most brilliant and the duck are obliviously swimming to and fro as we size up their old and weak. Hunkering closer still we look like two little mossy rocks near the waters edge, our subterfuge is complete.

Inigo waits my command. Alternately I smell the oil on the little ducks backs and Inigo's cover of stink as the breeze swirls about the shore. In the corner of my eye Inigo readies himself, our breaths are of one. My chin dips like the dropping of a gauntlet. We spring. In unison we break free of our mossy rock disguises and rush the unsuspecting duck. Pebbles and sticks fly from behind our 16 flying feet of shadow and lupine fury, crashing through the water one duck after another fleeing our mad hunt of water, mud and wolf spittle. Chomping at the last duck left to die by it's oily backed water fowl brothers we crash further still into the rushing river; up to our knees and ankles the cold water threatens to sweep us away.

Squire Inigo and I look at each other our feet are wet the water has bite and it seems kinda deep, I give Inigo the signal for retreat. Wolves don't like duck, wolves like squirrels.

A letter From a Concerned Reader

Gentle Reader, I must ask your forgiveness before advancing this paragraph further. Inigo has been most persistent in the inclusion of some of his musings. I regret to inform you that I have given in and what follows is what is foremost in his little pea sized brain. i instructed Beetle as to what one includes in a journal: delightful or troubling events, funny situations or memories or maybe musings such as mine, I am of a poetical nature.

I limited him, however, to one sentence it follows. It follows.

The mind of Inigo:

" I'm afraid my poop will get stuck to my butt."

Good grief my brother's a maroon. I have no more to share. I've come down with a headache in my eye. I need to take a nap.

Dear Ricky,

Was the Mind of Inigo really the product of said deranged mind? I think not. To judge by your musings I take it Inigo wouldn’t care a wit about such trivial matters, unless it was to actually encourage the adhesion of a smelly mass to his bottom. What better way to maintain his often noxious odor. No, upon further contemplation I feel any normal creature would fear a dirty bottom - it is that very fear that motivates a certain level of hygiene after all. I therefore think that in this case you are projecting your own fears onto the unwitting, albeit smelly, Inigo. Go easy on the little guy. He's probably trying to please you in the only way he knows how... unless of course it involves food. Then you're on your own.

A Restless Reader

Dear Restless Reader,

You sound like a very intelligent person with a keen insight to the inner workings of canines as well as the humans around you. However; there's always a however, I think if you would have had a little brother or sister you might feel differently.

Might I ask you for to put your human self into my little schnoodle body and walk in my paws for one day and experience what I experience to feel what I feel, to hear what I hear. I suspect you would last moments in my body and flee at the first stripping and shredding of your delicate leg hairs.

Imagine having a cute, sweet little sister; it goes without saying your fond of her and there's mutual love for each other, but she is like a pervasive ringing in your ears; unnoticed by those around you, benign health wise, annoying nonetheless.

Imagine then having to share a room with her as she putters about making her noises. She getting into your things; hoarding, losing or breaking them. Blah, blah, blah she persists while you want peace and quiet. Think for one moment what it would be like sitting in a chair minding your own business watching cartoons and she walks up and socks you in the nose. You know you aren't supposed to hit, complaint seems futile, sometimes ruffing her up just enough to scare her straight without it actually being categorised as a beating in your dad's eyes.

Reader can you for a moment understand? Chances are you are the older sibling of a younger brother or sister and if this is so, I think you may feel my pain.

The Vigil

I lie on the bed, facing the window, watching the sky turn various shades of blue like my hearts longing as I wait for Mom's return. As soon as hear her I can peek out the curtains, hoping she looks up; maybe to see me waiting, my tags flashing in the moon light, even if she can not see me fully, she'll know I wait. Inigo says I'm a tool and goes to find trouble. I warn him, he may miss Mom, but that news seems only to hastened his retreat into other rooms.


We live in an old house without a bedroom door, Mom's made a sliding one out of a panel of wood and it would appear she left it ajar once again. The benefit for me is I am not sequestered in the room with Beetle. The benefit for Inigo is he has the run of the house. There is no benefit for Mom.


I can hear him rummaging in the bathroom garbage. He's brought me a toilet paper tube, or maybe it's for a new hoard pile, who's to say. I, however, plan on ignoring him and continuing my solitary vigil. Mom neglected to push the kitchen chair in again and it appears as if Inigo has gained purchase to the table and everything on it, which just moved noisily to the floor. He really should never be let out of his box, crate, monkey cage.

Mom's still not back; Beetle's run out of trouble or the energy to fuel more trouble, his stomach sure to be full of the garbage of which he's pillaged. Inigo circles a nest into the blankets, gives a surprisingly robust belch and cuddles his paper tube. Curiously he smells of butter.

Musings

I must beg your forgiveness before you read one more word. I honestly was up against the wall without option and I sincerely apologise for any inconvenience or discomfort the following might cause.

Inigo has been showing an ever increasing interest in my writings; asking questions, mouthing my journals, eating my pens. Three have been found tortured, lying in a pools of ink within the folds of bedding beneath his nocturnal hoard piles. You can see my dilemma when he's become more persistent about including some of his musings.

I gave in. I explained at length as to what he might include; delightful observations, troubles or events he might like to share. What follows is what churns through his runt brain, such that it is.

The Mind of Inigo:
"I'm afraid my poop will get stuck to my butt."

There is is. In all it's glory. Is there any doubt, my brother 's a maroon? I have no more to share. I've come down with a headache in my eye and I'm need to take a nap.

Morning Rain

It's early and I smell rain. It's darker this morning, as if the drops scrub away the suns rays when they land upon our window glass.
No one notices how this morning struggles.

Inigo sleeps soundly on a collection of chewed items that don't belong to him. He's like a dragon asleep on his hoarded treasures. Mom is involved in her morning procrastinations; sure to be unamused when the numbers finally pry open her eyes to Beetle and her treasure. The fluff of something stuck to his muzzle, stirring as he breathes.

I look out the window, the sky weeps this morning. Maybe it cries for all the troubles of the world. Maybe it cries for the joy of another day.
No one notices how this morning struggles.
No one notices how this morning cries.

From the Belly of the Beast

We had baths last night. I like to think of myself as clean; my hair has the nuances of green grass, clean sand and fresh herbs, so I've been told. People finger my hair and burrow their noses into my curls with no worry of offending their senses. Inigo is another story, I wonder if he was at the root of last nights bathing. Dung Bug's hygiene is always suspect; his tongue has shared space with dead animals and he sometimes poops wrappers. Mom claims to recall my own green glitter poop and some long ago incident with Easter chocolates and their foils, I doubt her potentially flawed memories as I don't share the same.

Beetle's smell is neutral most days but he does have a radar for refuse by which I mean; anything the universe is trying to throw away by means of noisome, noxious, decaying stink. Where I roll in sun glistened sands he rolls in the nearest stray crab leg. Where I taste the dew moistened grasses plucked from the rich earth, Inigo puts his polluted maw around sun baked shellfish and sucks out their rot. When Inigo Rolls in a meadow's grasses or feels the Beach's baked sands run through his hair it's because something foul lurks below his feet and he has urge to be part of it's foulness. I, on the other hand, smell of all that's carried on the air so when I race, my feet flying a little black blur of me, past those standing still, they wonder, is it Ricky or is it the wind.

Inigo's first bath was hilarious. I watched it all unfold from behind the bathroom door with both unabated glee of his situation and fear of my own possibilities. Make no mistake I was ready to run if Mom decided I needed washing too.

Mom plopped Beetle in the bath tub which is a big, old, chipped monster with a silver draining mouth that consumes all the water that flows inside. It's four dismembered clawed feet must have been gripping tight to iron balls when they were separated from their real legs and reattached Frankenstein style to the belly of the tub. While watching as Mom scrubbed Inigo soundly with peppermint soap I wondered what ever became of the rest of the animal that is now our bath tub. Did they use other parts of him like the teeth and stomach or just it's feet?

Each time Mom released one scrubbing hand from Inigo, he shot over the white curled lip of the bath, Mom with sure reflexes, would catch him midair and stuff him back into the baths chipped white belly. Desperate with wide eyed pent up energy he waited each moment to deploy those little springs and propel himself to freedom. I enjoyed the spectacle and snickered under my breath at his circumstances. However my attentions towards Beetle were my own misfortune; no sooner had Mom finished him when she plucked me off the floor with that same quickness of reflex she'd recently displayed and stuffed me into the tub. Consumed, I waited to be slathered with the soap. The hollow beast with it's gripping claws held fast to the linoleum as it sucked down the water it was being fed. I dared not move for fear of swirling into it's gaping mouth along with the peppermint soap and Inigo's dirt and fleas. I tried to adopt an expression of detached boredom as Dung Bug looked on; wet, smelling of bath, eyes wide like saucers unable to look away. No sooner had my bath begun when I was regurgitated from the belly of the beast, dried with a big fluffy towel and released to sweet freedom.

I shook the remaining water from my coat starting from my head and ending with my tail. Inigo grabbed my bare leg in his mouth like he was the tub beast. He may have spooked me a little, I turned quick and gave chase through all the rooms of the flat, barking to him that I was the great, white, chipped creature from the bathroom, ripped from the floor I was coming to get him with my great clawed feet, stuff him between my silver lips, chomp and swallow him in my belly and then burp up his peppermint bones. Inigo ran fast across the wood floors his feet a flurry of clicking nails and turned up paper and toys, to my delight.

Score

Inigo and I are trying to score little 'nilla cookies from Mom. This is usually an occasion to have Inigo in good standing. He works the cute angle better than even I; it's the angle where Mom shows her greatest weakness and it's worthy of full exploitation. Inigo has a dopey, cute, unkempt appearance and generally wears whatever he's been into on the scruff of his face.

I have adapted with the addition of Inigo. He's cute but easily distracted so I field the drop zone more efficiently. I send him in with orders for cute; head tilted, tongue bitten between his teeth, toy fluff stuck to his face.

I work the perimeters of the zone; sitting I curl my shoulders, suck in my belly and look at the floor. I think of the saddest most heart wrenching thought of starving homeless puppies and kittens that I can and then look up with just my eyes when I feel Mom looking down at me. "Oh the humanity, think of the puppies and kittens."

Score! Out comes her hand half a cookie for each. Cute and pathetic appearances are dropped for the moment. I need all my faculties about me, if I loose focus I loose the cookie. Mom's fair and will give bite for bite but how the bites are to be distributed is important.

It's the catch, I'm not fond of the catch and I stand to loose out because of my clumsiness. Inigo is ready but he can't catch either... It's bounced off his face. Score! You snooze you loose Dung Bug. She's tossed one to me. What a crummy throw, ready to grab from the floor if need be. Score! Caught it. Inigo looks at me like it was a lucky catch,I give him the stink eye. The next cookie is in the air we booth leap for it, the cookie spins out of control, falls, and dances along the floor between our feet. I can't find the cookie for our eight paws sliding around the linoleum. I see the cookie at the same time as Inigo just as it's sliding under the table, we both scramble under. I give a growl to remind Inigo that I am older and the cookie rightfully belongs to me. He's responds back with a more desperate growl that reminds me that he's generally unhinged and is in a state of advanced unhingedness. We both plunge under the table further. Inigo unleashes his secret weapon; his tongue reaches out beyond my nose wraps itself around the little "nilla treat and retracts it into his mouth.

Back in the zone Mom sits in her chair, Inigo looks on with cute abandon and I count dirt specs on the floor. "Puppies and kittens, puppies and kittens, puppies and kittens."

Spring Morning

As I walk with Mom and Inigo I notice how spring is releasing the frosty remains of winter along the path to the beach. The mornings rays reach through the long shadow of the trees, finger the frosty grass, leaving a gistening jewel of dew on each blade with its touch.
The beach is nice this morning. The sun is warm, the murmur of a family on the beach, birds in the water and insects buzzing the air seem to join together singing a quiet song of solitude. Even Inigo is quiet only his light foot pads rustling the glassy pebbles beneath his feet add melody to music that plays only for this beach.
The soft edge of the sea rolls in harder for a moment in response to an unseen boat. The rails behind me rumble as a train filled with travelers passes over head.
...And then it's quiet again. The birds, the insects, me all rolling on the soft edge of the sea. The winter frost thaws a little in my bones. I squeeze my eyes to the sunshine and the salty stillness that can't quiet muster a breeze. Life is good.
It's as if the whole of the universe has conspired to create this moment just for me.

The Morning Constitutional

Everyday is the same we go for our little morning walk. Mom get Buddy, he's the service dog that we fostered about 18 months ago, while we wait in the car. Buddy lives with his mom full time now but we all go walk first thing in the morning. Three dogs walking should be an easy feat to achieve, Mom holds leashes we walk and take care of our business as we move along the path.

Inigo is the fly within our ointment nothing goes as it should with Beetle. I try to tell him to walk a straight line leaving the path on the event of a smell that may need some exploring, maybe add to it or possibly refresh yesterdays postings. Inigo runs left to right so often that our leashes become braided. Buddy and I have a leash each, Inigo has a chain. I'm not making this up, he ate though at least three leashes so he now has a chain, it's heavier than he is. He now chews on my leash and as we've already established my left leg.

When I find an explorable scent it's often hard to get to it as I'm often braided to Buddy by Inigo. Once I get to the spot it's necessary to separate the nuances of what was laid down before me. I know the size and breed of the dog before me and get a sense of his general well being. Protocol states that you do not pee on the dog marking a scent-Buddy! It is also good form to keep your head out of an other's stream-Inigo! And don't pee on my poop while I'm pooping it-both of you!

I'm always surprised and I shouldn't be by now, at how well Buddy and Inigo's noses function. I smell the same smells but am left with no compulsion to place the offending source into my mouth. Inigo can do a left weave, scoop up what can only be described as foul and then turn performing a right pass back to Buddy(also known as braiding). Buddy smells his breath his heart sinking with the realization of his own lost score. They actually have come to blows over an old grease saturated napkin. What could it possibly contain that's worth fisticuffs or worse.
And there is always potential for worse. Inigo poops wrappers. I've seen it. Mom and I are lucky if he only poops wrappers. Sometimes he nestles his teeth and tongue around some bacteria infested morsel and poops loose and stinky for days.

Old,discarded,refuse consumption is not something I personally get into. I've never so much as torn open a bag of old garbage let alone snarfed up an old hot dog reanimated by germs. I've come to a place of understanding... that I don't understand. I suppose that's the best I can do, recognize that I don't get it. And you know what? Not having a stink about my ends helps me sleep better.

Morning Sunshine

It's time to get up. I can tell as Mom goes through the same series of procrastinations every morning. She hides her head underneath the covers as if it will somehow slow the sun from cresting the hillside, wrapping around the buildings, glistening down the windowed streets and flowing through our glass, bringing in the new day on it's warm rays.
Mom covers her head and waits for the last possible moment to get up. I suspect the numbers on the clock will finally pry her eyes open with the promises of lateness and troubles for her.
Inigo is passed out-fast asleep, oblivious to the world around him. He's nested himself and mom pulls the covers, adjusting them around us as if she has more time. She doesn't.
I know she's awake behind her closed eyelids. I know they blanket her sight from the snoozed numbers on the clock. She seeks more time that has finally run out.
Mom sighs...and it's morning.

I Don't Know...Maybe It's Midnight

Good grief! I hope that was a stinker and not the whole turd. Would you learn already. He ranks poorly(no pun intended) on this particular skill. I will concede the floor is not a veritable mine field, ready to take of a foot, but he certainly can not be trusted.
I'll take my leave now. The foot of the bed glows green from the cloud of nuclear waste that just released from under that nub of a tail. he gets attention for being cute but all would be surprised by the toxic nature of his poots.
I find comfort under the covers with mom. I don't think she woke but I curled close to her. She smells like sleep and linen.

It's Good to Be...

Mom broke out some peanut butter treats by way of left hand, I like to guess. I put on a little act for her, tilting, sitting; she gave me five which was three more than I was expecting. I think she may be wising up to Dung Bug, she's trying to stop him from lunging at my food. how about my butt can you stop him from pulling the hairs from my butt.
mom didn't go to the art studio tonight, I've got my self all tucked into a little ball of mostly furry Richardo love at her feet. I watch her and hope she'll reach down and scratch my ears maybe say some of those gooey words.
Inigo has busied himself with rooting around looking for trouble. I hope he postpones finding some so it can be Mom and me a little more.
My bare ankle is chilled as if I wear one fallen sock.

What's In a Name

His name is, get this; "My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die." Who names their dog something that long. It has punctuation and can be diagrammed. Honestly I find it absurd to say the least, but he's an absurd creature of which I've found myself in close company for quite some time. I am glad Mom only calls him Inigo rather than prattle on so with a long list of useless words. It's all rather boring.
"Prepare To Die" my butt. If Beetle continues to pull the hair from my hindquarters he should spend time preparing to meet his maker by way of Jordan's runt cat Bug. Be warned Inigo, I'd have no problem luring you into the bathroom with some promised treat only to shut you in with her. If you wore pants you'd pee them and I would laugh at your suffering. What she lacks in brains she makes up for in gratuitous violence and I know you fear her. You fear the house she lives in, the floor she walks on as well as the chair from which she watches you. Even when she's not there. The very promise of Bug is enough to frighten you. And Inigo- I promise Bug!
Oh bother, I've digressed into a fantasy driven diatribe of which has sullied my good nature. I must make a note to forgive myself for my digressions. It's just that I don't suffer fools gladly and Inigo is most assuredly a fool. Speaking of which, here comes Mom. She may have food judging by the desperate and frothy nature of Dung Bug. i should follow. I may just receive a little something. I wonder from which hand she'll feed me. It smells like cheese. I like cheese.

A Beginning as Such

I lick the skin of my left ankle, it's grayer whiter flesh than i expected. It's wrong that I should see it at all as I usually have fur there. Mom has seen it too now and has suggested fleas. She said that I should not worry my leg but it's a chilly spot in the winter air where once I had fur.
It's not fleas, i try to convey with a twist of my head. She examines the spot. Carefully she touches me with her fingertips my gray can feel her warmth. Self Consciously I hide my leg, folding it among the others. She too noticed my skin was pale and grey. Was she expecting pink with freckles like fluffy? She once said I was a lot like him except he had white fur and apparently pink and freckled skin; where mine grows gray. I hope she's not disappointed.
I do have a black coat that has started to turn a distinguishing gray rather prematurely and I have curls of which make me appear overly cute and more approachable than I really am. Pairing my curls with the fact I am of mixed breed known as Schnoodle does little for my self esteem and garners me no extra respect. Really, Schnoodle does have the ring of snack food to it; Fruit Loops, Ring-A-Dings, Schnoodles.
Mom and everyone I know call me Ricky. It's a cute name and fits my curly exterior, however I secret the thought that Richardo lies below the surface like the gray skin that has been most recently revealed to me.
This is neither here nor there, the issue at hand is the unfortunate exposure of my ankle skin. I will continue to break through moms thickness, she need only to open her eyes and notice the ten pound mongrel that bites at my ankles by form of Inigo.
Last year I had fur on my skin where I expected it should be. Mom brings home Dung Bug and now I have a receding hairline below the caps of my knees. I've been waiting for mom to catch on, I love her but honestly, she's not the crunchiest kibble in the bowl. So here I sit and journal my troubles, hoping for release so as to spare the life of dear little Inigo.