Smiley's Fun & Games

Don't take this the wrong way, but for the longest time now, I have been trying to imitate my dog.

Not his look, which is furry and blond (natural ). Not his walk, which, as with most golden retrievers, is more of a waddle. And not his tail. I don't need a tail. I have a big enough butt as it is so I don't want to draw anymore attention that I need to.

Also, I can live without his bathroom habits, which can be summed up this way: "Tree or bush? Tree or bush? Aw, how about right here on the grass..."

No, what I admire about my dog is his fascination with the simple routine of life. Every day for him is like boarding the space shuttle. For example: In the morning, I tumble out of bed, grumble, yawn, and ta-da! There he is, the canine answer to Richard Simmons. He is so worked up, he doesn't know which way to go, toward me or away from me. So he does both.

"Oh boy oh boy oh boy!" he seems to pant. "It's morning and I'm gonna eat!"

Never mind that he has eaten every morning since he was born. Or that he's had the same food every morning since he was born -- and that was 11 years ago. Never mind. He pulls me downstairs and waits breathlessly as I scoop yet another helping of boring brown nuggets into his bowl. 

"Oh boy oh boy oh boy! Food, food, food!"

I yawn.

Two minutes later, he is off the food thing and into a new obsession: Going out. Again, he runs forward and backward. "I'm going out! I'm going out! Is this great or what?" "I gotta go, I gotta gooooooo!"

Never mind that going out has not changed one bit since we've lived here. He is so thrilled by the notion of "exit" that he almost bites the doorknob off. He bolts into the backyard as if heading for Tomorrowland with a sack full of "E" tickets.

I slouch and yawn again.

The great indoors. Then comes with the "bathroom" routine, which I already have described.  Humans deal with these functions begrudgingly. Not my dog. It's a real thrill for him. He scouts for the perfect spot as if looking for beachfront real estate. "Tree or bush? Tree or bush?" And I don't have that many trees. Then, once his business is taken care of -- and I make a mental note where we're going to have to shovel come summer -- he is off the going out obsession and onto a new one: going back in. It doesn't matter than he was in just two minutes ago. "Things have changed! Things have changed!" he seems to pant. "I gotta get in there! I gotta check it out! Hurry up, hurry up!"

When I open the door, he bolts in, races back and forth -- looking for space aliens, I suppose -- and when he doesn't find any, he isn't disappointed. Instead, he snarls at some ratty toy he's played with for months, throws it into the air with his teeth, and watches it land.

"Look at that!" he seems to say. "It goes up, it comes down!"

As I make a cup of coffee, he jumps up to watch. "Whatcha doin? Whatcha doin? Coffee, huh? That's amazing! Can I have some, oh boy can I have some, huh?"

He then clamps onto my leg and does a dance that, were it the early '50s, I might call the "Hootchie Coo." I am not sure what he gets out of this -- "Oh boy, a leg! Oh boy, a leg!" -- but he seems to be having a better time than many of the dates I've had. When I disengage and disappear behind a door, he lies down outside and waits for me to come out again. If it is only 30 seconds later, he will still react as if I were a released hostage. 

Now, my dog does not work. He does not pay taxes. He does not create anything new (unless you consider the bushes outside). But he also doesn't need clothes, doesn't covet cars or jewelry, and doesn't care about houses, as long as he can find a sunny spot on the floor and lie there for a few hours. Meanwhile, I am bored with my same routine. Getting up is a drag. I can't get excited about breakfast. And going out then coming back only makes me wonder how many flies I've let in. So I'm trying to imitate my dog. I'm trying to find wonder in the everyday. After all, when you think about it, it is pretty remarkable that you open your eyes each morning. And since every few hours you get to quench your hunger, well, that's a thrill, when you consider the alternative. So while I can't match my dog's drool, I am trying to match his zeal. Don't worry. If you come to visit, I will not clamp on your leg and do the Hootchie Coo.

On the other hand, that sunny spot on the floor looks pretty tempting...

Author unknown

 MAY 21:

The truck is gone and most of the items from the old cave have been moved to  the new one. Bill keeps fussing over me. He seems to think I will have trouble adapting to a cave with a yard, trees, grass and our very own  squirrels. AS IF.  This morning, on the deck, he kept saying, over and over again: "We live  HERE, now. Do you understand? We used to live THERE. But now we live HERE.  This is our HOME, now. HERE." Yeah, yeah. HERE. I get it, already.

 MAY 22:

 After opening another can of goo for me, Bill made himself a thick, juicy  rib steak. We've been together since October, and he's still treating me  like a dog. He did, however, offer the bone to me when he was finished. I  chewed it for a while and then buried it in the dirt by the shed. Bill stood  up, with this rather incredulous look on his face, and it suddenly occurred  to me that he'd never seen me bury anything before. He asked if I learned  how to do this from watching cartoons. I think he was serious.

 MAY 23:

I have to say that I really LOVE this yard. The only drawback is that there are fences on all four sides. But, as that  cute Chihuahua in East Rutherford used to say, "No problema." I've begun  preliminary excavation work at four different locations. Bill has noticed  three of them, but the fourth one is hidden behind a poster of Rita Hayworth. I may not have learned much from watching cartoons, but "The Shawshank Redemption" was a revelation. 

MAY 24:

 Every time I bark in the yard, Bill has a fit, and makes me come back into the cave. What is his problem? Today he actually said, "If you want to bark all day, get a job, and buy your OWN house." Well, excuuuse me. I guess no one's told him that barking IS my  job. God knows I never hear HIM bark. People walk by all day and night and  he never makes a sound. He just paints, empties boxes, and rearranges rugs,  knickknacks, and furniture I've never seen before. Sometimes I don't know  what to pee on first. As for the barking, maybe I'll just stop altogether.  In fact, if someone breaks in, maybe I'll jump on his lap, lick his face,  and help him dismantle the stereo.

MAY 25:

MAY 26:

We were out on the deck again, and this big fat bug waddled by, so I ate it.  Bill ran over and pried my mouth open. Too late! But he was really freaking out. He even ran inside and called the vet. (Ha! He should only KNOW what  I've eaten since we moved here.) He came back out a few minutes later and started waving his finger at me. "Don't you ever do that again," he said. "Eating bugs is a sign of mental illness."  I didn't know what to say, so I nodded, and played with my squeak toy.

MAY 27:

Gary came over and we all sat on the deck.  Bill went inside to answer the phone, and as soon as he did, Gary took four  bugs out of his pocket, and we each ate two. Gary is so cool. He said, "Whatever you do, don't tell Billy." My lips are sealed. 

MAY 28:

Bill was fine all day, but he really came down on me after dinner about my toys. Ever since the move he's turning  into like this TOTAL rule freak. Outdoor toys stay outside. Inside toys stay  inside. No squeak toys after 9 p.m. Yada, yada, yada. Then he went on this  total RAMPAGE, picking all my toys up off the floor, tossing them back into  the box, and saying, "Can't you put these things away when you're done with them?" I don't mind sitting, rolling over, and shaking hands, but I draw the  line at putting away toys. If he wanted a monkey, why the hell didn't he buy one? 

MAY 29:

I finally figured out that I can get into the yard by myself. And it's so easy! All you have to do is push the screen door open with your nose. A puppy could do it. Anyway, when Bill saw me outside he said, "I thought I brought you in," and then let me back into the kitchen. Naturally, I pushed the door open again with my nose and returned to the yard, just to show him  how clever I am.  Well, this is never a good idea, especially when you're living with the control freak of the century. Within 15 minutes he screwed a hook onto the screen, and gave me this whole lecture about who's in charge around here. I can't even imagine what he's going to do when he  finds out that I can use the microwave.

MAY 30: