Furniture I Have Owned

As a dog, I do not have easy access to money. While my humans do graciously buy me things such as food, toys, chewy things, and the like - as they should - what I am most grateful for is furniture. See, as a seeing-eye dog, or guide dog for the blind as we are sometimes called, we are trained from a very young age. We are trained in the basics - sit, stay, come, etc. - but we are also introduced to all of these strange sights, sounds and smells that your average dog (like a collie, for instance, with their pointy little noses and pinched brains) never gets to experience. In addition to all of this, we are trained specifically not to get up on furniture. Couches, beds, tables, chairs, love seats or Barcaloungers, it's all off limits. (I particularly like that last one: Barcalounger. It just has a certain ring to it, but I can't quite place it....) So, everything is off limits, except - Except! - for my last day of home schooling. On that one day, and that one day only, I was allowed up on the bed. And boooyyyy, was it worth the wait! So soft, so squishy, the right amount of support in the right places, no unnecessary hems or fringe or tassels or flug, just a nice, wide, super dog-size expanse of comforter. And, and, I didn't have to share. It was mine, all mine, just for me. Then I loaded up the car and went to Official Guide Dog School, and didn't see a comfy bed again for months. Elation, quickly followed by crushing disappointment. Story of my life.

Years passed. Things happened - I'll fill you in on the details sometime. Fastforward to 2004, when I'm invited to a new home in Washington. Tacoma, to be precise. It was nice - not L.A. nice, mind you, but it was still a great experience. There, in that cozy (occasionally loud) home near the Puget Sound, I got my very own couch. I was so happy!

(This is my first couch, in L.A., not Tacoma. I had to share this one with my original Alpha humans, so it wasn't quite as special as the Tacoma couch. That one was leather. And mine all mine!)

So that was good for a year. Then I decided that I liked a slightly drier climate, so I moved back to L.A. That was fun, but now I'm in Minneapolis. And you know what? Dare I say it, at many times it is soooo much better! There is this wonderful thing called snow (which I blogged about earlier... if you haven't read it yet, I suggest you go do that now. Don't worry, I'll wait.) and there are lakes and creeks to swim in, and places to go running (off leash, too!). Plus, as an additional bonus, I have three different pieces of furniture at my disposal. First, there's my bed. Yes, my bed. Observe:

Well, right bed, wrong zip code, but you get the point. It's mine, all mine! From there, I have moved on to bigger beds (pictures unavailable at this time - I'm so sneaky the puppyrazzi can't catch me with their fancy cameras). I have also invaded a large half of the couch, of which I am slowly usurping two-thirds of. Soon it will all be mine, bwahahahaha!

So that's my current inventory of places comfier than the floor. If you have any good suggestions of possible additions to my collection, do please let me know. I am always on the lookout for new items.

Well, that's all for now. I will leave you with a short quote, as I am feeling particularly Renaissance Dog-ish today:

"A dog is one of the remaining reasons why some people can be persuaded to go for a walk. ~O.A. Battista"

Silly, silly humans

Oh, you humans! Must we teach you everything? The other day, while being driven around like the noble Dog I am, I saw another dog who was, how can I put this, uh, well, um, fat. Not extra layer of winter coat fat, more like time to cut back on the pre-breakfast, post-breakfast, lunchtime, pre-dinner and post-dinner snacks fat. No self respecting dog wants to be fat. So if you, fellow canines, look anything like a Rollo, (Don't know what a Rollo is? You really must get out more! But only have one - otherwise we'll have a problem.) it's time to get out there and pant a little. Fetch the ball, carry a stick around, go run on the beach. I personally enjoy chasing things, preferably small, furry, fast-moving objects like squirrels, and cats. Not that I've ever chased a cat... well, there was that one time, but it was in my yard - on my porch, even! Just sitting there, grooming itself, not a care in the world. Until the door opened, and out I came, and it made a break for the fence like it had been scalded. I am proud to say that I cornered it at the fence and everything, and we were just getting ready to dance when those meddling humans intervened. I was gonna win, too.

Anyways, where was I? Oh, right. Exercise. So get out there, preferably with your human, and run around. Pretend you enjoy playing fetch (also known as getit!), unless you're a Labrador, in which case you probably do enjoy it. Also, watch what you eat. Just because it's in your bowl doesn't mean it needs to go in the mouth. This is not the wild plains of your ancestors, there will be another meal served later today, which you do not need to do. You could sleep all afternoon, and then magically, food will appear. It's great!

Another hint for you, oh whiners of table scraps: don't eat all five buckets of chicken wings that your humans left on the coffee table while they went to get their drinks. Think of all those chickens running around without wings -- it's not pleasant. Have a salad instead. And take the stairs, not the elevator. Insist on going one more block before you turn around to go back home - if you pull on the leash hard enough, they'll give in. Drive a stick-shift car in a parade, at the very end of the line, behind all the little kids on their bikes with the funny training wheels. They'll be all like, "Daddy, Daddy, look behind us! There's a dog driving that car!" And you'll be all like, "Vroom, vroom! I won't run you over, but the look on your face because you think I'm going to is priceless! Vroom, screech, vroom!" And they'll be all like, "Daddy, Daddy, the doggy is going to run us over! Can I pet it?" And the Daddy will say something like, "It's ok, princess. The nice doggy won't run us over. He's a good dog, yes he is. Yes he is!" And you'll be all like, "It's ok, little girl. I promise not to run you over, but your Daddy is on his own. Vrrooommm, vrooom vrooom! Sputter-cough-stall. Shoot." No, I haven't done this. But I've been told it's a great leg workout - for both you and the little kids trying not to get run over.

There are other odd quirks (as opposed to normal quirks?) of both dogs and humans that I need to comment on, but not today. For today, we'll stick with what we have so far. So, get up from your chair, do up your hair, and go get some air (and bring the human too!)! See what I did there, with the rhyming? You'd think I had help or something. Yes, yes, I'm saying go for a walk. Find a stick, carry it around in your mouth, hit your humans in the back of the knee with it when they're not looking, and pretend like you didn't notice they were there and just bumped into them. It's adorable, trust me. You just have to put on the right look, and they fall for it every time. Use your eyebrows, too. That always gets 'em.

Oh, and one last thing! Here is your quote for the day, rather apropos I thought, given my former profession:
"Any member introducing a dog into the Society's premises shall be liable to a fine of one pound. Any animal leading a blind person shall be deemed to be a cat." ~Oxford Union Society, London, Rule 46

I would take offense to that rule, except that I'm too busy laughing. Oh, jeez, now I'm drooling. Cleanup, living room aisle! Bring your socks!

Could you Get Fuzzy already?

Ok, Satchel, here's the deal. You're the dog, Bucky's the cat. There's a hierarchy here. You're bigger, yet somehow less intelligent. He's small, yet crafty. Wily, you might say. But, and I fear I'm being redundant, you're the dog. Get with the program already, will ya? Case in point:


See, in this instance you used timing to good effect, but it is, and you must agree, a rare occurrence. More often than not, you demonstrate a distinct lack of je ne sais quoi. See that? I'm German, yet I know French. A cat would probably call me elitist, but I like to think of myself as cultured. You learn all sorts of useful things at school. Like when to bark, when not to bark, what to do with your tail when you lay down, how to take over a foreign sofa... what some might call "proper etiquette."

Unfortunately, Satchel, you also demonstrate some of the more disdainful properties of us dogs. Observe, if you will, Exhibit B:

Here, you clearly show to the world what is going on behind those floppy ears of yours. You're not ashamed of it, either. Maybe that's the difference between floppy-eared dogs and pointy-eared dogs. While we may have these same thoughts, we know our limits. Also, we know that there are other poles to be sniffed, and therefore the smells at this individual pole pale in comparison to the smorgasbord of smells available to us further down the block. Imagine, if you will, a bone. Yes, you could chew it until there is nothing left, but isn't it more enjoyable to gnaw for a while, then nap, do some cleaning, walk around, sniff the houseplants, and then gnaw some more? I mean, you get to stretch out the timeline of both gnawliness and enjoyability, almost to infinity. Of course, it also depends on how efficient your chewing is, but in general the more breaks you take, the longer you get to enjoy the bone. Does that make sense, Satchel?

Here's Exhibit C, just in case I haven't made my point yet:

Taste? Taste? You haven't even smelled it yet! It could be rotten! It could be dirt! For all you know, it could have worms in it! Of course, it could also be something tasty, like rabbit. That is why I advise smell. Always, always, always, smell first. If enjoyable, carry on. If questionable, check to see that there aren't any humans around to discourage you. If rancid, leave it for the squirrels. They deserve it, filthy little rodents.

I guess, Satchel, as much as most of this has been an admonishment to you, in all reality I am slightly jealous. You get to play with a cat. A Cat! I've always wanted one - I've seen them in windows, I've heard them at the vet, I've even smelled them in my yard. (How the furry little rascal got there without me noticing is still a mystery, but as I noted above, they are wily. Most likely related to squirrels, but wily nonetheless.) So really, it's envy and jealousy. And a little bit of the unknown. I mean, what would I do with a cat? I don't know, because my humans never let me try. Personally, I think they would make great toys. Who wants to chase a ball when you can chase something that moves on its own?

Finally, Satchel, I present your saving grace, Exhibit D:

I guess, deep down inside, I just want to hold a cat. But, as you experienced, not all cats want to be held. Maybe it's just fear of the unknown that makes them hold back. I don't know. What I do know, though, is that....
I want one! I want one! I want one! I want one!

Can I have a kitty?




With thanks (and apologies) to Darby Conley.

Playing dress up

Ok, I'll be honest. I don't like playing dress up. Ever. Never have liked it, never will. No pair of sunglasses, no shirt, and certainly no hat has ever worked out. Oh sure, I'll humor my humans, at least for a little while, but once the camera's been put away, it's time to de-clothe.


Here's proof: This was, obviously, Cinco de Mayo. Several years ago now, when I was younger and more easily convinced to go along with such antics. However, I would guess that you can tell by my expression that I was not a willing partner. As you can tell by the extremely gleeful expression on the face of the co-conspirator to my left, some were more willing than others. Peer pressure at its worst, really. Thankfully, this hat did not survive the eastward trek some months later. No tears were wept for it; there were no lamentations on my part. Others, well....I'm not so sure.

The only borderline, barely acceptable clothing item that I have decided to allow are booties. Cold weather booties, for my feet, and only my feet. They do not go on my nose, they are not for my tail; they are for my paws. And only when the temperature is in the single digits, or lower. If it's 20F outside, leave me alone, I'll survive. Dog save you if it's 30F out and you come near me with those things, I will have words with you. And please, do not to laugh at me when I try to walk in them. For all you know, I'm working on my John Cleese Ministry of Silly Walks impersonation.

Oh, and to those little dogs who get all gusseyed up in sweaters and big poofy down jackets and the like, you know we're all laughing at you, right? If you don't say anything about it, you're considered a willing participant. If you don't want it, put up a fight. If it's to keep you warm, I suggest you be a really good boy (or girl, as the case may be) in this life, and maybe next time 'round you'll get to be something a little bit more respectable, like a Setter or something.

That's all for this time, kiddies. Time to go take a nap.

Snow. Snow? Snow!

Here in what I like to call the Great White North, N.Q.C. (Not Quite Canada), they have this wonderful stuff called snow. Having grown up in Los Angeles, California, this was a foreign substance to me when I first saw it. However, now that I spend at least four months of the year surrounded by it, I have become, well, addicted. There, I said it. It's out in the open now, I'm through the denial stage, and it's time to face facts.
Some say that I go too far, that snow takes over my life. They say things like, "Stop eating all the snow, there won't be any left." I've also heard them remark, "Look at him. It's like crack cocaine or something." That last quote was said behind my back, but I have great hearing. I have no idea what this "crack cocaine" stuff is, but if it's anything like snow...

The only problem I have with snow, and this is really a conundrum because it's also something that I love about it, is that snow is cold. Not just shivery, ice down your tail cold, but real, honest-to-goodness hold your paw up, tuck your nose under your tail cold. Cold that also, it turns out, feels great when you eat it. And sniff it. But mostly eat it. There are times when I've just plopped myself down in the snow and gone to town on a small drift.
As much as my humans seem to think that I like squeeky toys, or rope toys (great way to get out some aggression, tearing ropes apart, let me tell you!) or even ball toys (oh, the things I'll do for a tennis ball....) there is really nothing that compares to snow. Heck, I've even seen it made into a ball, and then it's thrown and I try to catch it. But they have this lame snow, puppy snow I call it, that doesn't know how to stay together. It doesn't follow directions. And you know what, it's really frustrating. Because you see this ball, and it leaves the hand in ball form, and then, as you calculate your angle of attack, jump angle, and launch velocity, the yapper* breaks up. And you get hit, more often than not, square in the face with a bunch of powder. And you're lucky if even 10% gets in your mouth. It just makes you want to lay down and eat snow for the rest of the day.
That's all I have for tonight. It's off to my sofa. Or maybe the bed...we'll have to see where my nose takes me. Till next woof!

*Sorry for the language, but yapper was the least offensive word I could come up with. Would you rather I have said poodle?

Hello, and Welcome

Hello! And welcome! My name is Hagrid - I'm a German Shepard. Not one of those fake American Shepards, but a real live German Shepard.

I've decided to start this blog in order to better communicate with my humans, who think that my whining and talking is mostly pointless. Little do they know that I'm trying to have a conversation with them.

A little bit about me: I'm 8 1/2 years old, male (obviously - with a name like Hagrid? I mean come on...) tall, and generally well-mannered. I was trained to be a Guide Dog for the blind, but I was never matched up with anyone. Mostly due to my height, or so I'm told. So I took early retirement, and now spend my days trying to relax. Which is not as easy as it sounds, trust me. I'm a dog, I know these things.

So those are the basics. I'll try to stay current with my posts, but you know how it is. Between trying to type with my paws, shedding all over the keyboard, and needing to stop in order to groom myself, life can get pretty busy. Plus, I'm only supposed to do this when my humans are gone, so I've got to pick my time wisely. But I'll be around.

Yours in sticks and bones,
Hagrid