Rigby
The other day my daughter Camille called and was unhappy with me because she was tired of looking at the picture of Jack, on the previous post. I guess I'm going to get a call every few days now because I haven't met my quota of blog posts. Apparently she is sadly lacking for entertainment. So, Camille, this one's for you! This is a picture of our dog, Rigby. He's a black and tan daschund. I had to look up the spelling in my dictionary. Contrary to popular belief, Paris Hilton's dog isn't the most spoiled one in the universe. Oh sure, it may have a diamond necklace and get packed around in an overgrown purse, but I would be willing to bet that Paris has never once bent down and picked up even one pile of poop after her little precious relieved itself. I, on the other hand, have picked up mountains of the stuff. Not because I want to, it's just the right thing to do. Plus, if I don't, come spring, when it's time to mow the lawn, it will be lying in wait for me, tucked under mounds of grass, motionless
. It's not even good fertilizer. Oh well. Just one of the joys of having a dog. When he was just a puppy, we were trying to get him trained to go potty outside, so every time he took a crap, he would get a little Milkbone dog treat. Well, once he found out that he would be rewarded for doing what comes natural, I think he started rationing it out. He comes in several times a day to bother me because he has to go. He usually goes three times a day- sometimes four. He's breaking the bank!We should have named this one Your Highness or Prince Rigby or some name befitting his lifestyle. What a life it is. All day long he stays in the comfort of our home, either lying on the couch, or on my recliner. Frequently he burrows his way under the blankets so he can maintain the optimum temperature, to which he has become accustomed. When the stove comes on he plops down in front of it, taking up the whole space. If for some reason I should want to stand there for a moment and enjoy a little heat, he looks at me as if I was an intruder and the moment I leave he immediately stretches full length across the front, blocking access to any warmth until after the fan shuts off. He's really very stingy. I have a recliner that the kids bought for me. The thing is huge- it takes up a third of the living room and you could easily seat two full sized adults in it. Unfortunately, the dog has taken a liking to it. If I'm already sitting in it, he takes six or eight practice jumps before he finally launches up into the seat. Then he digs at the blanket until he's covered up and then pushes me to side of the chair until he has taken every possible inch of room. I'm crammed way over against the arm, while he languishes on the cushion.He doesn't understand the concept of sharing at all. If he is in it before I am, I have to physically move him over to the side so I can sit down- he has no intention of getting out of the way. He has an incredible sense of smell, for whatever good that does me. When there is snow on the ground and another dog or cat has walked through the yard, if he's outside leaving me a gift, he has to stop at every single track and bury his nose in it, all the way up to his eyeballs. Every track! It's the same animal, but he doesn't seem to understand that. He'll be outside, see the track, stick his nose in-hmmm- smells like Sparky. Sees the next track- does it again-hmm Sparky again- he'll do this for fifteen minutes. It doesn't matter if I'm freezing to death or if I have to be somewhere. It's the same with pee. What is it with dogs and pee? Mmmm.. I smell pee! Yum! I better go check this stump out! I've heard that they identify other dogs by the smell of their pee, but why bother. Any other dog he sees from his perch on the back of the couch, he'll go balistic. Barking like he's going to tear their heads off and even the hairs on his neck and back will stand up. I don't know what all the commotion is about.He's a world class wimp. Behind the glass though, he sounds pretty intimidating. I think the only other dog he's ever really scared was one like Paris'. The little short haired Mexican one's like on the Taco Bell commercial. Oh well. He has quite an excellent sense of hearing too. He will be sound asleep under the blanket on the couch, snoring like a fat man. I decide to get up and get a snack- the minute the sound of the a cracker package being opened reaches his ears, he's immediately headed for the kitchen. If I should happen to get out the cheese, he hounds me relentlessly until I give him some. We have to spell certain food words like he was some little kid.It doesn't seem to matter what we're eating- he wants some. Tomatoes, bannanas, cereal, tuna,eggs. If we eat it, he wants it. The only thing that I'm aware of that he doesn't like is green olives. Too much salt for his tastes I guess. The final insult is bed time. He has a very rigid schedule. By 8:30 every night, he wants to lay down either on the couch or in my chair. He prefers that one of us sit down with him. He has to be covered with his "blang" while he produces enough BTU's to heat a small room. He has a perfectly delightful dog bed awaiting him, but he won't go there voluntarily. When I decide to go to bed, I have to pick him up, cradle him in my arms and carry him into his bed, where I gently lay him down, cover him with a very soft,warm, fuzzy blanket and then pull his sleeping bag on top of that. I think it's rated down to about 40 degrees below zero. So I guess Paris can pack her dog around in a Gucci bag all day long, I don't think Rigby really cares. When it comes to spoiled dogs, we know who the winner is.
. It's not even good fertilizer. Oh well. Just one of the joys of having a dog. When he was just a puppy, we were trying to get him trained to go potty outside, so every time he took a crap, he would get a little Milkbone dog treat. Well, once he found out that he would be rewarded for doing what comes natural, I think he started rationing it out. He comes in several times a day to bother me because he has to go. He usually goes three times a day- sometimes four. He's breaking the bank!We should have named this one Your Highness or Prince Rigby or some name befitting his lifestyle. What a life it is. All day long he stays in the comfort of our home, either lying on the couch, or on my recliner. Frequently he burrows his way under the blankets so he can maintain the optimum temperature, to which he has become accustomed. When the stove comes on he plops down in front of it, taking up the whole space. If for some reason I should want to stand there for a moment and enjoy a little heat, he looks at me as if I was an intruder and the moment I leave he immediately stretches full length across the front, blocking access to any warmth until after the fan shuts off. He's really very stingy. I have a recliner that the kids bought for me. The thing is huge- it takes up a third of the living room and you could easily seat two full sized adults in it. Unfortunately, the dog has taken a liking to it. If I'm already sitting in it, he takes six or eight practice jumps before he finally launches up into the seat. Then he digs at the blanket until he's covered up and then pushes me to side of the chair until he has taken every possible inch of room. I'm crammed way over against the arm, while he languishes on the cushion.He doesn't understand the concept of sharing at all. If he is in it before I am, I have to physically move him over to the side so I can sit down- he has no intention of getting out of the way. He has an incredible sense of smell, for whatever good that does me. When there is snow on the ground and another dog or cat has walked through the yard, if he's outside leaving me a gift, he has to stop at every single track and bury his nose in it, all the way up to his eyeballs. Every track! It's the same animal, but he doesn't seem to understand that. He'll be outside, see the track, stick his nose in-hmmm- smells like Sparky. Sees the next track- does it again-hmm Sparky again- he'll do this for fifteen minutes. It doesn't matter if I'm freezing to death or if I have to be somewhere. It's the same with pee. What is it with dogs and pee? Mmmm.. I smell pee! Yum! I better go check this stump out! I've heard that they identify other dogs by the smell of their pee, but why bother. Any other dog he sees from his perch on the back of the couch, he'll go balistic. Barking like he's going to tear their heads off and even the hairs on his neck and back will stand up. I don't know what all the commotion is about.He's a world class wimp. Behind the glass though, he sounds pretty intimidating. I think the only other dog he's ever really scared was one like Paris'. The little short haired Mexican one's like on the Taco Bell commercial. Oh well. He has quite an excellent sense of hearing too. He will be sound asleep under the blanket on the couch, snoring like a fat man. I decide to get up and get a snack- the minute the sound of the a cracker package being opened reaches his ears, he's immediately headed for the kitchen. If I should happen to get out the cheese, he hounds me relentlessly until I give him some. We have to spell certain food words like he was some little kid.It doesn't seem to matter what we're eating- he wants some. Tomatoes, bannanas, cereal, tuna,eggs. If we eat it, he wants it. The only thing that I'm aware of that he doesn't like is green olives. Too much salt for his tastes I guess. The final insult is bed time. He has a very rigid schedule. By 8:30 every night, he wants to lay down either on the couch or in my chair. He prefers that one of us sit down with him. He has to be covered with his "blang" while he produces enough BTU's to heat a small room. He has a perfectly delightful dog bed awaiting him, but he won't go there voluntarily. When I decide to go to bed, I have to pick him up, cradle him in my arms and carry him into his bed, where I gently lay him down, cover him with a very soft,warm, fuzzy blanket and then pull his sleeping bag on top of that. I think it's rated down to about 40 degrees below zero. So I guess Paris can pack her dog around in a Gucci bag all day long, I don't think Rigby really cares. When it comes to spoiled dogs, we know who the winner is.
Thanks dad for the blog. I loved it, almost spit out my coffee from laughing when I was reading it. Gotta love Rigby. If you think he is bad try having our dog Shelby for a while.
ReplyDeleteNow that's a dog who has accomplished his goal of training His Human! Good thing you know your place, Tom!
ReplyDeleteThat's hilarious, but remember, you made him like that! :)
ReplyDelete