Below is an excerpt from my latest book THE PATH: Tears and Laughter Through the Generations,
Available on Amazon via daughter Kathie's blog ENGAGING PEACE
Label -- Animal Tales
Label -- Animal Tales
Journal entries by poodle’s mistress:
Moppet is the spunkiest toy poodle
this household has ever seen. She
knows she is supposed to stay in the nursery, but whenever I check on her, she
has managed to tumble her way out of the box. Then
she runs around the sun-room, getting into trouble. She loves my African Violets; the ones
she can reach on the lower shelves of the plant stands are delicious. Another gourmet attraction is her
master's leather flight bag.
Moppet hides under the bookcase when
she hears me coming. I
return her to the nursery and wag a chiding finger in her face, tapping her on
the nose to let her know I'm really cross.
Her reaction? She hits me back. She rears up on her hind legs and bats
at my hand with both front paws. This
combat often ends in an undignified backward somersault: she is getting so roly‑poly,
she easily loses her balance. Unembarrassed,
she scrambles to her feet and assumes her boxer's stance once more, her
expression clearly stating: "Listen,
you, who do you think you're shovin' around?"
I have been teaching Moppet one
new trick a week. She
mastered the first three quickly, but persuading her to dance on her hind legs
wasn't so easy. She knew
she was expected to do
something for that tidbit, but darned if she
could figure out what it
was. Whipping through her
repertory like a whirling dervish, she sat, flopped down on all fours, sat up
again, shook hands, flopped down again, and finally ended up with a trick
of her own. "Yap, yap, yap!" she
scolded. "What do you want for one lousy cracker—a tight‑rope
act?"
Moppet still isn't housebroken, so she
is supposed to stay in the kitchen. When
I got home from an errand, I found Timmy had left the
swinging door open. By the
time I found the pup, it was too late to say, "Stop it,
Moppet!" I chased her
around the dining‑room table, captured her behind the TV set, and
confronted her with the wet
spot under the piano.
Instead of being repentant, she reared
back and looked at me with that indignant expression she assumes when
she's chastised. "What
makes you think I did it? Maybe the piano
leaks."
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