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Saturday, September 1, 2018

A DOG NAMED TROUBLE

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
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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