At Least It Tires Her Out

Setting:

Scene 1: Autumn, one acre property entered via steep, 180 foot driveway
Scene 2: Autumn, interior

Set Decoration:
Well over two hundred (200) trees

Cast of Characters:
One (1) Mom (hereinafter referred to as "Mom"), one (1) medium sized puppy (hereinafter referred to as "Pup")

Props:
One (1) push broom

Costumes:
One (1) belt, one (1) six foot (6') leash

SCENE 1:
Leaves fall from trees, forming a creeping glacier of leafage all the way down the driveway.

Mom: "Hey Pup! Let's go clear the driveway."

Pup: "Arf!"

Mom attaches leash (see above) to Pup's collar, threads leash handle through belt and puts on belt. Pup and Mom are now literally joined at the hip. Mom picks up broom and begins gathering leaves from corners of the driveway and pushing them in piles down toward the street.

Pup, meanwhile, trots in circles around Mom, tangling Mom and broom in leash.

Mom: "Watch out, pup."

Pup: "Yarp!"

Mom continues to clear a path on the driveway, pushing more piles of leafage toward curb. Pup trots along beside broom, hopping in and out of leaf piles and scattering leaves.

Mom: "Cool it!"

Pup: "Rowf!"

Mom continues sweeping leaves, as Pup prospects in leaf stacks for interesting sticks and treasures.

Mom: "You're not making this any easier."

Pup: "Woof!"


Scene 2:
Mom in bathtub, Pup in personalized puppy enclosure.

Mom: "Aahhh."

Pup: *sigh*

My Dog Can Afford A Personal Trainer

We have a nine-month-old Tibetan Terrier puppy; we got her last summer a couple months after our Bichon Frise died. I thought I must be nuts for getting another dog so soon, as I'd had the entire summer to be gone all day without having to let anyone out to go to the bathroom. It took a while for her to grow on me, especially since she was so mouthy that I'd routinely wear her hanging from my arm like a bracelet; my neighbor commented that my forearms made me look like a cutter. Robespierre was pretty good with her but Cleopatra was terrified and with good reason -- the dog had an abiding fascination with our ankles and most of the time when we walked her we resembled a klutzy version of Riverdance.

When I got my first dog nearly twenty years ago I'd never had any pets other than fish, and except for when one of the fish jumped out of the tank and flopped around on the carpet, subtracting a good ten years from my mother's lifespan, they were about as exciting as actuarial tables. I was thrilled to have a dog, but I knew absolutely nothing about them; not only did I do everything in the book wrong, I even made up things to do wrong. Naturally, the Bichon and her younger half-sister were profoundly spoiled and ill-behaved. It's a good thing they were so cute and lovable or I'd have had to kill them. Bianca, the older one, never saw any meaning in housebreaking, and her tummy was so delicate that she threw up every morning, usually on my bed. It got to the point where I'd recognize her "hep hep hep" noises, and even in deep sleep I could grab her and run to the bathroom, where I'd put her front paws up on the toilet rim and she'd very cooperatively throw up in the toilet. To be fair, though, when I was pregnant with Roby and threw up at least once a day for thirty weeks, Bianca would camp out at the bathroom door with a worried expression; I told myself she was concerned about me, but actually she was probably just jealous that I got to lock myself in the bathroom and play with the roll of toilet paper.

So when Violet came along I swore I'd not make nearly as many mistakes, so I found her a personal trainer, Mr. Don't-You-Dare-Call-Me-Dog-Whisperer. He comes to the house and trains her to be a dog and me to be an owner. Now, instead of getting the "You Need to Exercise More" lecture from my own trainer, I get the "You Need To Exercise Her More" lecture from hers.

Will it work? Darn well better. I'm running out of shoes.