Tag Archives: family pets

Feb10

Charlie & Murphy — What “Intention” Shows Us

Posted on February 10, 2015 by Grass Oil by Molly Field

So I took this photo today of Charlie, our rescue pooch. In it, he’s standing amidst the wreckage of a modest plastic laundry basket that I thought would make a nice dog toy bin, as it had survived in this house for several years before he arrived.

What?

Charlie is about 15 months old now. I realize that makes me sound like a really screwed-up “dog parent” but I mention his age in months because while he’s over a year, physically, he’s still quite a puppy mentally. Or maybe this is who he is.

His adult teeth have been grown in for at least seven months, yet he is a chewer. He is such a chewer that he has shown Murphy, our 7-year-old golden retriever, how it’s done.

Murphy really could not care less about nylabones or rope toys or rubber tug toys or giant knot pulls or a moccasin or a scarf, a chair, a rug fringe, a beach towel, a fire log, a down jacket, a pair of leather boots, a piece of trim on a cabinet, a Jimmy Page DVD box, a remote control, a set of headphones, an uncashed birthday check for $100, an electric guitar cord, a garden hose, a wah-wah pedal, a text book, a yoga book, a set of crayons, a bottle of Murphy’s Oil Soap, shin guards, a candle, an LL Bean tote bag, flip flops, a few cleats, a BBQ glove, a newspaper, an empty cardboard box, an empty cereal bag, a broom handle, a snow shovel, a volley, soccer, basket, foot, playground -ball, a book by Roz Chast and so much more. Murphy doesn’t care. Murphy couldn’t be bothered.

As you can see, just today, here is Murphy simply not giving a damn about Charlie’s basket.

No. No. No. This is not interesting to me. I want to see what Mom is doing. Get your hand off my back.

Why?

“WHY NOT MURPH?!? LOOK AT ALL THIS STUFF! C’MONNNNNN!!!” Begs Charlie.

Because Murphy was intended. And Charlie was not.

Murphy’s whole being — from the mounting of his wild, long-haired, as-flaxen-as-wheat father “Kirby” onto his sainted dogly, calm, freckle-nosed, light blonde mother, “Bonnie” — Murphy was intended.

“We’d like a mellow golden. One that is beautiful of course, but that is not too crazy, like Zeus, over there bounding up and down along the gate… And not too dark, because then they start to look like Irish Setters, which are completely insane, and I won’t have that…” I remember thinking, if not actually saying to the breeder, almost seven and a half years ago.

Why? Why did we go to a breeder? Well, it’s simple: our youngest son was still quite little, just four, and every golden retriever rescue we tried didn’t work out.

We had to surrender our first one, “Skipper,” because he was massive, a ton of energy and knocked over my kids constantly. Skipper was gorgeous: he had the big blocky head, and flame-colored eyes. He came to me by way of my Creative Memories (remember those days?) consultant.

My consultants’s neighbor, a recent widower and retired Navy captain who had recently undergone a hip replacement, was given a dog, Skipper, by his children to keep him company. These people, who were clear across the country in California, knew NOTHING about goldens. My consultant friend knew I loved goldens and also knew I would be able to help find a home for Skipper. Our “Maggie” was about nine at the time and she was tender-hipped herself, so I thought a 70-pound puppy might be too much for her.

I was right.

Skipper was seldom walked, because the man had his hip surgery and he told me Skipper mostly lived in the garage when he wasn’t walked by a neighbor kid. He was gorgeous though. I told my friend, “Sure, I’ll meet him. I’m sure someone can help place him…”

The next thing I knew: Skipper and his owner were in my front yard with a crate, leashes, bowls, food, toys, and papers. I looked up to say hello to the man and he was gone. >Poof!< I called my friend / consultant and she was a bit shocked. I wasn’t about to turn over Skipper immediately, but I really didn’t know how to manage it all. My friend later spoke to him and said that he was desperate; I was young (a sucker) and loved dogs and well … yup.

I trained Skipper for about four months. He knocked over my kids, he knocked over poor Maggie, he was very smart, but too much. He had to go. So I contacted our local rescue group and the next day, Skipper was picked up around 10am and I cried my fool head off. The rescue group had a family in mind. They loved that he had been trained in the rudimentary drills and he was showing real promise. I love training dogs. So off he went, to befriend a teenage boy with autism. They were inseparable. I felt so good knowing he was going to be someone’s INSTANT best friend. Our kids were sad, for the most part. But we still had our girl Maggie.

For about a year. Then she died. I won’t go into that here, but it was a very hard day.

I couldn’t really “be” without a dog. So about six months after Mags died, I found another golden. From another rescue group. Ironically, and I didn’t know this at the time, my act of surrendering a “found” dog to the previous rescue group prohibited me from acquiring a dog from them for three years… I didn’t understand it, and when I signed the papers at the time, I of course thought Maggie would live longer, so it wasn’t a big deal.

So I found another golden rescue group.

Why goldens? Because I grew up around them. Because they are wonderful with children. Because I wanted another one. Because.

When we went to meet “King” he was sooooooo very mellow. I thought he was drugged. We didn’t plan on adopting him that day. The rescue lady (INSANE WOMAN, read on) said it was a “site visit” (for us?). He was a sweet boy, about three years old. His story was sad: his original family moved around the world, they tried with a family friend, but that didn’t work out (I SHOULD HAVE ASKED MORE QUESTIONS ABOUT THAT) and no one else could take him, so they gave him up.

He was so mellow, we ended up taking him home that day. Of course we did (I can see my husband rolling his eyes now). All the boys raced back to their seats in our minivan (yes, I did drive one for four years) and in piled King. I knew that name had to go. King belongs to a German Shepherd Dog or a mastiff. We decided to try “Riley.”

Riley worked, he adjusted to the name. But KING… King was still alive and well. You can take the dog out of West Virginia, but you can’t take the West Virginia out of the dog. Riley was calm, sweet and docile in the car. I knew he wasn’t drugged because his eyes were bright and alert, but man, it was like he was in a Zen state.

Until the moment we opened our doors after we pulled into our driveway.

Riley took off. Booked. Bolted. Flew. Freakin’ hauled ass. Tore it up. Burnt rubber. Burnt asphalt. Left us in the dust. Ran. Laughing, if dogs could laugh, Riley was freakin’ howling has ass off.

Riley ran. and ran. and ran. and ran.

Our street is very quiet. But it is an appendage off a side street to a major traffic artery. We’re talking a four-lane-separated-by-a-median-strip artery. A 40mph zone. Riley went for the artery. West. More West. To the sunset.

It was like a scene from a mad-cap Disney pic from the 1970s …

Forget “It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad World!” Everyone is on a zany foot chase after Riley, the new dog, who simply can’t be caught! Don’t miss out on this great, fun, family adventure, where Riley shows everyone, even people he’ll never meet, that he wants to find his original family somewhere halfway around the world…. in ‘Riley Hates the Suburbs’… starring Elizabeth Montgomery as ‘Molly’ and Gavin McLeod as ‘Dan,’ King as ‘Riley’ and Joan Crawford as ‘The Rescue Lady.’

Riley fooled us all. After a 30-minute death-defying jaunt along our parkway and being caught by a really hot guy who looked like Ricky Martin, Riley came ~~home~~ back to our house on a collar and a leash. When Riley had a leash on, or was behind the gate (which he never tried to dig beneath or jump above) he was your man. He was calm, loyal, patient and sweet. The problem was our kids. Keep the dog, get rid of the kids? My youngest was still quite little, maybe three then, and he needed the doors held open a long time as he exited and entered our house. When Thing 3 had to go outside, Riley was waiting. And off went the older boys to catch him. The final bout was when one of the neighborhood boys almost got hit by a car, in hot pursuit. Everyone in our neighborhood knew that if a deep-red golden retriever was running like an idiot through the yards, it was Riley Field. One of the kids is now a track star at the high school. We’d like to think that we had something to do with his training.

So after about nine months, it was determined, quite easily I might add, that Riley/King had to go back to his original rescuer.

MAAAAAAAN did I get my ass handed to me by that madwoman rescuer. When we got him, he was about 10# underweight. His coat was a mess: it was dry, breaking off, and his skin was scaly but not diseased. He’d clearly been malnourished and under attended. He didn’t know any commands, especially not “stay” (obviously). The woman accused me of all sorts of things when I told her he needed to be returned: of breech of contract, of lying, of trying to look good, of being “fancy.” (Ouch.) Of NEGLECT (even though she’d never seen him) and she said that my vet said that I was a horrible owner and that I should be reported. Well, she never called my vet, because if she had she would have seen that Riley put on all his weight, that his muscle tone was restored, that his coat was lustrous and shiny and that he ran like hell. When we returned Riley, we provided a 50-pound bag of high-end food, his coat luster additives, leashes, a bed, a crate, toys and a $100 donation to her rescue league… JUST BECAUSE.

So that’s why I went back to breeders after two rescues. I feared at this point that my name was mud (because I figured these organizations were like interpol cross-referencing owners and all that) and I just couldn’t let that stop me from getting a dog. I love dogs. Desperately YET responsibly.

So last winter, when the chance to get Murphy a pal presented itself, I had to say yes. A puppy. I knew I could handle a puppy. I could train it. I could imprint it (as much as possible) and I could get it to understand that we are the home base. We are the team. Plus, Murphy was so mellow and huge, I figured any new puppy to him would be in good paws because he’s so patient and sweet. (Right now, Murphy is chewing on his rawhide and Charlie is hovering over him –Charlie finished his– and Murphy is ignoring him, but lowly growling, as Charlie gets terribly close to Murphy’s jaw, pressuring him to give up the goods.)

And we were right. To a threshold.

When we acquired Charlie, the vet estimated him to be about 8-10 weeks old. That’s about two weeks longer than most puppies are with their mothers. With a responsible and ethical breeder, 8-10 weeks is not a huge deal because the dog would have been socialized with other humans and other pups. With a dog like Charlie, who was bred near a salt marsh somewhere in South Carolina, whose mother was a stray, whose father was either dead or just clearly uninvolved, and who was likely whelped in a torn-down abandoned house in not the best of neighborhoods, you need to be careful.

Charlie has strange behaviors, whereas Murphy does not. Murphy does not scrape at the wooden floor or decking before lying down. Nor does he try to lick that flooring or bite the planks out of their position. He is interested in the trash, from the concept that it smells like something he’d consider if there were no food, ever, to be had or if the trash fell over and no one was home and he could get away with it… (he’s no angel).

But what I’ve noticed is the subtle distinction between their behaviors: Charlie came from chance and squalor so he’s scrappy and cheerful and game and so very charming, like a vacuum salesman. Murphy came from certainty and plenty so he’s patient, kind, interested in playing but not to the point of chasing you around the house with a sock to tug on it and he’s very loyal and assured; there is no “desperation” with Murphy whereas there is a definite sense of urgency with Charlie. Don’t get me wrong, I know they’re both on the make and totally full of shit and just want my hamburger, but it’s a very clear case of nurture versus nature between them.

When Charlie came to us he was wild, insofar that he was not a “dog” as I have come to know them, intentionally. He cried like a crazed hyena in his crate. He ate like a fiend and growled when we came near him while eating. I knew that had to stop immediately. As a babe, and as recently as this morning, Charlie goes to Murphy’s mouth to lick it to get Murphy to regurgitate his own food. Well, anyone who knows Murphy knows that ain’t happening, so what that did was also establish Murphy’s “alpha” position in their pack, which is constantly being challenged with little fanfare by Murphy.

What this tells me, watching all of it, is that Murphy knows in some way, because his mother was not in a panic, that he is safe and that all his needs will be met; and that Charlie has been conditioned to be more aware (despite their breed differences; goldens are NOT watch dogs) and needy or resourceful. Murphy has confidence, where Charlie simply has gratitude. I know that if I’m ever with Charlie and I feel unsafe around a person, he will go for the throat of whatever is approaching in a hostile way. He’s a sweet boy, but don’t cross him. Whereas Murphy, he’ll offer the person my coat and jewelry and ask for a ride.

At 5:35 every night, I can tell without the clock that it’s time for their dinner because Charlie goes to Murphy’s mouth to see if anything is there.

You couldn’t PAY Murphy to sniff this.

When people come to the house to visit, Charlie is beyond thrilled. He can’t wait to sniff them, to kiss them, to inspect their bags or pockets. Charlie does play bows, and wags his tail and smiles. Murphy is, on the other hand, just glad they’re here. He saunters up to them, he lets them pet him, he inspects their crotches and then he moves on. If it’s someone he REALLY loves, he will wag his tail and do a little dance and “wooo-oo-woof” at them. Charlie is silent, but going through their stuff. If he finds something, he shares with Murphy; the same can not be said of Murphy.

He’s a charmer. This was after I took my leather gloves from him. He had a great time running around the house with them saying “Catch me!!” Is he sorry or just pissed that the game is over?

What’s nice about “knowing” about Charlie’s litter mates is that their owners and I occasionally share pictures or stories about the dogs and it seems that they all have a predilection for digging into established floors. In the case of Charlie, it’s not that he eats what he digs up; but there’s something in him that tells him, “below is security; below is sustenance.” Knowing the story of his exhausting rescue (I shared it here at this link), leaves me barely surprised by his digging and scratching, once I put it all together. It’s part of who he is, just as my telling jokes to cover over a pain or a hurt.

Watching Charlie — a dog by chance who survived by sheer will and the goodness of others, and Murphy — a dog of intention who was spoken for before he was even born, tells me a lot about how I am the way I am. I am scrappy, resourceful, defiant and loyal like Charlie because I grew up in a place that required it in order for me to survive and thrive. Charlie is charming –real and authentic– but there is something that I believe he “knows” about kindness: that when you are safe and secure, that you can give it, without wondering if it will come back to you. And now I can understand Murphy because when I give and live with kindness, I just end up enjoying it.

Possibly my favoritest (that’s a word) picture of them yet. Charlie is “hugging” his “baby” and his head is resting on Murphy’s hip.
That “baby” has since been eviscerated to a mere pelt.

Thank you.

PS — one more: this is IMMEDIATELY after I washed the glass door:

He has excellent timing.

Mar21

DNA Results are In. Charlie is ….

Posted on March 21, 2014 by Grass Oil by Molly Field

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Well, here’s the deal. Charlie is a mutt, we know this. So a couple weeks ago, my husband and I went to Petco and picked up a DNA kit. After seeing the results of two of his litter mates, I was very curious to know what might be coursing through his little veins. His brother had different sire markers than his sister; but they shared the same dam markers… so because Charlie seems to be the only one in his brood with all his unique Bernese Mountain Dog / Border Collie -esque markings, we thought: if they can have different dads, then so can he. What I didn’t expect was the totally WHAT?! results we got. If you read these three together, you’d say that Charlie was a stowaway.

Anyway… back to two weeks ago: after a three-hour rest in his crate and on a snow-day, my son held him quietly and I swabbed between his inner cheek and his teeth.

Charlie’s cheek, not my son’s.

And then I sealed up the kit and sent it to the lab for reading. The lab received it on March 10. After much curiosity and ado, Charlie’s DNA results came in over email last night at 11:21.

I woke this morning, after expressing my gratitude for waking and being healthy, I rolled over, kissed my husband, then rolled back over, sat up, scratched my head, did a quick cat / cow to wake my back and then woke my son. After that, I went to get my smartphone and read my email.

At the bottom of a long line of messages, mostly of newspaper alerts and Daily Om messages, was a note from the DNA people.

I know you’re champing at the bit. So here… Read below … toot.

WHAT ?!? DACHSUND?! Are you $)@!(&% kidding me?!

Dachsund.

My heart literally stopped for a moment.

Small dog. Wiener dog.

“Labrador retriever” went right past me. Didn’t even register.

Dachsund. All I could think about was the Dachsund part.

NO NO NO NO NO.

I am a Big Dog Person. I see small dogs and immediately I go into “snarly nasty gnashing clawing” dog-vision mode. I am biased. But beyond that, I mean… no. Charlie’s legs are probably 15″ long and his proportions are … proportional. I don’t dislike small dogs, I just don’t like them. Every small dog I’ve ever met on a walk with The Murph has been nasty and unpleasant.

I contacted the owners of his siblings to let them know the results because we’re all in this together, and as I mentioned, they had the same DNA test performed on Charlie’s sister and brother, and their results didn’t mention D…ach…sund (uch. I can’t even say it.) at all.

The fact that the lineage goes alllllllllllllll the way back to his great grandparents and only one on each side out of eight means I get a refund annnnnnd further analysis of their veterinary team and other dog people (not people who are actually dogs) who will look at his pictures and compare his results with his siblings’ results (which look more comprehensive than Charlie’s) and they’ll get back to me with more guesses.

What this means to me, is that basically, they will have people like me who love dogs and who know breeds and who love dogs and who will look at pictures and talk about how cool looking he is and that will be it.

His sibs each have a mention of Basenji in them. I liked that. They don’t shed. (I’m hoping for something beneficial beyond utter cuteness and boundless affection.)

“Rescue”

It brings me great joy to say about Charlie that when we talk about the term “rescue” that it has always been a foreign concept to me. All my dogs have been bred for captivity. All of them are thoroughbreds. All of them were “spoken for” here before they were born. I’ve mentioned this before, but I didn’t really understand what was going on here, when we took in Charlie. His presence in this family has rescued us. It has lifted up our collective spirits after a time of great loss.

When we first met Charlie, he was 12# 4oz. He couldn’t reach the ottoman in our family room. He was smaller than our cats. He could slide under the kitchen chairs and noodle into the crick of your elbow and fall asleep there, likely dreaming of his dark and roofless caved-in deserted home that he knew for all of his life before he came to know car rides, warm laps, children’s laughter, music, carpeting, safety, and predictable mealtimes.

I remember fondly the first moment we had together outside after his inaugural night here. He trotted out the back door of our home and licked the dewy grass that was glistening in the low morning sun. That was how he got water. I took him out front and he lapped from a puddle of rainwater on the street. He didn’t know about bowls. He didn’t know about doors and steps and leashes. He was a wild dog.

Oh! How he hated his crate. He howled like a pentecostal preacher whenever he’d get in it. Yelping in tongues; if he had a can to drag against the grid, he would. After about a week of that, he began to understand that the crate was his new cave; his new refuge and that every time he went in it — no matter how often a day, a treat was always waiting for him. All we have to do now is say “kennel!” and he takes off like a jackrabbit and careens through the house to zip like a snake into his crate where he is practically smiling waiting for a treat. He has become a true Virginia Gentleman: ready at the door to greet with a smile and sincere good cheer.

Oh, how his beautiful little ears flop and bounce in the wind when he runs; his lean teenager legs taking him wherever his eyes wander. Squirrels, birds, the dogs across the fence. Gandalf. Ohhhh… if he could eat / mate / kill / harvest Gandalf, how happy he would be.

Charlie rescued Murphy, our six-year-old Golden, who was becoming more reclusive with the months. Something has spooked Murphy, we’ll never know what it is because he can’t talk, but Charlie has encouraged him to come back to us, to beg for a treat, to compete for a snuggle and lunge for a tennis ball again.

Yin and Yang.

We talk about “rescue” as if we are doing the saving.

We talk about “rescue” as if we are somehow the better person, the more noble endeavor that shows our heart and our bigness to the world: Look at me save this animal from a tragic end; look at me, how big my heart is, to let in this creature who had no where else to go…

What we don’t realize is that we are the ones who are saved.

It doesn’t matter what breed Charlie “is.” It’s purely a matter of curiosity and predicted dog behavior for me; I want to make sure I could train him right and understand any tendencies he showed. But in the end, aren’t most dogs the same? They bark, they play, they whine, they need love, they need protection and they are fiercely loyal. Charlie didn’t come to us as an adult. His only story is 8-10 weeks older than when we met him.

He can clear the couch effortlessly now.

Today, he is about 33# and stands about 18″ tall. He has a mighty front chest; we’re talking very broad. His fur rivals that of a brushed sheep. His hair (on his head) is still just … crazy; he always has bed head. His eyes are deep dark chocolate. I don’t know what kind of dog has dark eyes like that… maybe a poodle? Does any of it matter? If he stayed this size, I’d be thrilled. Charlie has turned me into a Small Dog Person because he has a big heart.

We know what Charlie is. Charlie is our dog and Murphy’s brother.

Look! No snow! (For now.) I shot this today.

Thank you.

ps — it’s so nice to be writing again. This is my 400th post! 🙂

Feb26

Dear Diary … #dogs who #blog

Posted on February 26, 2014 by Grass Oil by Molly Field

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Dear Diary,

Hello. It is me, ~~Charlie~~. ~~Murphy~~. ~~Charlie~~. Murphy. It is Murphy. I have some things to get off my beautiful, tufted, flaxen thoroughbred chest.

The rodent “dog” that has come to live with us thinks I am a cow. He is super stupid.

Ha ha. “Super stupid rodent.” I should be that for halloween.

He nips at my heels every moment I stand. Or walk. Or stand. Or breathe. He does not know how to walk. He only hops. That makes him a rabbit. I prefer to say “rodent” though.

here i am trying to get him off my leg on a ledge at the Great Falls park. i should have let him have a great fall. i missed my chance.

I like to stand. Now I must sit all the time he is out of his cage, where he belongs forever, or snap and growl at him which I do not like to do because that is unbecoming for a dog of my lineage.

I am a golden retriever. We do not growl. Except at rodents and people who walk up to my front door and want to sell windowssidingroofdeckstrimguttersordoors to my lady. But rodents? We growl at rodents all the time. Like the one here they call Charlie who has come to not go away again.

If he is not nipping at me, he is trying to eat his own tail. He is so stupid.

The lady has started to snuggle with the rodent. That makes me sad inside. Then she gives me a pat and a long hug and some steak. Then it is not so bad.

The rodent does not get steak.

That makes me happy.

I have to go. The rodent is coming back from his time being outside watering the plants and making dirt. He does not do it outside very well. He thinks the inside is our outside. That is what comes from being born in a hole.

=-=-=

Rodent, er, Charlie here.

I am now almost four months old. The lady put a box with a long tube on it against her face and pushed a button to get this image of me:

this is not bad hair.
what do YOU know?

Do not listen to that big blonde. HE is the stupid one. We took the lady for a walk the other day. We showed her the giant birds that sit on the frozen water. Murphy said they are “stupid, no-good geese.”

even far away near the top of this picture, they look good to me.

I am sad.

My image of the lady as perfect has been chewed up and left for someone else to pick up.

She told a lie to a strange man on our walk. First, she let him touch me; that was not so bad. Then she told the man that I am a “Cape Breton cheveaux mauvais” for a breed. The man said, “Oh.”

HE BELIEVED HER. SHE IS A SERPENT. HE IS STUPID TOO.

I overheard her talking to the tall boy a couple days ago. HE said that those words mean “bad hair” in French. Look at that picture of me again. Does that look like bad hair?

And what is Cape Breton but a very cold place where ‘bad hair’ is ok because people wear hats all the days??

far away from south carolina, which is where i am from.

She said her friend from high school (low school if you ask me) came up with “Cape Breton.” It is a place so far away that no one can say it is untrue because nothing lives there. How can it? It is not here.

Humans lie.

is a stuffed kong as good as freedom? i say no.

is a peanut butter -stuffed kong as good as freedom? i say no.

They make “going to the kennel!” sound very fun. They call me and say, “Come here, Charlie! Time to go kennel!” and they have treats and then they close the door and lock it. When I am finished with the treats, they are in bed. Or watching the pictures on the wall.

What happened there? I lost. That is what happened. I am cut off from the paper on the wall near the always cold water bowl in the small room; I am apart from the things with strings the humans wear on their feet. The lady wears the kind that are long and have fur inside them. I miss those the most when I am in my crate.

I am training them still though. When I go by the door they get up. Fast.

Living here is different than living in South Carolina where there were no rules. I have tried to reach out to Murphy. He is stuck up.

he does not like my blonde jokes.

I love to decorate and arrange furniture. The humans do NOT know how to live.

everyone should have a stuffed toy tied to a string to keep the doors closed. and a floor rug in a dog bed. this is how the world should live.

Nate Berkus better watch his back.

here i am having a chat with my cat, Gandalf. I am reminding him how close the neighbor’s house is.

I am also an artist: That mark on the wall? It is a Charlie original. I was helping the lady catch the cat when she had a basket of clothes in her arms. She slipped off the bottom step and the collar she wears on one arm made that mark. I helped her do that.

This is me playing the piano. I was playing the same song again and again: “Chopsticks.” I hate that song. I wanted to play “He’s a Tramp.”

they say i am musical. here i am singing the blues.

this is much better than a peanut butter -stuffed kong in a kennel.

I heard the man in the house yell something about snowmen and wanting winter to stop.

this just about sums up how he felt.

But I like winter. I like to sit on the deck and stalk our cat.

i am finally bigger than the cat. here i am encouraging him to go live with the neighbors.

If I can’t encourage him, the lady tries:

Gandalf is our unhappy dancing cat. here is the lady wearing my favorite foot coverings with strings. this was before she told the lies about me being Canadian. Canadian… of all things. Socialists!

When I am not in my kennel, I am doing lots of things, most of them get the lady to sing out loud at me, “Nooooooo! Charrrrlieeeee!”

this is my hole. do you like it? what?

But even when it is quiet, and I am doing nothing wrong, I am afraid I am doing nothing right. Here I am watching TV with one of the humans.

the small one and i like “30 Rock”; that Kenneth gets me every time.

Murphy told me a joke the other day and I tried to tell him one back. I laughed. He did not.

high four. no? ok.

Because I run everywhere and slide into things, the lady thinks I am a “spaz.” I do not know what that means. I am just getting used to being Canadian. I am a puppy, and that sliding into things thing is normal for me. She gets it but she does not like it when I do this on our walks:

i do not see the problem. i am trying to tell her to relax, slow down a bit... STOP.

i do not see the problem. i am trying let her take in the moment.

Also, she will not let me have the goose food. Do you see that little piece of goose food on the ground? she keeps on calling it “LEAVE IT!” but we all know it is “EAT IT!”

So to stop me from getting her to rest on our walks and to keep the goose food where it is, for the gooses to eat, she got me a collar that a horse wears. I do not like it.

Here I am hiding from the camera. I am ashamed. What has happened to me? I am a Canadian Horse. “Neigh… Eh.” I hate this collar.

But the small one does not understand how stupid that collar is; so I have trained him to let me pull him wherever I want. Here in this picture, Murphy, ~~the blonde~~, is ~~trying to catch me~~ laughing at me.

the small one is my pet.

But the lady keeps putting that collar on me.

get me out of this collar.

Bye. For now.

Feb7

Dear Diary,

Posted on February 7, 2014 by Grass Oil by Molly Field

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Dear Diary,

It’s me, Charlie, the puppy here at the human’s house. Today, the lady gave me a bath. She was all alone or there would be humiliating photos of me with suds on my face and me sitting in the kitchen sink (i peed in it just to get back at her) looking like a wet rat.

Instead, she waited until the towel she put on me could hold no more water and took me outside for a picture. Here I am looking like an electrocuted wet rat:

She gave me the bath because I experienced the misfortune of placing my head under Murphy’s penis while he watered a plant this morning on our walk. It was my fault, I own it completely, but I did not like the bath. I did not think I smelled that bad. When the lady gave me a bath, I made sure that her shirt got very wet and that she got very cold because she ignored my dagger fangs on her wrist and my calls to any nearby wolves to release me. Serves her right. The lady kept on giving me treats while she scrubbed me; she thinks that will eventually make me like baths.

She is stupid.

Murphy said to just go along with it because the suds, the treats and the massaging are excellent.

This is Murphy, he is very cool:

He plays guitar with his tail.

When I run around this house and I try to steer, my feet slide on the floor and I slam into things at full speed. My fluffy hairs do not provide traction. The humans make sounds like they are having trouble breathing whenever this happens.

About four weeks ago, I was rescued from a hole in the ground in South Carolina. The lady and the man who have brought me here to run their home said that they did not plan on bringing me here at all but that the man saw a picture of me where I fell asleep in my food and he had to have me.

I do not know why this picture is what did it. I think I look like an idiot. I am embarrassed by this image; I have no self control.

I like this one better where I’m super cute. I was faking sleeping:

But “people are stupid; there’s no accounting for taste,” says Murphy. He is cool, so I believe him. He lets me knit with his tail hair. I know he likes it because he moans when I do it.

Since coming here, I have taught these humans how to do chores properly. No one understood the point of a dishwasher. I do.

It took many days for Murphy to warm up to me being his boss. He tries to act all big and 83 pounds, but we know that’s just a phase. The lady was so sad when he succumbed to my authority, she spoke into a small plastic box and shouted into it, “They’re getting along! They’re playing!” I do not think she understood what was going on. I was not playing. I was having a private meeting with Murphy expressing my domination; I have determined that hypnosis is best. Look into my eyes… You will do what I want…

I feel this photo is like one of those sensitive moments captured by White House photographers when JFK was in the middle of the Bay of Pigs crisis. Why did he not like the idea of a bay of pigs? Mud and bacon. What is not to like?

The lady tells Murphy not to drink from the white bowl in the small room. She growls in a stupid way, it sounds nothing like a dog. Murphy laughs at her and does it anyway. Here he is teaching me how it’s done. I can not reach the bowl. One day I will. She says, “Charlie, do not pick up that habit.”

Instead, I picked up this habit while I wait to get tall:

Here is Murphy pretending he is the boss:

On second thought, he looks very scary there. I will remember this picture. He does not like it when I try to eat his food when he is eating it. The lady feeds me last. That is mean. She says something like, “You are not alpha. I am alpha. Murphy is above you. You are Mu or Sigma….” Mu. That is stupid. But I try anyway.

It snowed here a couple weeks ago. I had a great time sitting on Murphy in it.

I am doing well. My mom, brother and sisters are living nearby. When the weather warms up, we will get together and have fun, the lady says. I have put on almost eight pounds since living here. Every time I wake up from a nap, a boy here says I have gotten bigger.

This is me, about to take a nap, so I can grow:

I have gotten the lady to do tricks; every time I sit down, I get her to use a clicker and then she gives me a treat and pats me on the face. She also does this when I decide to lie down and I have just started to go after things and then leave them alone and I get her to give me a treat. She also gives me one for taking a nap in my box. She is stupid.

I got a treat for this:

She keeps saying, “STAY. STAY… STAAAAAY.” I do nothing, and then I get her to give me a treat. Humans. They are so easily trained.

I like to think of this place as my toilet. The lady does not like that, so she has started to feed me off the floor.

Now I do not want to pee there so much anymore. But sometimes I forget. So now, she “wears” me by attaching herself to me wherever we go. It is funny, I never thought she would want to go where I get her to go.

I am glad I do not live in a hole in South Carolina.

Thank you.