A Dog's Birthday

 Musing tonight on Pet Value. Chet Baker is sitting at my feet, watching a rabbit under the feeders. He's stuck to me like glue today, occasionally launching himself up into my lap for a seriously good cuddle. How did he know I needed that? He just did, that's all.

I really had to have a dog like Chet to appreciate true Pet Value. An interactive dog. The kind of dog you can bake a cake for. Who gets it, and behaves perfectly appropriately.

Phoebe baked the cake, and she was feeling experimental, so she mixed blue and red food coloring and got a perfect Eighties mauve in the almond buttercream frosting. You know, the kind of mauve that is paired with gray and teal in older motels. Gag.  If you haven't already gathered by the peeks into our house that this blog affords, color is Very Important to us here on Indigo Hill. Yes, even the name of the place is a color.

Despite appearances, the cake was absolutely delicious. And it was also for Wendy, a December baby, and vocalist/keyboardist/arranger in The Raincrows, our new acousticky band. Both she and Chet Baker are Sagittarians. I get along very well with Sagittarians, even if I cannot spell it to save my life.

Miss Wendy, will you help me blow out the candles on our cake? My lips are not very cooperative.

I purely love this photo.  

He showered her with kisses, of course, for helping him get his birthday wish.

Which was a Gummy Bone. We wrapped it in brown paper and put it on the table, and Chet took over from there. He catpawed it but couldn't pull it close enough to him to pick it up.

A Boston terrier's reaction to nearly everything: Lick it. Oooh, I want that little present soooo badly!

Finally, Chet climbed up on the table (where you can see the last snowstorm that covered the midsection of the country on Intellicast radar!) and claimed the prize for his own.

                                                                              

I used to buy Chet the hard white Nylabones until KatDoc warned us that they can cause shear fractures of teeth. Nobody needs a split tooth! So now he gets the rubbery ones. And his crounching is much quieter.

I didn't realize until I got this photo up on the screen that there is a rather strange image on our TV of a chimp doing something to a child; being told to act solicitous, I suppose. Eek. I'm thinking Travis...I love this photo for that, for the live rosemary topiary Christmas tree, newly lit and decorated; for Chet's wonderful hands. And all the colors.

And I love this photo, of a sweet boy (growing up so fast!) and his  beloved dog. Our lives are so much richer for having three boys in the family. Please note tool-using behavior in a canid; Chet uses the couch cushions as a kind of vise for his big chewbones. So we must redefine tool-using, or redefine man,* or simply accept that this sleek little animal is much, much more than just a dog.

*a rawther obscure reference to Louis S. B. Leakey's reaction to Jane Goodall's revelation that she had documented tool-using in wild chimpanzees.

The Well-tempered Dog

Phoebe manages to grab Mr. Smiley and again holds it over her head. There is a pattern to The Games.


He is a thing of beauty in flight.

On his last leap, he snags the toy. Victory!



You have to let me rip it up now, Phoebe. I have earned this toy.


If it belongs to anybody, it belongs to me, Chet Baker. I have worked for it. And I know you are going to take it away from me again. You are a rotten person, Phoebe, even if you are my sister.


Mether is a rotten person too, for laughing at my distress. Besides, I am not ripping Mr. Smiley up right now. I am keeping him safe.


Well, Chet Baker, I am afraid the game is over. You could choke on bits of Mr. Smiley, and it is time for you to chew a Nylabone. No matter how much you roo or how cute you are, you won't get Mr. Smiley to destroy.
What makes you think that I want that old bone?

I think you will play with it, Chet Baker, because we love you and want you to be safe.

Well, when you put it that way, I can see your point. I am too old to choke on things, but I will accept your chicken-flavored Nylabone. That was a very good game. And I love you, too.