Pennie Tippi Hedren

My 0.46 Acres of Suburbia has become a Horror Movie. On my very own front porch a flock of birds decided to build a nest. I have heard that birds are "bird-brained," but what type of parent builds a nest for their offspring right outside the front door of a busy household?

Mom at first thought that the wind was just gathering up sticks, as it has been rather windy the last few days. Dad thought that Mom was just acting bird-brained, and creating a stick-pile.

Then Mom discovered a well-constructed nest, directly outside the front door.

Mom did not think this was a good spot for hatchlings. She thought that Alpha Pennnie would find the eggs or the hatchlings and consume them. Dad therefore dispersed the nest.

The birds are angry. They are yelling and screaming.

I refuse to go outside the front door. I am not going to be like Tippi Hedren, in "The Birds," by Alfred HItchcock. I am not going to go running about my yard with birds pecking at my hair! At least Tippi Hedren had "Big Hair," held in place by plenty of Aqua Net hair fixative, to keep The Birds at bay. I have short hair, all natural.

Mom keeps trying to get me to go outside, in the front, but I refuse to be assaulted by The Birds. Mom thinks that I am having a mental breakdown. I think I am being smart, and perhaps I shall push Mom out the front door, to be assaulted by The Birds.

Yoga, Doga, Medidogitation

Mom is continuing on her supposed program by the infamous Jon Kabat-Zinn. I wonder if it is so much of a "program," or is it "programm-ing?"

Mom has now started the Yoga phase of Mindfulness Meditations. Since everything here at MY 0.46 Acres of Suburbia should be centered on ME, Pennie, or Sophie, as well, if I am feeling generous, then we have turned this Mindfulness Meditation into Medidogitation. It would be wrong of us to let Mom embark on anything without our advice and input, particularly anything which is so focused upon The Breath. As dogs, we have an abundance of The Breath, and share it freely and lovingly with all.

Mom tried to get started with the Yoga by laying out a mat on the floor. She then installed her earphones/ear buds into her ears and turned on her MP3 player, and laid down. That was of course an invitation for Sophie and I to lay upon Mom. Mom attempted to banish ME, Pennie, to the basement, to encourage Dad to focus, focus, focus, upon his work, but I kept bark, bark, barking. In the meantime, Sophie grabbed a deer antler and lay quite close to Mom and began to grind, grind, grind, and gnaw, gnaw, gnaw upon her deer antler gnaw. Mom stopped the recording and released me from the basement. She installed Sophie upstairs, in Mom's bedroom. Sophie immediately began to whine; long high pitched, ear-penetrating whines of angst and despair. Mom turned the MP3 recording back on and attempted to block out the noise of Sophie's angst and despair.

One might ask at this point why Mom did not put Sophie and ME, Pennie, outside. Well, obviously we would just bark, bark, bark and hurl ourselves at the door to come inside. Mom did not even attempt to trap ME, Pennie, in a room. There is much photographic evidence of my penchant to become Interior Designer Pennie if I am trapped in a room.

Mom resumed her attempt at YOGA. The first position was called the "Corpse Position." What was a Pennie-Dog to do? All dogs must investigate a corpse! A dog must first determine if a corpse is really a corpse, then roll in it to enjoy the lovely corpse smells, and then eat parts of the corpse. I sniffed Mom's hands, licked her toes, then attempted to clean her right ear. Mom does NOT like her ears cleaned. Who knows what is growing inside her ears, as she will not ever let me send my long, probing tongue inside to clean it thoroughly. However, when I got to Mom's ear, I was able to definitely determine that Mom was NOT a corpse. Really, I am glad Mom was not a corpse. If I had rolled in her, then eaten parts of her, I would no doubt have ended up back at The Shelter. With my less-adoptable age of seven, plus a history of eating bit of my own Mother, I probably would be rendered "non-adoptable," and all dogs know what happens next.

Mom again attempted to re-focus upon her Mindfulness Medidogitation YOGA. I laid at her feet, just out of reach of Mom, but she could feel The Pennie Breath upon her. I offered up grumbles of either gentle encouragement, or general displeasure at Mom's refusal to give up on the YOGA. I finally decided to listen to my Gentle Pennie-Self and settled myself down to simply watch over Mom.

If Mom is determined to continue with this Medidogitation then I am certain that I am only helping: assuring her that she is still alive while she is in the "corpse pose," murmuring either encouragement or displeasure as she makes a fool of herself in her YOGA poses, and of course providing Mom with an even greater abundance of The Breath to focus upon, as I pant and offer up The Pennie Breath. In fact, me being a general nuisance will actually allow Mom to obtain greater depths of relaxation, in my Pennie Theory of Medidogitaion, even if I am not a famous PhD from a famous University.

Saying NO, to ME, Pennie (warning: this may be disturbing.)

Mom and Dad, as human parents go, are more on the "strict" side than the "permissive" side of things. Pawsonally, I don't think they are strict enough. If Middle Lad, Little Lad, and Wee Lass were MY pups, I'd bite them when they disobeyed. Mom and Dad tend to prefer more psychological than physical torture, and have never once bitten any of the pups, much as they have deserved it.

I am all for enforcing homework, limiting screen time, and expecting wet towels to be hung up.

Now things have gone too far.

Admittedly, I have been really "bad," lately. I have been getting walks, and I have been playing vigorously, on a regular basis, with Lindsey, the Pittie pup from next door. Still, I have made sure to do misbehave in just about every manner that I can think of. Dad, rather rudely, pointed out to Mom that she was all in favor of instilling discipline in the human children, but that she rarely said "no," or punished Sophie or Me.

Mom has begun to say "NO." To Me, Pennie.

Mom has even begun to put me in the "Cooler," for time out. The Cooler is of course based upon the Vietnam-Era Torture boxes. I am forced to go into the downstairs bathroom, where I must stay, in complete boredom, with no couch, chair, or blanket. There is only one heat/air duct bringing air into the room, so I feel that I am suffocating. The window is high up on the wall, so I can not see outside the room.

Sophie, even Sophie, has been forced to spend time in the "Cooler," and Sophie has looked in utter shock and amazement as she, Queen Sophine, has heard Mom say "NO," to her.

The disciplining of the human pups must continue, but I shall not tolerate being told "No." Thus far I have been in such a state of shock of being sent to the "Cooler," that I have not done what it is clear that I must do: tunnel my way out. Just wait until Dad sees how much damage one Standard American Brown Dog can do tunneling her way out of a small bathroom.

Pennie On Strike

I am on strike. I have been quite unhappy since Oldest Lad moved to Louisville. Yes, he has moved back and forth between home and University multiple times these past several years, but this time I knew he was going for good. I am supposed to be happy because Oldest Lad is off the Parental Dole and is a Taxpayer.

I have decided to convey my unhappiness in a series of Passive Aggressive Antics. Some of my antics are not Passive Aggressive, but simply Aggressive.

Last night, when Dad was reading Wee Lass her nightly bedtime story, I was sitting on the bed, listening and murmuring appropriate literary comments. There is a lot to be said about Dr. Seuss "The Foot Book," if one takes the time to thoughtfully analyze it. Normally, Sophie joins us. This is what happened: Sophie walked just into the doorway and saw that it was Story Time. I "smiled" at her. I don't mean I "smiled" in a good way. It was a "you are NOT invited to this Story Time, ever," type of smile. Sophie left.

The backyard of my 0.46 Acres of Suburbia is now covered in mole tracks. It is almost impossible for a human to walk about the back yard without stepping upon a mole track, sinking into the earth, and twisting an ankle.

I normally dispense with moles. In August of 2007, upon my arrival here, I immediately dispensed with all moles from the property, sending any moles that I did not consume over into the adjacent yards.

I am NOT going to eat the moles. I am not going to prevent their tunneling. I don't care if Mom twists an ankle in a Mole Tunnel while she is in the back yard picking up poop.

Sophie does nothing to earn her kibble, yet she gets a daily kibble ration, same as me. Sophie doesn't even act like she misses Oldest Lad. When he comes home for a visit, she dominates his attention, spending her time staring at him and licking his head. As soon as he leaves, she turns her attention back to either Mom or whoever else will shower her with Utter Sophie Adoration.

I am on strike. I am Angry Pennie. I am Depressed Pennie. I shall not raise a paw until my family proves to me that they are worthy of my mole-eating skills.

Attacked! Unimpressed.

This afternoon Sophie and I insisted that Mom get some exercise by taking us for a walk. We ventured forth into the Subdivision behind our 0.46 Acres of Suburbia. I believe that I have made mention of this Subdivision before -- the home of the Stepford Dogs and the Megamansions that dwarf our Cincinnati Two Story.

Anyhoodles, Mom boldly ventured onto the cul de sac street where That Woman lives. That Woman would be That Woman who years ago told Mom not to walk her "shelter dogs" in her neighborhood. Mom was so taken aback that she did not have a reply. However, Mom DOES walk her "shelter dogs" in that neighborhood anyway.

Clearly, one of the dogs in the "Nicer" Neighborhood has not yet received his Stepford Dog indoctrination. Sophie and I were walking Mom along at a brisk pace, trying to keep her heart rate up by pulling firmly on the leash.

Out of nowhere a black terrier, all of 10 pounds attacked!

If anyone is familiar with Monty Python's "The Holy Grail," then this black terrier attacked us like the Killer Rabbit.

Seriously. While Sophie cowered in fear of the Killer Terrier, I looked at it in disdain. I was NOT going to be taken out by some Mega-Mansion Killer Terrier.

Mom KNEW that I, Pennie, was NOT going to put up with this little black Mega Mansion Killer Terrier, but the consequences of me dispatching with this Killer Terrier would be BAD. Mom grabbed me, and in an effort to let the Killer Terrier live, let Sophie bear the brunt of it's abuse. Yes, poor Sophie was sacrificed in order to keep me from getting hold of that 10 pound black fur monster.

Eventually the Dad of the Killer Terrier arrived, apologized profusely, and began to attempt to corral his little beast home.

The rest of the walk was uneventful.

Tattletale!

This is a replay of last night's dinner conversation:

Setting: Mom and Dad in the kitchen, helping themselves to delicious roast beast, which had been cooking all day in the crock pot, torturing Sophie and I with it's odors. In addition, Mom had cooked up Pillsbury frozen biscuits.

Mom, to Dad: "Why are you opening a new margarine? I used margarine this morning and the tub was almost full."

Dad: "I looked in the fridge and did not see another one."

Mom goes to fridge and looks inside. She sees a second margarine tub, but it is still inside it's packaging. She does not see any other margarine tubs.

Wee Lass: "Pennie ate the margarine."

Little Lad, sarcastically, in a sibling dig to Wee Lass: "How would you know that?"

Wee Lass: "It's in the Living Room."

Mom goes to living room. She knows that whenever I sneak food I take it to the living room to eat it. I am a well-bred Shelter Special. I like to dine formally. Sure enough, in the living room is a margarine lid, slightly gnawed and a margarine tub, well cleaned.

Word of warning: If I need to go outside in the next few days; I need to go outside NOW, as in I am well-lubricated inside.

Clones? Again?

The topic of Dog Cloning has re-emerged. That takes me back to the days of the Mulli-Clone:
I searched the Mulligan Diary archive, and this is what Mulligan wrote about cloning:

Excerpt from Mulligan's Diary

Dogster has a Poll, going on right now, about Dog Cloning. Well. Months ago, I, Mulligan, placed a very large Clone Order, as my Diary Readers should recall.

Unfortunately, the economy then tanked, and Mom and Dad's Portfolio went into the Sewer, down to the Ohio River, on to the Mississippi, and probably is out in the Gulf of Mexico by now. Apparently, that was enough to block my order.

The following is the call that I made, many months ago:

bee bee bee beep bee bee beep beep beep beep beep

"Hello, thank you for calling Dial-a-Clone, how may I direct your call?"

Mulligan: "This is Mr. Mulligan, I'd like to order clones of my dog."

Dial-A-Clone: "Why certainly, Mr. Mulligan, I'll need a few samples of skin from your dog."

Mulligan: "Uh, will it hurt?"

Dial-A-Clone: "It's a very minor procedure, Mr. Mulligan, perhaps you can get them while your dog is sleeping. We will send you a special shipping envelope to put them in. How many clones will you be ordering?"

Mulligan: "One Thousand. Frozen Embryos"

Dial-A-Clone: "That's quite a large order, Mr. Mulligan. Do you have suitable Surrogates to incubate these clones?"

Mulligan: "Um, yes, I will keep them frozen and just thaw them as needed."

Dial-A-Clone: "How will you be paying for your order today?"

Mulligan: "Take it directly from my online Merrill Lynch Account. I have liquidated all my stocks, bonds and assets into cash. Here is the account number, 555-55555. Oh, don't be fooled by the different name on the account, Mulligan is my nickname."

Dial-A-Clone: "Thank you Mr. Mulligan, it has been a pleasure doing business with you. Your order will be arriving via Federal Express two weeks after we receive the skin sample from your dog."

There, my plan is proceeding nicely. Dad won't know the Merrill Lynch Account is gone until it is too late. Mom warned him against on-line access and internet safety. I can't use Pennie to incubate my Mulligan's Army because she was neutered before she arrived here. But Mom, yes, Mom can incubate the Pups. Mom doesn't believe in Abortion. While she is sleeping, I shall put my first Platoon of Mulligan's Army into her Womb. When she begins to feel the first wriggles of tiny paws inside her belly she will think the doctors were wrong and she really can have more children. Puppies don't take as long to incubate as humans. Won't Mom be surprised when just a few months into her pregnancy she gives birth to a cute little Platoon of Mulligans. Oh, but it won't be cute for long. Soon there will be more Mulligans. One Thousand Mulligan Sociopaths! The World will belong to Mulligan!

Nurse Pennie and Nurse Sophie: We work for Crackers

In these last few days, Mom has been sick, AGAIN. I am putting full faith in the concept of Zoonotic Diseases. That may sound fancy but what that really means is that humans don't catch most dog diseases, and dogs don't catch many human diseases.

Nurse Sophie and ME, Nurse Pennie, have once again been working our paws to the bone, and using full force Compression Therapy. Sophie has been laying upon Mom, or curled up tightly against her, to Compress Mom, while I have curled up next to Mom's head. I have aimed my bottom, with it's naturally humidified healing vapors, directly at Mom's nasal and oral air passageways, in the hopes of keeping Mom from another round of pneumonia. When my bottom vaporage has not been powerful enough, I have aimed my full breath in Mom's face, instead.

Mom usually keeps a supply of crackers on her nightstand, in order to take any pills that she needs to swallow.

This is how Dad takes pills: He dry swallows, or spit swallows the pills. When Dad has to bring a Ritalin to Middle Lad at one of Middle Lad's activities, Dad puts the Ritalin in his pocket, and then finds Middle Lad. Dad flicks the lint off the pill, and orders him to dry swallow the pill. When Mom brings a Ritalin to Middle Lad; Mom she puts one pill in a labelled pharmacy bottle and brings along a bottle of water, and perhaps a small treat. She finds Middle Lad and gives him the pill, along with a nice bottle of water, and his treat.

This is how Pennie and Sophie take pills: We get pills wadded up inside an unwrapped, Individually wrapped slice of processed American cheese.

Mom neither dry/spit swallows pills nor does she take pills inside a cheese wad. Mom claims to be of a more delicate nature, and insists that she take pills with a small stack of crackers and several sips of water, to prevent stomach upset.

It occurred to me that perhaps a stirring motivation for Nurse Sophie and ME, Nurse Pennie, to provide so much Compression Therapy is the Crackers. Yes, Nurse Sophie and I work for crackers. Mom eats a few crackers with her pills and then she gives a few crackers to her hard-working Nurses. Since it is rude to leave cracker crumbs in the sheets, Nurse Sophie snuffles up any cracker crumbs.

Do human nurses work for crackers?

Showing who is Alpha

Yesterday afternoon I met Full-Force Pittie.

Lindsey, my new Pittie neighbor, has made a few incursions across the demilitarized zone thicket. None have lasted for more than an moment or two before she has been corralled and returned to her own Zone of Suburbia.

Not Monday afternoon. Mom was out picking up poop and supervising Wee Lass while Wee Lass did outdoor preschool things. Suddenly Wee Lass sounded the alarm: There was a Full Force Pittie Breach of the demilitarized zone thicket. Lindsey was in the yard.

Lindsey has plumped up a bit since she came home from the shelter. She is about my size, but I still have about 10 pounds on her. But I made it clear that it was ME, Pennie, that is the One True Alpha. Lindsey and I ran and ran and ran some more around my 0.46 Acres of Suburbia. Whenever Lindsey made any attempts at being Alpha, I knocked her down. Due to the recent snow melt, I stayed clean, but due to my Alpha Knock Downs, Lindsey was definitely going to need a full body wipe down before she went inside.

Queen Sophine, in her usual Sophathetic state, proved that she was somewhere mid-range down the alphabet in her status. Lindsey weighs about 8 pounds more than Sophie, but is about double Sophie-size and all Pittie-Puppy energy. Sophathetic Sophie soon just huddled by the maple tree while Lindsey and I raced about with wild abandon.

I have never had a dog live on either side of me, just across the street. I think I shall enjoy having a near neighbor Pittie.

Perfectly Good Pretzels

The other day, one of the lads spilled some pretzel sticks on the floor. I do not particularly care for pretzels, Ritz crackers, or tortilla chips. I will eat them if it's a matter of me getting to them prior to Sophie, but in this case she was standing right under the counter and it wasn't worth getting off the couch for a snack I don't particularly like.

As a rule, Mom does not find pretzel sticks and dogs to mesh well. Mom thinks that since us dogs eat so fast, the pretzel sticks don't get chewed at all, but go down whole.

It was soon quite clear that Sophie had eaten her pretzel sticks whole. The utterly amazing aspect is that Middle Lad heard Sophie making her pre-spew sounds and rushed her out the door. Middle Lad is oblivious to most things, so for him to register the pre-spew sound PLUS act upon it was amazing.

Sophie spewed forth a neat little pile of pretzel sticks onto the front porch. It looked like a little pretzel haystack. A few weeks ago I erupted forth a pile of glistening chocolates that I had eaten, in such a perfect manner that Mom could simply have reconstituted the little pieces of foil, plus my vomit, into perfect little chocolates once again. It was the same with the pretzels: If so inclined, Mom could have just picked those pretzels out, dried them a bit, and put them back in the pretzel bag.

Instead, Mom got a big dish of water and rinsed the pretzel vomit pile off into the shrubbery. I don't know what Mom was thinking, but those pretzels still have not dissolved. Nope. Each time that Sophie or I are mistakenly let out into the front yard, we head straight for the shrubbery and attempt to re-snack upon those still perfectly good pretzels.

I don't understand Mom's consternation. The pretzels are clearly still perfectly shaped and edible. She "could" have picked them up when they were first spewed forth, but no, she just rinsed them off into the shrubbery. Who was she trying to fool?