Not a material dog

"Someone" bought a 100 Grand Candy Bar over the weekend. This candy bar sat upon the upper kitchen counter from mid-day Saturday, on throughout the weekend, untouched.

This morning Mom and Wee Lass went out to get their Hairs cut. Although Mom is not a high-maintenance female, she refuses to simply have her hair washed in the shower, and then sheared by Oldest Lad and his clippers, in a buzz cut, which is good enough for Little Lad and Middle Lad.

Anyhoodles, when Mom came home, she discovered an unopened 100 Grand Candy Bar laying upon the floor of the family room.

Sophie puts her wee Sophie paws up on the edge of the kitchen counters, stretches her neck out and her tongue out as far as they can go, but Sophie is not capable of jumping up onto the counters and then grabbing anything off the upper level kitchen counter. Only a Standard American Brown Dog is capable of jumping up onto the regular counter, and then counter-cruising the upper counter freely, if indeed something like that would ever happen.

Obviously, I am not a Material Dog, for I did not consume the 100 Grand Candy Bar. No, I am more the down-to-earth type Standard American Brown Dog, and perhaps I would have eaten an entire pan of brownies, or a birthday cake, but a high-value candy bar? No. That would have been too excessive for my tastes.

Rental Dog Camille Pupdate

All last summer, in addition to my role as Nannie Pennie, Entertainer Pennie, Music Practice Enforcer Pennie, . . . the list is endless; I was forced to play Hostess Pennie to Rental Dog Camille.

Queen Sophine started out as Rental Dog Sophie and became Rent-to-Own Sophie. I made it clear in a painfully obvious way that only Alpha Pennie can do, that Rental Dog Camille was NOT going to become the Third Dog here at my 0.46 acres of Suburbia. It was most painful for Sophie as I seemed to take out all my Alpha Pennie angst upon her, rather than upon Rental Dog Camille. Rental Dog Camille was actually quite a pleasant pup; perhaps that is why I had such a turbulent time with her here.

Anyhoodles, since September not one bark or whimper has been heard about the status of Camille, other than that she was adopted, eventually.

Lo and behold, last night Oldest Lad happened to run into someone wearing a Circle Tail T-shirt. He talked to her, and it turns out that the Circle Tail T-Shirt Wearer actually handled Camille's adoption!

Camille is happily living with a single Mom with a 10 year old son. After spending all summer with Oldest Lad, Middle Lad, Little Lad, Wee Lass, Mom, Dad, Hostess Pennie, and Queen Sophie; Camille had no trouble bonding with her New Mom and New Lad and is alive and well and living somewhere, (thankfully not here.)

Out of Reach

Yesterday afternoon, Mom, Sophie, and I were lounging out on the back porch while Wee Lass played with Play Doh (TM). Mom soon noticed that I was pacing back and forth along the side of the screened porch. Just last summer Dad re-screened the entire back porch, erasing any evidence of one Standard American Brown Dog forcibly evicting one Stray Cat who had been misguidedly placed on the back porch for safe keeping.

Mom feared that the screens were in imminent danger, which would place ME, Pennie in danger as well, for Dad would most certainly NOT find it amusing if I created more Pennie exit holes in the screens.

(Really, I can't be blamed that the previous owners of MY 0.46 acres of Suburbia were so stupid as to screen the porch from bottom to top -- any intelligent designers would have screened half-way up, with wood on the bottom, but I digress.)

Anyhoodles, it is well known that Huntress Pennie forcibly evicts (crunch, munch) all Rodentia that transgress into my 0.46 acres, either by dining upon them, or simply chasing them. This time, however, I was completely entranced, pacing back and forth.

It was a Carpenter Bee. Dining upon MY Back Porch. Now certainly it is fine for ME, Pennie, to create large entrance or exit holes in the screens of my back porch. It is far and away another thing for some huge flying Carpenter Bee to decide to DINE upon my back porch, creating holes in the porch structure!

There was nothing I could do to get the Carpenter Bee -- it was too high and too fast. I was defeated.

MY Spot

I have so many roles to play here at my 0.46 acres of Suburbia. One of the many roles I don't often bark about is that I often am forced to help Dad, when he is working in his basement office. It is a truly thankless job, for I listen to him on his phone, and truly wish for him to bite a few people, but Dad never does! I think that is why Dad is so tense. If he would just take my advice and either bark, bark, bark, at some of those unreasonable people, growl, or finally proceed to a nip or a bite, then the family would end up with a kindler, gentler Dad.

Anyhoodles, as Office Manager Pennie, I usually lay under Dad's desk. Sometimes it even appears that I am napping, but I am NOT napping; I have simply entered a stage of deep concentration upon Dad's work, and closing my eyes helps me to visualize all those complex computer wirings and sales postures, and proposals, and the list goes on,

The other day, Dad was not at home, but Mom was working at what is "supposed" to be her desk, but ends up being the communal dumping ground for all the family's crap. Wee Lass was supposed to be playing over on the other side of the basement, where the toys are located, but instead, Wee Lass decided to go and sit in MY Spot.

Wee Las curled up under Dad's desk in MY Spot. Wee Lass is NOT Office Manager Pennie. In fact, when Dad is working in his office, it is ME, Pennie, who is INVITED into the office, while Wee Lass is summarily EVICTED.

As soon as I came downstairs and tried to go into MY Spot, I discovered that it was occupied! Mom told Wee Lass that she had to move, that under the desk was Office Manager Pennie's Spot, and Dad was surely not going to be happy if Wee Lass messed with any of Dad's various cables and cords running under his desk. As Office Manager Pennie I would NEVER mess with any of the cables and cords. I "may" have even encouraged Wee Lass to leave by giving her one of my "Pennie smiles," which is not exactly a "pleasant" type of smile.

Changing my mind about Cousins

I have officially changed my Cousin Number Five Policy. Cousin Number Five had never met ME, Pennie, and I have made it clear that I was NOT interested in meeting HER. She is majoring in Animal Medicine at University. This is what she has done: Dock Piggy Tails and Ears. Dock Lamby parts. Neuter Animals.

I did NOT want Cousin Number Five ever, ever, coming to visit.

Alas, last night, Cousin Number Five and Cousin Number Seven, sisters, came to visit, and spend the night so that they could go watch their Dad, Mom's brother, run in the "Flying Pig Marathon."

This weekend I have had to play Hostess Pennie with Daisy, while Oldest Lad and his Apartment-Mates were busy making fools of themselves at the Kentucky Derby. There is simply not enough attention to spread between Sophie, Daisy, and of course ME, Pennie.

As soon as Cousin Number Five and Cousin Number Seven arrived, Sophie, Daisy, and I, attacked! I do not believe that either Cousin spent more than 60 seconds without a dog attached to them until it was time for bed. At bedtime, Mom insisted that all us dogs go upstairs with her, leaving the Cousins to sleep with zero dogs, just their sleeping bags.

I officially put Cousin Number Five onto the "Welcome" list, along with Cousin Number Seven, as they both spent hours fawning over my loveliness, and stroking my fur, and gushing over the warmth of my Pennie Personality. Sophie was in love as well, for she went from Cousin Five's Lap, to Cousin Seven's Lap, to Mom's Lap, and back and forth all over again. Daisy got more than her share of attention as well.

Chair Grief

I have received some grief of late for taking over chairs in the living room. When Dad's Grandmother passed away, two of her chairs appeared at my 0.46 acres of Suburbia. To be precise, at that time it was Tyler's 0.46 acres of Suburbia. The chairs were upholstered in 1960s orange floral print fabric, still perfect, as Grandmother was a perfect housekeeper. In fact, when she passed away, the police had to inspect her apartment (due to the sudden nature of her death, it was simply to determine that indeed she died of natural causes, and there was no need to open an investigation.) The police commented that they had seldom seen an apartment kept in such perfect order.

Anyhoodles, the perfect 1960s orange floral fabric had to go and be replaced with a fabric that was more in keeping with the style and color that match my family -- navy, burgundy, clutter and dog hair.

No one usually uses the living room, other than for piano and saxophone practice. The floor is used for tents, train tracks, Duplo layouts, and projects that need to be spread out -- such as when Middle Lad and Little Lad decide to fling each other's piano and saxophone music all over the room, because obviously that is a much finer solution to moving each other's music than to simply remove it from the music stand (s) and placing it on an adjoining end table.

But again, I digress.

A few weeks ago, I realized that Grandma Bessie's chairs fit ME, Pennie, perfectly! I can wedge my self in a Perfect Pennie Ball, with back support, butt support, and head support, and the fabric perfectly compliments my Standard American Brown Dog FUR.

Mom has given in to Me, Pennie, and put blankets down upon the chairs, for in the scheme of life, I think she is far less annoyed by ME, Pennie, curled up on the best chairs in the house, than she is by the flung piano and saxophone music.

Blacklisted by FedEx

My 0.46 acres of Suburbia has been Blacklisted by FedEx.

On Monday, Sophie had a look of "urgency" about herself. As Sophie has now become a Weapon of Terror, with all the humans fearing Exploding Sophie will go off at any moment; Sophie was whisked out the closest exit of the house, which was the front door. I followed.

Normally if Mom "expects" a package, she makes certain that Sophie and I are either inside the house, or in the backyard if we have to be out at all. Our yard has two electronic fence zones: Front yard and back yard. We get zapped if we try to cross the No-Dogs-Land in between the two zones.

On Monday, Mom was NOT expecting a package. Soon after letting Sophie (and Me, Pennie) out, however, Mom heard a ruckus. She looked out the front door.

I was jumping all over a FedEx man. First off: This FedEx man did not drive up in a FedEx Truck. No. He drove up in an un-marked mini-van AND he parked facing the wrong direction on the street. My Regular FedEx Man drives a FedEx truck, parks facing the correct direction, AND brings ME, Pennie, TREATS!

The Pseudo-FedEx-Man obviously did NOT like dogs and was NOT a dog person. He should just not have come into the yard. However, once he was in the yard, instead of just stopping, or leaving the yard, he kept approaching. I of course kept jumping because I was certain of either a treat, or at least I was going to inspect the package, to make sure it did not contain any weapons of mass destruction or improvised explosive devises. That's just my dog-ly duty.

When Mom heard, then saw all the ruckus, she called out to the FedEx man to just "drop the package." He dropped the package in the grass, and then I ran over to Mom as she kept calling me, and I was getting tired of her nagging voice.

Once Mom corralled me back into the house, she checked to make sure the Pseudo-FedEx Man was OK, as he was still parked in his non FedEx truck, parked the wrong way, in front of my 0.46 acres of Suburbia. He was OKAY.

Then on Friday, Mom was indeed expecting a package. She made certain that no dogs from MY 0.46 acres of Suburbia were outside. Mom could not account for any random stray dogs lurking about. When Mom got home from errands, she found a package -- placed on the tree lawn, out by the mailbox by the curb. Normally if no one is home, packages are left near the front door, where it is not easy to see them or to steal them.

Apparently it is Me, Pennie, that has brought this black-listing down upon my 0.46 acres of Suburbia. All I was trying to do was either get a treat or protect my turf.

Stepford Dogs

The last couple of mornings I have been very regular about forcing Mom out for her walk. I don't think she gets enough exercise, and of course it is a perfect job for Me, Pennie to take on.

We like to walk in the BIG subdivision that is behind our house. Since it is a new subdivision, not only are the houses BIG, but there are sidewalks. There is only a sidewalk on MY section of MY street in MY neighborhood. Of course since there is so little sidewalk on MY street, I have to protect it with all the more vengeance, in case the humans on the rest of the neighborhood decide they want to take MY sidewalk.

Anyhoodles, I am not sure that the folks in the BIG subdivision really want us regular folks walking in their neighborhood, but since they are always driving through MY neighborhood and breezing right on through MY STOP SIGN, with nary a touch on the brake pedal, I think that I have full rights and privileges to traipse into the BIG subdivision.

I have noticed something very disconcerting about the dogs in the BIG subdivision. The little dogs seem normal -- the little dogs all seem to have small dog syndrome and bark excessively at all who walk by. It's the larger dogs I worry about. Almost all of the larger dogs just sit on their perfectly manicured lawns and stare at ME and Sophie as we pass. If I am outside and a dog passes on MY Sidewalk, in front of MY house; I storm the sidewalk (as close as my electronic fence allows,) raise my hair, and fully protect my 0.46 acres of Suburbia!

What is wrong with these passive dogs? Are they Stepford Dogs? By all rights those dogs have much MORE to protect than I do, yet they barely give a bark, bark, if they say anything, and rarely move from their place. It's just not normal! Is it part of the BIG Subdivisions Covenant and Restrictions that all dogs over Little Dog Size must be Stepford Dogs? I shudder to think that, but it has to be the explanation -- all the dogs on MY street behave just as I do, storming passers-by and letting them know who is in charge.

Complete Affrontage

My so-called sister, Queen Sophine, wrote this in her regal diary
"This is what my Mom likes to do:
She takes my head in her hands, cupping my jowls in her hands. Then she puts her lips on my forehead, right between my eyes, and gives me a kiss.
She calls this Breathing in Sophie Essence."

Guess What? Mom kisses Me, Pennie, also! She doesn't doesn't linger as long, breathing in my so-called "essence," for fear of a malingering odor of deer droppings or something else that I have rolled in.

But why? Because it is ME, Pennie!! that works my PAWS to the bone, taking care of the family, while Queen Sophine, her Royal Laziness, finds the closest Sun-spots, and spends the day expecting to be waited on paw and paw, fed juicy morsels of snacks, and soak up all Mom's attention!

Shall I LIST just a few of my titles? Nannie Pennie. Nurse Pennie. Tutor Pennie. Huntress Pennie.

So what if I have a "lingering odor" of deer droppings -- I keep my 0.46 acres of Suburbia safe for the family!

Mutant Mythical Rodents

I normally like Rabbits. A rabbit of Suburbia will spy me, and sit completely still, with just a wee twitch of it's hasenpfeffer whiskers. Then when it realizes that it is Huntress Pennie on the prowl, off the hasenpfeffer goes, FLASH, across the yard. I have even caught a few hasenpfeffer, crunch, munch, burp.

The Mutant Mythical Rodents of Easter are wrong. Just plain wrong.

"Normal" rabbits do not grow to the size of an Easter Bunny. The Easter Bunny is obviously a mutant from the dark era of the Manhattan Project Research, migrated to the MidWest from the Nevada Nuclear Test Grounds, the Oak Ridge Research Facility, or perhaps the Hanford Site.

Yet, I am supposed to welcome these Mutant Radioactive Rabbits into MY 0.46 acres of Suburbia, and eagerly accept their proffered chocolates, with no fear for the life of my family.

I am a genuine proponent of Family Dinners. Especially dinners that involve steaks, hamburgers, and bread. I simply see no reason why I must invite a Mutant Mythical Rodent into my home in order to get a few bits of beef and a side of bread.