The Inside Dog

The Guy and I spend a lot of time in our backyard.  After the horrifying introduction to our yard and The Guy's subsequent ***load of manual labour, our yard is a thing of beauty and a joy forever.  Or, for 2 months depending on Mother Nature's mood.

The Guy and I attempt to eat supper out on our deck at least one night a week when the weather holds.  Most afternoons, The Guy can be found putting around in the yard -- watering, mowing, wandering -- while I sit on the covered swing and read like the lady of lazy leisure that I am.

And where is the dog, you might ask?

Waiting to be let back into the house, of course.

I hear stories of people whose dogs go outside and play for hours.  By themselves!  They run and jump and dig and sleep and do all of this on grass and without cover of a roof.  I have told Monty these stories.  He does not believe me either.

It may come from being a small dog or a dog who spent his first year without a fence so had to be watched every moment in the outdoors for fear he would run after a rabbit and be eaten.  It may come from the fact he is a princess who does not like to get his feet wet, or muddy, or snowy.  It may come from the fact that he has no idea how to play with a person or dog let alone by himself.  Either way, Monty detests the outdoors.

If we let him, he would go to the bathroom inside.

One particular night, The Guy and I were enjoying some free time together out on the swing.  We sat, drank Iced Tea, and talked about our day and our plans for the next.  After pacing by the door to be let back inside, Monty finally acquiesced to come sit with us on the swing.  However, he did it with such reluctance that I could hear his eyes rolling back in his head and could see that, if he could talk, he would have said FINE! with the annoyance only a teen girl can muster.

We attempted to continue to enjoy our evening.  But every time I so much as moved an inch, Monty was leaping off the swing, bolting up the stairs and pawing at the backdoor.

Yes, I get it, Monty.  You're an inside dog.


o

Freaking out

As an aside you will have noticed that yesterday's post disappeared for a bit.  I was lucky enough to be able to copy it from another file, so it should be back up.  Stupid Blogger was broken for a day.  

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I have noticed something about Monty this week.  I've been working mornings all week and so we have a routine.  This seems to be throwing him off.   The alarm goes off, we get up, I shower, we have breakfast and suddenly he is sitting on the mat by the back door shaking.

It's like he knows I'm leaving him.

Here's the thing: I have gone to work for 4 days of every 8 ever since Monty was born.  Me going to work is not a new thing.  And yet, suddenly after almost 6 years, he is freaking the heck out.

I do not understand this sudden anxiety.  I get up and put work clothes on, sit at the counter with my breakfast and my phone, and Monty thinks the world is ending.

Dude, you're fine.  You will be asleep for 80% of the time anyway.  The Guy will be home by 2pm or so, so it's not even like the dog is alone all day.  All he has to do is climb up on one of his many sets of princess pillows and snooze until the garage doors open.

Yet, all he does is vibrate.

I'm trying not to respond to said freaking out so as to not increase it's regularity, but I find it odd.  I give him a belly rub, do our morning stretch and scratch routine and hope he hasn't given himself an anxiety attack by the time The Guy comes home.

Dog vomit 4 o'clock

Don't you hate to wake up to that sound?  The one signalling that vomit is sure to follow?

That's how I woke up at 4:15 this morning.

Monty lay on The Guy's side of the bed and started making the noises.  Those terrible noises that get my stomach turning.  The Guy was already up and getting ready for work, so he wasn't there to deal with it.

I panicked.  I ran around the side of the bed (though, it dawns on me now I could have just leaned over) and stuck my hand under Monty's mouth.

Yeah, that was a bad idea.

The breakfast he had hastily chowed down during his early morning pee break landed squarely in my palm.  The rest hit the comforter and dribbled down his chin hairs.  I started gagging.

Pretending to be nonchalant, I walked to the bathroom with wet, half-chewed dog food dripping between my fingers.  I was going to wash my hand, but realized I couldn't put it in the sink.  I had to use the toilet to get rid of my prize.

I don't know how many of you know this about me, but I am a sympathy puker.  The sound of it, the smell of it, the sounds associated with it.  My father and his wife pour their left over tea and loose leaves into the toilet when they are done with them and that sound makes me throw up.

I lifted the toilet seat with my foot and stuck my hand inside.  I thought if I could keep the lid down low, it would muffle the sound and I would be all right.

Not so much.

I ran back to the sink all the while gagging at the sounds that had filled my ears since I woke up.  I rinsed off and soaped up and scrubbed and scrubbed.  I must have looked a lot like Lady MacBeth, except that my hair this morning was more a cross between Flock of Seagulls and Bride of Frankenstein.  (Note to self: do not wash your hair before bed anymore.  Wow.)

Finally, I made it.  I went back to the side of the bed where Monty sat in disbelief.  He always looks so surprised when these things happen.  I want to be like, "Look, if you would CHEW every once in awhile this would not happen.  Correlated events, doorknob."  However, if you've ever talked to Monty, you would know how futile this is.

I gathered up the comforter and headed for the laundry room.  I put Monty outside to make sure all the stuff in him was out for sure and then let him in when I realized he was just standing there in shock with his head pressed against the window.

Finally, we went back to bed.  When the alarm rang a short, few hours later, it was like nothing had happened.  Monty burst forth from the bed with all the joy a brainless dog can muster and promptly walked into the closed bedroom door.

No harm done then.

.

Maybe random: definitely irritating, choosing, and dog stories

Do you ever just stop and realize how intensely annoying you are?  Sometimes I am minding my own business and BAM my own irritating personality defects punch me in the face.

I start all conversations with "So, ..."  It is like I cannot just start a conversation.  I cannot just give you a piece of information, I have to prefice it with something like we were already talking about it or like it's a bit of bad news I really didn't want to have to tell you.

So, I think you're a knob. 

So, I heard the other day that you smell terrible.

So, there was this time I pretended to be listening, but was totally trying to remember all 50 states.

Seriously, HOW ANNOYING AM I????

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I couldn't fall asleep last night because I was trying to remember all 50 states.  Alphabetically.  But then, I lost count so didn't know if I got them all and had to start over. 

It was exhausting.
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Today, I couldn't decide if I wanted ice cream for a snack or chips. 

 I had both, but in small bowls so I wouldn't feel bad about myself.

They were both good, so I don't even know who should have won.
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The dog and I play a lot of fetch in the house.  I'm a terrible thrower so this causes no end of stress for The Guy because I will often send the ball veering off in some odd direction as hard as I can throw.  Most of the times it is at the wall just left of the doorway.

Tonight, I threw the ball into the spare room.  Monty chased after it and didn't come back.  I went into the spare room to find him staring at the ball which had rolled behind the rocking chair.  With another ball that had been there earlier.

I moved the chair and let him go in after the balls.  He picked up one, dropped it, and moved to pick up the other.  Then he stopped, looked at me in confusion and left the room.

It was like Sophie's Choice, but he played it smart.
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The stupid computers still have 17 hours and 15 minutes left in their syncing.

The Guy told me this is because I am doing the transfer wirelessly.

That is also why neither of our Blackberry's can pick up the WiFi either.  He blames me for this, but really if I shouldn't have done it why did they give me the option?

I'm going to punch elderly Bill Gates twice for that.



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Remember that to the right of this post is the subscription options.  To the underneath of this post (yes, that's a term.... shut up, you're stupid) is some like buttons and some tweet buttons and a share button.  USE THEM. 

I mean, if you want to.  It would be okay with me.

Replaced -- Monty's new love

Monty is a friendly dog.  Sort of.  He loves to meet new people, he just likes me better.  When someone comes to the door, Monty is more likely to run to greet me.  Even if I've been there the whole time and the someone at the door is The Guy after a day at work.

He has a pattern, our dog.  He greets the person at the door with a few sharp barks.  Then, when we admit the person to the home, he decides if he likes that person.  If he likes the person, he immediately runs to get a toy.  He does not want anyone to touch the toy -- he just wants to show you he has it.  Do not be confused.  He is not sharing.  He is bragging.

Monty is definitely my dog.  If I am in the house, no matter what else is going on, he must be near me.  The Guy will go to bed early and Monty really wants to go, but if I'm up so is he.  If The Guy is eating in the basement, but I'm asleep Monty is firmly planted in the bed.  He won't so much as sit on The Guy's side of the couch unless he can reach me.

Lounging in the sun.

This is why the following story is so confusing for me.

I brought Monty with me during my stay at Grandma's.  He has travelled with me all over and comes to visit Grandma's on a regular basis.  It's his home away from home -- and it has his sister, Vicki, there!

On Wednesday, my Auntie Ruth arrived to help us get Grandma ready for the move.  Monty has never met Auntie before, so he greeted her with his regular barking bonanza and then ran off to get her a toy.  He immediately brought Auntie a toy and followed her around the apartment.

The next day, Monty left my room where I was in bed to go visit Auntie Ruth.  He let her scratch his back and turned around so she wouldn't miss his favourite spots.  He sat by her chair at lunch even though he knows that Grandma is the one who sneaks him food when she thinks I'm not looking.

The final straw was when I was sitting on the couch working on the computer.  Monty was sitting with me as he always does.  His back was pressed up against my thigh and he was snoring softly.  As much as I hate to disturb him, I had to get up to grab something from the other room.

When I got back, he was sitting on the other couch next to Auntie Ruth.  He looked at me with what can only be described as disdain, sighed deeply, and settled deeper into the cushions.

I'm pretty sure, if Monty could have figured out how to get into her suitcase, I would have been down one dog.

In a word: Compulsive

Monty comes from a long line of crazy.  Well, okay, maybe not a long line, but his mother Maddy is crazy as a loon and Monty himself is one nut short of a party mix.  He's a nice dog, but dumb as a stick.

The crazy that runs in the dog family (and mine, oddly enough) is obsessive compulsive behaviour.  Madison's feet are perpetually red from chewing on them and Vicki has a strange fascination with staring at water dripping down the drain.  Montel's is licking.  He licks his paws, his leg, the sheets, a blanket, his rope, my arm, Wade's face, etc.  There is no rhyme nor reason for his licking.

The other night, he was licking his paw while cuddled under the blankets.  The Guy was sleeping (read: snoring) and I was having trouble settling down.  After a few minutes, I just COULD NOT STAND IT ANYMORE.  I mean, normally I'm pretty patient with his crazy.  I distract him with something and he forgets what he's doing.  But sometimes, his licking drives me up the wall.  I reached out blindly behind me and shoved Monty in the bum.

He stopped cold -- frozen with confusion about my sudden intervention.  Moments passed, both of us waiting for the other's reaction.

Finally, he sighed a deep soul-wounded sigh of someone wrongfully persecuted.  Then, he slid over in bed until he wasn't touching me any longer.

I think I was told.

That was fun! Right, Mom?

It was a harried day

This morning around 5am, the fire alarm went off.  It was one, short, shrill blast that woke the entire house.  It happens on occasion when the power goes out.  Just to let us know the power was out.  You know, in case we slept right through it.  That alarm never fails to scare the tar out of all of us.

Especially Monty.

Monty comes by anxiety easily.  His mother is a neurotic dog of the nth degree.  She takes crazy and anxious to a whole new level.  Like the time she was so scared of the windshield wipers that she threw herself against the window repeatedly and needed to be given large doses of Valium.  Monty is the same.  He does not like shrill noises, fast movements, or being confined.

As soon  as the fire alarm sent it's message that all was not well with the power source, Monty was on high alert.  He sat up straight in bed and listened for danger.  When he felt we were not being serious enough about the issue, he would scratch at our shoulders and heads as though to remind us that perhaps we should be PANICKING.

The fire alarm didn't just go off once this morning.  We could have handled once.  Monty could have handled once.  Instead, while the power flickered on and off for almost 4 hours, so did the fire alarm.  Monty would just relax, just settle to put his head down on the pillow, when *BEEP* the alarm would go off again to signify the power had done something else.  Monty sat on the bed and shook with fear of when the noise would happen again.

He's not a good guard dog, but if you ever need to panic, he's your guy.

Finally, The Guy decided he would take the chance that during the brief time the power was on, he would make himself some coffee.  As The Guy headed out for the kitchen, Monty followed him close to the heel.

Let me explain that I was still in bed.  Never, not once in all our year of marriage, has Monty willingly left my side if I am still in the house.  That morning (while I was a bad dog mommy and slept peacefully) Monty followed The Guy every where he went.  He had to be touching him at all times.

Monty was a bit off the rest of the day.  Anytime I left the room, he immediately ran to The Guy for comfort.  He spent the day pacing and never really settling.  It was as though he was waiting for something bad to happen.  Finally after supper, Monty passed out in sheer exhaustion on the couch.  When The Guy went up to bed early, Monty followed without complaint.

After that kind of day, I think he needed the rest.

Appreciating the little things. #reverb10

December 14 Appreciate. What's the one thing you have come to appreciate most in the past year? How do you express gratitude for it? (Prompt by @victoriaklein)

I was in a mood.

I'm often in a mood, so this one was not surprising.  It was cold and blowy out, cold and blowy in, and I was stuck working on things at home on my day off.   After 4 hours crouched over the dining room table looking at the same information, I decided enough was enough.  I was going outside.

I huffed while I put on my ski-pants, I puffed while I put on my scarf.   I pouted while I dressed Monty in his little knitted sweater and stewed as I tried to stuff him into his harness.

Did I mention I was in a mood?

Finally, we were outside.  Monty was a bundle of excitement.  It had been a day or two since he'd been out for any longer than a run to his "spot" and back inside as fast as he could.  We trudged through the snow piles of our bay and headed out to explore.  Monty so desperately wanted to run.  He tugged and strained and leaped and pleaded to be let loose.

So I let him loose.

He took off like a shot.  I thought I may never see him again.  He just ran and ran and ran.  I called his name sharply -- like an impatient mother whose child is getting too far ahead.  He stopped on a dime, spun around and grinned at me.

Full mouth open, tongue hanging to the side, eyes bright with mischievousness, he grinned at me.  Then he came running back at a full gallop with his ears and tongue flying behind him.  About a foot in front of me, he leaped up in the air and slammed into my legs.  He danced around me for a moment as I patted his sides and off he ran again as far and as fast as he could go.

At first, I didn't know what to think of it.  He was so happy.  It was miserably cold out, I was grouchy and he was thrilled to be there.

I realized how often that is my problem.  I'm there, in the moment, and I'm grouching about something else.  I was complaining about the wind, but I wasn't enjoying the freedom.  I wasn't enjoying the run.

The rest of the walk, I let Monty run as hard and as fast as he could.  Then, I called him back laughingly and he came tearing back only to slam into my legs.  We enjoyed every moment of the rest of the walk.  I didn't worry about the cold, the wind, the snow.  I didn't worry about work, home, union, or family.  It was amazing.

I just enjoyed watching my dog have the greatest time of his life.

Sucker for punishment: blogging and dog walking

I'm not sure what I'm thinking, but I decided to sign up for November blog month.  I started last year doing stories about my life and then... you know, got distracted.  So, I will try and finish up some of those stories and make myself interesting again.  It's been awhile.

So, let's see how it goes, shall we?  I have 2 conferences during that time and a bunch of other things, so I really hope I can do it.

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Today, I took Monty out for a walk.  It's been 2 days since the snow-bomb that hit our city and it finally stopped being windy and disgusting.  I figured I needed to take him out since he's been as house bound as I have for the last week.

Last year, I bought a great pair of boots.  They are warm as can be, so I'm pumped.  However, I've found that unless you get the ugly 35 lb Sorrell boots, you cannot get both warmth AND grip.

We walked out to the road and went to start our walk.  I threw the ball a couple of times and then the obvious happened.  My legs shot out from under me and I landed on butt.  And my arm.  And my head.

Monty saw his moment and made a run for it.  I finally caught up with him 2 blocks later -- after he terrorized 2 neighbourhood dogs and a lady trying to get into her car.  He was thrilled at having been free for 6 whole minutes.  It was the walk of his life.

In other news: my butt hurts.

Bless his heart, he's a nice dog

Monty is a nice dog.  He's friendly and anxious to please.  He wants to love you and follow you and do everything he can to make you happy.

Happy-go Monty

He is dumb as a stick.

He doesn't beg at the table, he sneezes.  He sits nearest the person he thinks is the biggest sucker (this is usually me) and sneezes.  Quietly at first.  Then, a bit louder if he thinks you aren't listening.

If you hide his toy under a blanket -- even if he watched you do it -- he cannot find it.  Same goes for food and his ball.  He just looks at you in confusion and searches three feet to the left of where it is hidden.

If Monty does a bad thing, he will look at you with a blank look.  You can yell at him in the second that he does something wrong and he will not have a clue what you are talking about.

The other night, we had some family over for supper.  My uncle was in town, so he and my Dad's cousin and wife came over for supper.  We were sitting in the living room having a nice conversation when Monty decided that would be the time to drag his bum on the carpet.  I hollered at him mid-swipe and he just looked at me like nothing had happened.

I told the story that my Dad told me once about a really dumb dog.  He was so dumb, he would bark at the closet when he wanted to go out.  The owner of the dog felt so bad for him, she would give him a treat every time.

Sometimes I wonder if Monty is that kind of dumb.  Just dumb enough to get away with everything.

If he poops in my house while I'm gone, I'm selling him on Ebay.

I'm heading out the door in a minute to go to a wedding for a friend.  Knowing we'll be gone until the wee small hours, I thought I would take Monty out for one last go at his "spot".  Ever since we got the grass installed, Monty has been refusing to do his bizniz on the patch of rock in the back that has been his spot for over a year now.  Instead, he does his "little job" as Grandma L would say and then feigns that there is no more to be done. 

Fast forward ahead three and a half seconds and the dude is taking his "big job" right on the lawn.  Screaming and chasing him has no effect other than to scare him halfway in and out.  That is not good for anyone, so I just mumble that he is the worst dog ever and clean it up right away.

Today, there wasn't even that much of a job.  Instead, we played ball in the grass for 20 minutes and then he decided it was time to go back inside.  We will be gone for the next 8 or so hours, so I hope he can hold it.

If not, check your local Ebay for a listing.

Good dog. BAD dog.

On Friday, I took Monty to the vet.  He's become so much more social in the last year, I wasn't nervous at all about taking him to a place where there might be dogs.  We ran a few errands and then showed up at the vet's office nice and early.

Walking in, I noticed a man with a large Border Collie pup hopping and pulling and jumping beside him.  I took my cue from The Dog Whisperer and remained "calm and assertive".  I walked into the lounge as though my dog would not attempt to rip the skull from the hyper dog trying to say hi. 

It worked.  Monty wandered in, took a look at the other dog and promptly ignored her.

I'll take it.

We sat down and waited for our turn.  If he behaved well in the waiting room, he excelled in the vet's office.  He went with the staff with minimal pulling and looking at me over his shoulder with a whine of "Et tu Brutus?" and got himself weighed.  He's the same weight as last year which is 3 years in a row -- a miracle in the household of our family (both dogs and people).

The visit went as scheduled with only a small tooth issue coming up.  We head out to do a couple of more errands before heading home. 

I was hungry, so grabbed a chocolate bar from the local store.  As I ran in to post a parcel to my Dad, I had the thought that I was so happy with how well behaved Monty was, I wasn't even going to worry about the fact I'd left the other half of my chocolate in the car.  His mom?  She would have eaten it from my mouth as I bit down.  But not Monty.  He's a good dog.

I returned to the car to find Monty had eaten the other piece of my Reese Peanut Butter Cup. 

Paper and all.

I guess I was setting us both up to fail.

Mr. Scratchy McScratcherton

Mr. Montel*

Monty is a pretty well behaved dog.  As long as his mother and sister aren't around, he listens to me, sits on command, doesn't bark a lot, and can be walked off leash.

There are only two times he is a real problem.  And both of those are when he's alone.  First, he will not be kept under lock and key. Any attempts to cage kennel him or gate him have been unsuccessful.  Second, he goes a little mental when we return to the house. 

He has started clawing at the wall beside the door when he feels we are taking too long to get inside.  We can hear him.  We yell at him from outside, but it only succeeds in making him claw faster as though it's a race to see who can reach the other first. 

I have a key, Monty.  You're trying to claw through 5 inches of plaster and insulation.

I bought a plant and set it on the table by the door in hopes the leaves will freak Monty out and keep him away.  So far, not so much, but I've noticed the plant growing toward the light and more into Monty's way.

Sometimes, though mean, it is helpful to play off the neurosis of whatever creature you're trying to outsmart.  In hopes it doesn't backfire and he starts eating the plant. 

I'll let you know how it goes.






*He posed for 10 minutes like this. It's hard to get an au naturalle picture when he knows what a camera is for.

Monty: Defender, Protector

Monty, looking innocent

Our dog Monty sleeps in our bed.  I know that all of the non-dog people and most of the dog-people are rolling their eyes.  It seems dogs should be sleeping in kennels or on the floor.  Not Monty.  He slept with me from the time he was a few days old.  He slept with my Dad when he lived there.  He slept with me again when Dad fled the country.  He's a bed dog. 

Actually, he's a bed hog.  (Get it?  Tee hee.)

Monty sleeps in between The Guy and I.  He has two positions he likes to take.  One: straight horizontal.  Head against The Guy, butt aimed at me, legs splayed front and back.  Two: straight vertical.  Back against The Guy, feet pushing at me.  He takes up a lot of space.

Now I usually can keep my half of the bed.  Our own personal bed hog means that The Guy is lucky if he can keep a third.  If The Guy moves at all, Monty is moving with him.  Which means, over the course of the night, Monty nearly pushes The Guy off the bed. 

I have been sleeping on my own side, so I didn't really notice how bad it had gotten.  This week I spent more time trying to make sure Monty stayed more in the middle.  To give The Guy a break.

It worked.  The Guy had his half of the bed back.  And instead of being crowded, he instead got assaulted.  The first night, I flung a hand out in my sleep and smacked him in the nose.  The second night, I moved my arm and punched him in the face.  The third night? I brought my elbow down straight on the top of his head at six in the morning.

I realized that Monty wasn't trying to take over the bed all this time.  He was trying to protect The Guy from my flailing limbs. 

Monsieur Montel, Princess Poofy Pants

It's been raining non-stop for days.

The second it starts raining, Monty turns into a princess.  He doesn't want to go outside at all.  He looks at you with a face that says "How could you do this to me?" when you drag him out the door for a walk.

Making him go to the bathroom is worse.

We laid rock along the side of the house where Monty has "his spot".  This way there is no more damaged grass and no more mud.  He is thrilled to go to his spot almost any other time.  But once it's wet out?  He'd rather hold it, thank you very much.

Rather than racing around the corner to the gate ahead of you, he slowly trots beside you hoping you will change your mind and not make him stand on the wet, disgusting rocks.

He delicately places one paw on the rock and holds the other in the air.  He sniffs about, procrastinating from the inevitable.  One more paw down, the other back in the air.  He reminds me of a kid trying to get to their beds without touching the floor.

Finally, I lose my patience with him.  "GO already!"  He glares at me.  Finally he stalks off to a corner, does his thing and stomps back to the gate, ready to go in.

He's such a drama queen.

Monty: the dog, the dunce

If you've been around me at all, you know Monty.  Here he is below looking sad that I am busy doing something other than playing with him.

Mommy, don't you love me anymore?

He is the sweetest dog on the planet.

He is also the dumbest.

Montel is a simple pup.  He likes four things: sleeping, eating, playing, and being with me.  That is all.  It's a good life and he is happy.  Except when he cannot be with me or when he cannot be playing with me.  Then he is not happy.  In fact, he is pouty.

Today, for the first time this week, I was able to take Monty outside for a good long walk.  Earlier this week I was working, then I was sick, then it was so windy in our city that chunks from our largest buildings kept falling off.  Today, I gathered Monty, threw on my Shape-Up shoes, and went for a walk.

It was lovely outside.  I had a light jacket on over a tank top and I was nicely warmed.  The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, children were playing.  I usually walk Monty while throwing the ball for the first little while -- it gives him a chance to run crazy and I don't have to fight with him.  Also, he seems to listen better off leash than he does on.

We played ball until we came to the area where there are numerous dogs and traffic.  I threw on his leash and we walked the rest of the way to the park.  I let him off leash and threw the ball.

Right towards him.  Right over his head.

He couldn't find it.  He searched and turned circles and sniffed.  It lay 10 feet from him and he couldn't find it. I walked over to where it lay and then Monty came over and grabbed it at a dead run.  He was so proud when he brought it back to me and dropped it at my feet.  Like he found it all on his own.

So, I threw it again.  Just left of him.  He saw it go.  He watched it land.  He raced over to it.

And completely went right passed it.

It seems that if the ball goes where he is not expecting it (even by a foot) he cannot find it.  He's not blind!  I can throw a piece of food at him and he can usually find it.  But there is something about this poor dog that is lacking.  Like five cans in a six pack, he's just not all there.

Sometimes, I will take his treats and hide them around the living room.  I make sure he's watching when I hide them.  He sits and watches while I tuck them into his blanket, under a pillow, at the edge of the coffee table.  Then I tell him to go find them.

He has no idea where they are.

I have to give him hints.  Lead him to the couch and ask "Where's your treat?"  He sniffs and searches.  He cannot figure it out.  Finally, he will stumble across one accidentally and be very proud of himself.  After a lot of coaxing on my part, he can usually find them all.  And then he wants to play again.

Seriously, he's a nice boy, but he's as dumb as a stick.

Halp! An 18 lb dog is taking over our house!

Montel (aka Monty) has taken over the house.  You would think that a 18 lb dog would be easily contained.  You would be wrong. 

It started out simply enough.  He started sleeping at the foot of our bed.  He came up for a snuggle and settled in between us. 

Then he branched out.  Back up against The Guy, feet up against me, Monty pushed out until he had made enough room to be comfortable.  That is how he has stayed -- taking up over half of the bed.  When the bed is made, he digs under the pillows and makes a burrow.

Then it was the living room.  A red blanket was thrown casually over the easy chair for when guests (or I) got cold.  Suddenly, the blanket has become a cocoon on the seat where Monty likes to hide.  The couch cushions have become his Princess pillows.  Every seat you want to sit on?  That's his seat.

Every day, I tidy and organize the pillows in the spare room.  I neaten things up and leave for the day.  When I get back, the pillows are scattered across the bed and one shows signs of being napped on.  

Once the basement renos were finished, Monty took over the love seat and blanket there.  Same with the spare bed in the basement.  The blanket at the end of the bed is his. 

We took comfort in the fact that two rooms in the house were ours and ours alone.  First, my sewing room had too many freaky things in it for Monty to want to hang out.  Second, the office where The Guy works.  Monty will enter, but he will not stay.

The other night, while The Guy and I were sitting on the couch watching TV in the basement, Monty got up from his couch, wandered down the hall and went to sit in The Guy's office.  Later that night, he laid at my feet while I sewed. 

It's official.  He runs the house.

Monty in a normal sized sweater

I have finished the second doggy sweater. This one fits and Monty is much pleased with it. I will likely make another one as there are changes I plan to make to the design, but the overall concept is great. So here he is standing tall this time.

Look Mom, it fits!!

Side view.  I sit like a good boy.

Monty in a teeny sweater

But Mom, it doesn't fit and I feel silly.

Fine, I'll pretend to smile even.

Now can I take it off?