River Song's New Game Show

During the new normal, my parents, on most days, have stopped midday for cheese and crackers, and to play trivia games on the tablet.  Some days, we take a walk first, but most of the time, it has been cold and rainy, so they get right to eating and playing.
     
They do not share their cheese and crackers with us, but they do put a plate full of our kibble on the table, and they give us some after every few questions.  Pocket stands on her back leg. and paws Daddy’s leg begging for kibble, but she tires easily, and she goes to sit in the little chair with the red blanket.  That leaves all the food for me.
    
Pocket is much more patient than I am.  Pocket gets a kibble, chews it, swallows, and gives it a bit of time to settle before she asks for another.  For me, there is a two-second turnaround, from getting the kibble to wanting more.  I just swallow without even tasting. 
   
 I have a big advantage over Pocket.  I can jump up on the dining room chairs.  I am still short enough that I can walk on the chairs and remain under the table so I can see stealthy move around until I am next to Mommy!  I try to force my head under her armpit so I can be closer to the kibble.  She tells me to get down.  Her lips say “no-no,” but her eyes say it…..nope her eyes say no too.  Abort!  Abort!

I quickly switch to plan B.  I start a foot from Daddy’s side.  Then I run forward, push off my back legs, and slam all twelve pounds of me into his thigh like a sled hammer smashing into a worthless piece of wood.  Sometimes, I struck him, he tips to the side.  But, that doesn’t mean I am going to be getting a treat.

So, I changed my position. Daddy sits at the head of the table, and I stand on the floor at the opposite end.   I lunge, with both front legs straight as two-by-fours, and I smash into his balls like a wrecking ball.
     
He makes a sound like air rapidly rushing out of a punctured beach ball, and falls to one side.  Mommy pauses the game until he is recovered, and she stops giggling.  Recently, I have added a new maneuver.  While standing up in front of him, I lift my left paw, then bring it down hard on his right testicle, causing him to double over and cry a little bit.  It is great fun, although it doesn’t make the kibble come any quicker.  But it is a distraction which you need under quarantine.  
     
While I await my kibbles, I thought of a fantastic new game show for humans.  It is a trivia tv show played by couples.  They build their money upon some easy questions.  But, once the questions reach five figures in value, a new twist is brought into the game.  Before the question, the woman can gamble either to, if they answer incorrectly, either forfeit the money and the game, or the man can get slapped hard in the nuts.
Everyone who has ever had a mommy and a daddy knows what the answer will be:  “Let it ride on the nuts.”  The question is asked, and if the dad gives the wrong answer, a flying Griffon will shatter his balls.  What fun!  What excitement!  What strategy!  I am calling it River’s Nut Sack.  It is for any human who loves game shows, trivia, and crushed nuts.

Forget the Tiger King.  I’m the Crushing Balls Queen.

Look for it on a streaming service near you.

Wordless Wednesday

Beat This Caption

Mom, the zoom is down again right in the middle of my dog park meeting

Monday Question

Do you have a nickname that is from another living thing?

Pocket is called Monkey

River is called Buggy

A Lost LIttle Dog Finds It's Way

You’re a five-year-old dog, and you lived with your dad in Malaysia.  Lately, there hasn’t been much food. Your Dad’s not working. There is no money coming in.  He despairs that he won’t be able to care for you any longer, but you stress that it is okay, as long as it stays you and him, nothing beats a pair.

You like to go for car rides.  Recently, they have been few and far between.  There has been no money for food, nevermind gas, and nowhere to go.  One day your dad, with tears in his eyes, opened the car door for you. You happily got in.  Your dad drove for a few miles. Then he pulled over. He hugged you. His tears landed on your fur.  He took a piece of paper and jammed it under your collar. He opened your door and pushed you out. You expected him to get out of the car too, but he hit the gas and left you behind. 

You waited for several minutes, thinking your dad would come back, but he didn’t.  You were confused. Where did he go? Did something bad happen to him? You began to walk down the street, hoping to pick up his scent.  You didn’t pay attention to the cars speeding around you. You have a mission, and nothing can keep you from completing it.

  

The skies grew darker and the sunset, but you kept walking.  The clouds opened up, and a soaking rain-drenched you. You didn't look for shelter.  You tried to find your dad's scent, as your heart grew desperate. Your dad has always saved you from situations like this.  Now, he wasn’t. You refused to accept what you knew was true. He had left you.

The sun came up, the rain stopped, and you kept walking, no longer looking, just trying to survive.  You heard stories of the men with the cages and the needles that sent you to the Bridge. You knew you had to avoid them.  You were wet, cold, and hungry, and mostly surviving on instincts, which told you to keep moving until you arrived at where you needed to be.

You sense a man is following you.  You see him a few cars back. You try to lose him amongst the cars.  You cross the street and see a grassy area. Sitting there, looking right at you is your purser.  He sits on the grass. You sit too, ten feet from him, and study his every move. He never wavers. You have a choice.  To trust him, knowing he might be the man with the needle, or to run, which was safer, at least for now. Maybe not when you grew weak from lack of eating.  You waited, ten minutes, fifteen minutes, then you made your choice.

Five years ago, you trusted your dad, and that had worked out splendidly, until yesterday.  You decided to trust this new man. You went to him and sat down. The man removed the wet paper from your collar.  It was a note from your father. It said that he could no longer take care of you the way you needed. It begged whoever you found and the letter to give you a home. It explained what a good boy you were and that you have been a perfect pet. The man was crying. You didn’t know why, but you were making a lot of men cry lately.

The man began walking away, then turned back for you.  You were undecided for several seconds, and then you followed.  He opened the car door, and you got in the back seat. The two of you stopped at a pet shop, and he got you a new collar and leash, along with food and a bed.   You mourned the loss of your first dad, but you were excited about beginning life with your new dad.

You walked into your new home and immediately recognized the smell of another dog.  You had always wanted a brother. Then you saw him, tall, tan, and sleek, and you smiled.  He smiled back and said, “get out of my house!” He tried to bite you. He made sure you knew he was the only dog in a one dog house.  Your new dad did not remove you from the home immediately. He gave you your own space. But, he also knew how his other dog was and knew this wasn’t going to work out. 

The other dog was scary, but you understood that some dogs are meant to be only dogs.  You figured you would get some food and drink, get a good night’s sleep and begin your travels in the morning.  You heard a door open and smelled another man, whose scent was remarkably like the man who picked you up. You wandered out of the room to meet the two men, who were brothers, and the new one took to you right away, and you took to him.  He asked if you would like to be an only dog in his house, and you agreed.

And now you have your new forever home, after experiencing three dads in two days.  You hope your old dad is okay, but we dogs live for right now, and right now, things are good.   That is the best we can hope for.

Hetty Arrives at Rainbow Bridge

We had an exceptional dog come to Doggyspace at the Bridge this week.  Her name is Hetty.  She is a beloved therapy dog who belonged to Jessica Calvo, a Spanish teacher at Verona School District in New Jersey. 

Hetty is a yellow lab who managed to hold off the Bridge dementors and stay with her mom long past Hetty’s time.  She lived fourteen years until the evil angels gave her a neurological disorder which she could not defeat.  The disease led to seizures, and as they often do, that brought him to the Bridge. 
  
Hetty had a lot of reasons to resist the angels and stay with her mom.  Not only was she a vital therapy dog to Jessica, but she also provided the same service for the Veronica school district.  She was beloved by all, but especially by her mom.
Most labs are full of energy, prone to being overly exuberant and excitable, which can make them become a service dog problematic. Still, Jessica said that Hetty was an old soul who was naturally gentle and sweet.  Hetty served her humans by giving them lots of love and gratefully accepting their love. 

Jessica has been blind since birth.  When she was five, she told her mom that she was going to get a guide dog.  She was disappointed to find out that she had to be in high school to qualify for one.  When she turned 17, she was given an application for a guide dog who, when everything was processed, became Hetty.  

Hetty was a graduate of The Seeing High in Morristown, New Jersey.  She joined Jessica when she graduated from Clifton High School and Caldwell University.  Then Jessica joined the staff at Verona High School.

 As she aged, Hetty’s energy level dropped, and her mom decided to retire her as a guide dog.  But Hetty still wanted to serve, so Jessica spoke with the student assistance coordinator for the Verona School District, who had been considering getting a therapy dog for the district.  When the school year opened, Hetty had a new occupation.   
In her new role, Hetty comforted children and got them to open up about their lives or something that happened at school.  Her work did not require more than showing up and being herself, which she was good at.  Frustrated or nervous kids would come to the counselor's office, Hetty sat at their feet, and her inner serenity, and sweet goodness, calmed the child so they could return to school.  

One student was a six-year-old boy suffering from cerebral palsy.  He had trouble walking.  One day the child was struggling down the hallway when he saw Hetty in front of him.  He began to walk faster, then picked up Hetty’s leash, and started walking behind her with an assurance he had never shown before.  It is just one example of the work Hetty did with the students. 

Hetty didn't want to come to the Bridge because she knew that people wouldn’t need her here the way they did on the mortal side.  When she arrived, she was thrilled to feel healthy again, but since life on the mortal side is perfect, her thirst to help went would go unsated. 

I wanted Hetty to be happy, so I made her in charge of minion rehab.  Minions are souls who die, but their misdeeds on Earth stops them from being an angel.  They serve as our minions until they learn their lessons and earn Angel status.  Sometimes they need help along the way, and now they have Hetty to help them.


I am sure we will have fewer minions soon, and that is awesome

River Finally Gets out to the Garden

We waited all winter for spring to arrive:  The day the warm air chases the cold away, causing it to retreat until it mounts an October resurgence. Once the warm air enters, everything opens up, like a million tulip buds.  We thought spring had arrived in mid-March when temperatures rose to the mid-sixties, but the cold air snuck back in with a vengeance, as did the nasty virus, and everything that should have opened closed down.

    All winter long Pocket and I have been planning our gardens.  We had prepared for prolonged cold rain, late-season snow, and flooding, but not for a pandemic that would stop Mommy from being able to elbow other people out of the way to buy the best flowers at the greenhouse. 

    The good news is that we won’t need to buy flowers until the end of May. The ones that fill up our early spring gardens are annuals planted long ago.  We can always count on them.  They are tough little buggers.  Not even a skiff of snow last weekend can slow them down. 

Our first garden day was three weeks ago.  It was the warmest of the three workdays we had this spring.  Mommy cleaned out the front garden, Daddy raked and mowed the back lawn, which for some reason was three times as high as the front.  My parents lined the driveway, and the edges of the gardens, with solar lights.  It helps Mom and Dad find their way home at night, but I always worry that a confused pilot is going to try and land his jet on our small strip of tar.

The second garden day was on the following Tuesday.  It was the most productive session we had, even though it was cold and wet outside.  Mommy vacuumed the patio and began cleaning out the massive front garden while Daddy mowed the lawn, and then went to work on the grass in the back.  Last fall, he dug up the dead spots, and spread seed, but he did not use enough sod on the places he repaired, so the yard was filled with divots that we spent the winter stumbling over.  He had to dig it up again and make sure the sod was level with the ground.  Meanwhile, Mommy began pulling weeds out of the front garden, by the bucket full.  If only we could grow grass in the backyard like we grow weeds in the front garden.   

  Monday was what they call around these parts, "Patriot's Day."  It is when the Red Sox play a home game at 11:00 AM, and runners compete in the Marathon.  None of those things happened this year, because of the virus making the day just like any other in a string of cold, wet days, which made people unable to go out even if it was legal.

   My parents didn’t work in the yard for long.  It is no fun to toil in a spring garden on a cold, raw day.  At the end of our brief garden day, Daddy put out the rest of the decorations, including Saint Anthony, in the hope that once back in the garden, he would bring spring, and cure everything that ails this country.

We had big plans for our gardens and the world this spring.  Forty-eight hours later the wind had blown Saint Anthony facedown in the garden.  Oh, Lord.  2020 killed Saint Anthony.  We are screwed.