Monday, February 15, 2010

Pocket's Morning Play Time

By Pocket Dog:

I love mornings when Daddy doesn’t have to work. He gets up, does some downstairs business, takes us outside, gives us a treat and then sits down on the floor, and it’s Pocket Playtime.

First thing we have to do is find my orange ball. This is my second orange ball. My first got destroyed last April. I switched to a green ball, but last week I killed it. Daddy then lined up my balls: the orange, the green (new), the blue, and the red. I sniffed each carefully, then nosed the orange ball towards him. He threw it, I chased it, and the game was on.

To me that little orange ball is alive. I chase after it like I am hunting a squirrel or a tiny heffalump. I do it with an unmatched ferocity. Nothing can keep me from catching and destroying it, unless it goes under the hutch, or in the bathroom, or under the water dish stand, or under a chair or couch, then, like all ferocious hunters, I sit by the object it’s hidden behind and whine until my Daddy retrieves it.

Playing ball is my favorite thing to do. Sometimes I even snatch them out of midair (Foley says it’s just that the little ball lands in my big mouth but I say it’s great athletic skill.) Sometimes I run upstairs with the ball, let it go, and then bark at it as it hops down the stairs.

Then I get tired of the chasing and find my little rope toy. I pick it up and I shake it like I’m killing a mean snake. Then I put my front paws down and growl. Daddy takes it in his hand and starts moving it back and forth. I pounce on it and growl and pull until it stops wiggling then beat it on the ground into submission.

Once that is dead I find one of Daddy’s old gloves. This is where being a little dog comes in handy. Daddy puts it on and then rubs it on the floor. I attack his hand, taking his fingers into my mouth and pulling on them. We have an understanding, I never do anything like this when he’s ungloved or to anyone else. But I love hand attacking.

By this time Foley, who is quite annoyed with my morning energy, will come down and snuggle next to Daddy and growl to be scratched and rubbed while I’m growling to be played with. He’s got a gloved hand rubbing this way, an ungloved hand scratching that way, he’s like Michael Jackson with poison ivy.

Sometime Foley gets in the act. She might attack a little turtle that we have. She doesn’t have a ferocious grrrr like I have, her grrr is like a gerbil with its foot stuck in the wheel.

Then Daddy sticks his hand up our beaver. We love it when Daddy put his hand in the beaver. His thumb and little finger go in its arms, and his other fingers go in its head and he attacks us with it. I prefer to tame the beaver by thrusting at it and taking it to the floor.

Foley prefers to wrap her paws around the beaver and licks it and makes the grring sound (it’s actually more like a purring sound but don’t tell her I said that.) Then she grabs it and gives it a shake and even I, seven years younger than her, think it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

I’ve had three straight play mornings with Daddy and I think I’m going to have another tomorrow. Four in a row is almost a record. If you want to play come on over tomorrow morning and chase some ball.

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