River is a Griffon on the Edge

 

On the day that Pocket went to the vet for a shot, I was prepared to pay her a ghostly visit because she doesn't like getting vaccinations and really hates being taken from the car and brought to the clinic by herself. She is sure that you have finally come to your senses and are dropping her off for good. I have told her despite all her accidents, irritable bowel, and food sensitivities, she still is loved and will never be abandoned, although the reason why escapes us both. 

     Sure enough, ten minutes after Pocket’s scheduled vaccination time, my angel pager trilled. I figured it was her looking for some paw holding at the vet. Instead, I saw it was River who was in desperate need of an intervention. I flew down as fast as my little wings could go and found her in the silliest predicament. Somehow River had got on the bathroom vanity and couldn’t get down. Angels are never supposed to laugh at those in need, but with family, you get leeway, which is why I just about busted a gut when I saw her. 

“I don’t know what is so funny,” River scoffed.  “You aren’t very professional. “

I apologized, although I was fibbing. I asked her how and, more importantly, why she had got on the vanity. 

“When Mommy is out, I like to look out the window, so I see her car coming down the street. The window in the bathroom is closer to the road, and I figured I could see better than I could from the kitchen.”

I could have explained to River the fallacy in her thinking, but I learned long ago you can’t teach a middle-aged Griffon anything. I did tell her to stop being so dramatic and jump down. 

“Are you mad?” River inquired.  “The bathroom floor is only two feet wide. I will crash into the wall and break my face, which would be a tragedy because it’s my moneymaker. 

I told River she had plenty of room to land, but she refused to listen. It shows you can lead a dog to the vanity near the toilet water, but you can’t make it leap. 

      I told her there was nothing to do but wait when she informed me of a further complication:  She had to poop. I told her to spin around and aim for the bowl, but she refused.  “I am not going to poop in the toilet like some human!” She exclaimed. “Dogs drink out of there!”

I decided to challenge her with a game. I told her to turn around and poop through the door.  If she could get it near the center of the pee pad lying on the floor in the hall, she would win.   River is an expert pooper.  She knew it was better to squeeze off a few little ones instead of one long log. This gave her better trajectory, and by the third one, she had placed it directly in the middle of the pad. I had never been prouder of her. 

As the last poop settled on the pee pad, I heard my mom’s car turn into the driveway.   I told River to send out her most pathetic whines, which she did.  My parents heard her, rushed into the house, and rescued her, then covered her with 1,000 kisses. 

 Not bad for a dumb dog stuck on a vanity.