This week marked my first month in my new home. I don’t think things could be working out better.
The hot weather, which would have made it difficult for me to breathe outdoors, but since I don’t like going out, didn’t mean anything to me, finally broke, and I got a walk midweek.
I don’t like to walk on the grass. It tickles my sensitive paws. My parents think I will submit to it since being on the tar in the summer burns my paws. But I am a stubborn little wench, and I continue to walk on tar, keeping my walking sessions brief which is good because I
I prefer the inside.
I am always one step ahead of my parents, which they make easier by continually being two steps behind.
My training the parents is going well. I have taught them how to give me a treat every time I come to them. They have started demanding that I sit, which I do because I just ran and I’m tired and stay, which is OK because it gives me a chance to catch my breath. They have tried paw, which I’m ambivalent about, but River told me it seems to make them very happy when you do it. I’m drawing the line at down and especially rollover. Foley has taught me if you do too many tricks, they’ll put you outside a subway station with a little hat on while one of them plays the squeezebox; you’re expected to perform like a circus monkey.
We have hit a bump on my road to perfection. Lately, I have been relocating my poop. I’ll pick it up in my mouth and walk around with it tucked in between my chicken gum like chewing tobacco. When it loses its flavor, I spit it out wherever I lay my head.
I’m not disgusting; you’re disgusting.
So now, when I walk down the hall towards the pads, one of my parents, usually my dad, who has all his original parts and is a tad sprier, follows me down the hall to see what my business is. Often I’m just going for a walk, and the more I do that, the slower my parents are to respond. This gives me time to poop and transport. When my parents discovered my activities, they vigorously brushed my teeth, something I didn’t like, but it’s a small price to pay for poop fresh from the shooter.
If I can come when they call my name, they should come when I poop. That’s only fair.
Foley and River have advised me not to put poop in my mouth, but Pocket, a fellow Poopaholic, says it’s a hard habit to break. Out of all the good traits I adopted from my predecessors, I cannot help but have a few bad ones sprinkled in.
That’s the Ruby Report for this week. Next week I will update you on this great poop race.
If I could poop directly into my mouth, I would never leave the house.