What bichon doesn't adore cheese? To a bichon, cheese is the nectar and ambrosia of the gods. Bichon heaven is a golden fire hydrant on every corner and a block of colby in every food dish.
On the day of the Great Cheese Caper, I was just a wittle puppy. Mommy was downstairs doing the laundry, but I'd scampered upstairs and was all alone.
And there it was. Golden. Glowing. So yummy. I sniffed it a bit, licked it a bit, looked over my shoulder to check for Mommy. Then sunk my teeth into it.
And it was so delicious. Bite after bite. Gnawing off great hunks, swallowing them as fast as I could. Feeling deliciously naughty.
I'd scarfed 1/4th of the block by the time Mommy came upstairs and grabbed it away...covered with teeth marks...missing big chunks...covered in carpet fuzz. Of course, I got a good scolding although Mommy was laughing way too hard to make me feel too guilty.
To this day, I adore cheese. If I may be allowed to paraphrase Sir Walter Scott:
Breathes there a bichon,
with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath stolen,
A block of colby cheese so golden!
Sometimes, my food isn't exactly...fresh. It's kinda' been chewed and swallowed already. Well, not chewed. Just swallowed.
My sister's a pig. There! I said it. If it's edible, she scarfs it. Her share AND my share. I'm such a gentlebichon, I just sit back and watch her imitate a snake, jerking its food down its throat.
So Mommy and Daddy stand up for me. They holler at CweeCwee. This one time, she'd just inhaled her morsel of bread and my morsel too. When Mommy yelled, "CWEECWEE!" she gave this funny cough and the bread flew out of her mouth, sailed through the air landing about 12" away. I ate it.
Another time, we were eating leftover hamburgers. Of course, Cwee beat me to the punch. She ate so fast...she made herself sick and threw it up my chunk...unchewed. I figured it was mine in the first place, so I ate it!
Um...why is Mommy gagging? Did I say something wrong? Mommy!?
I always scoot when I talk. Always. I think it really adds something to the conversation.
With a hair-raising chorus of whines, groans and barks, I contribute my two-cents to every conversation...while scooting. Can't talk without scooting. Never scoot unless I'm talking. It's a bichon thing.
I dunno why humans don't try it. Conversation looses something if you don't scoot at the same time. Put your bum on the carpet and try it. See!? Now didn't that just add sparkle to your speech?!
Some will say I've got wormies, but I don't. Others may say I've got impacted anal glands. To that I say, you get your mind off my anal glands! Had 'em done. They're fine. I'd like to see you have your bum squeezed!
And my ass is clean as a whistle. Mommy checked. (How embarrassing!)
And that's why people like talking with me. I love to talk and I always scoot. They laugh so much, I may take my act on the road. Hmmmm, what should I call my act?
The Scintillating Scooter. I like it. Scoot, scoot, scoot. I like it a lot.
This day started badly. And it's all CweeCwee's fault. Maybe she woke up on the wrong side of the crate. I think she has PMS.
For starters, Mommy was valiantly trying to clip the leash to a wiggling Cwee's collar...and Cwee bit Mommy.
Everyone knows we dogs have only one Commandment:
Thou shalt not bite thy Mommy.
So out we go for a walk and a piddle and a poo. And Cwee spots a squirrel, flies into a snarling rage and jumps over me. She got so excited the poo started comin' outta' her, and I'm like, "Girl! You got two inches of poo stickin' outta your butt. Squat already!"
When we came back inside, things got even worse. Cwee spotted a woodpecker through the window, exploded in wrath, ran to the window and gave it what-for. Then she barked about this and she barked about that! So, naturally, I joined in. Mommy couldn't shut us up!
Finally, Mommy got fed up and crated us both. Is that fair!? I merely followed my sister's bad example.
Yeah, my sis has got PMS, I'm crated and this is a low-down, rotten, nasty, no-good-for-nuffin day.
Say the word "Stupid" and my sister comes a-runnin'. Say "Stinky" and she does the doxiepoo dance. Call "CweeCwee" and she'll turn herself inside out with excitement. Gotta' love that girl!
The day I became a big sister was the best day of my life. Mommy adopted CweeCwee from the Animal Humane Society. Of course, she was cautioned to introduce us slowly, cautiously, over a few days. Well, Mommy didn't have time for that. So she put us both on the floor together and said, "Deal with it."
I was over the moon with excitement. Cwee...not so much. She shoved her face in my food bowl, growling at me to stay away. Hmmm, same thing she does today. Nothing's changed.
After stuffing herself to the gills with my "nasty dry crap," she hopped up in the chair and slept for the next three days. But I wanted to play! So I barked and pawed at her every few minutes, waking her up, for three days. I got her so riled she attacked me in the laundry room with a snarl of rage. Mommy broke it up.
When Mommy went to work, she put CweeCwee in the pink crate and put me in my big fenced-in area in the Living Room. She was so scared Cwee'd kill me during the day. Then one day, Cwee ran into my area, sat down and refused to move. That was the wonderful day Mommy knew we'd become sisters.
We've been inseparable ever since. On our double-leash, we look like a fuzzy yoke of oxen, Siamese twins joined on our sides. We sleep together. Play together. Piddle together. Poo together.
Unfortunately, CweeCwee does have a couple, shall we say, idiosyncrasies. Her breath is, how do I say it gracefully, atrocious! An elephant would take one whiff and pass out. Brushing doesn't work. Nothing works. But she's loving. Very generous with kisses. Ugh.
She's also not very bright. Okay, okay. She's downright stupid, hence her nickname. I once watched her lick the wrong side of a cream cheese wrapper, savoring nothing. Oh, but she just kept on a lickin'. But she's loving!
And sometimes she shoves her whole head in my mouth. I'm not exactly sure why, but I guess it's a kiss. Very loving!
Can't imagine life without my stupid, stinky sister!
"Aliens" make crop circles. Bichons make crap circles. Fifty-four is my all-time high total of circles made before I crapped. Yes, I was rather proud of that.
Daddy, however, wasn't amused! He kept muttering things like, "Enough! Go already." "Shit or get off the yard." "I'm freezing my ass off out here, ya darn bichon!" I knew he didn't mean it.
The choice of spot to drop a load is a fine art to a bichon. We aren't about to grace just any ol' spot with our fancy frise fertilizer. No, sirree! It's got to smell just right and look just right.
In Summer, we're particular about the blade of grass we choose to water. There are millions of blades out here, but only a select one is worthy of a frise piddle.
The more time we spend circling, the more time we get outside. And our human learns patience, which as we all know, is a virtue.
Now that's what I call a win-win proposition!
Bichon's don't want it getting blabbed around, but we make great masseuses. I never told. Mommy figured it out by accident.
We were playing "throw" (not fetch) one day, when Mommy had the bright idea of hiding my ball down the back of her blouse. As if that would fool any bichon! I simply climbed on her back and dug like mad!
And that's how I let the cat (nasty catsies, we hates 'em!) out of the bag. Since then, I can't get a moment's rest. All day it's nothing but, "Delly, my shoulder blade itches. To the left, left, left...no, your other left." I've worn my paws to the bone on Mommy's dry, itchy shoulder blades. If she wouldn't be so darn clean, I'd have time to run out and get a manicure or somethin'.
Once upon a time, I rolled on a frog. A dead frog. Stick with me here. I was just a little baby when I did it. Here's how it happened.
It was 2011 and I'd just been adopted. I was an only bichon back then. Mommy worked long hours, so I was home alone a lot. Neither of us liked it. That's why I hid under tables when Mommy left for work. She used to drag me out by a hind leg to kiss me goodbye. And I barked and barked, "Mommy! No! Don't leave!" as she left.
We both looked forward to weekends immensely 'cause we got to spend two whole days together. But on this particular Saturday, Mommy had to work. And she brought me with her to work.
I was very good! I laid on Mommy's desk in my carrying bag and chewed on my bone. Then she took me outside to piddle. And that's when I found the dead frog.
It smelled so delightful, like a swamp on a hot August day, I just had to get a little of that amazing scent behind my ears. So, naturally, I rolled on it.
I spent the rest of the day laying on Mommy's desk, reeking of dead frog.
I had to pee. Usually, I'm good all night. But that darn prostate. Oh wait, I don't have a prostate. Anyways, Mommy does NOT need more than five hours of sleep. Especially after kicking me out of her bed for digging up the sheets like a maniac.
Now, bichons, the trick to waking up your exhausted human is the Rhythmic Bark. It's an art, not a science. Don't just woo-woo-woo all over the place. No whining, no growling. Bark. Rhythmically.
WOOF! One one thousand, two one thousand. WOOF! Three one thousand, four one thousand. WOOF!
All together now. And a one, and a two, and a three...hit it!
"Your bichon has very well developed thigh muscles," commented the vet. Mommy just smiled. She wasn't telling my body building secrets.
Pro wrestlers have nicknames. The Undertaker. Nature Boy. And now, introducing Delly "Chicken Thigh" Thompson.
It all started one fine day when Mommy found a Little Tikes Wave Climber playset on a garage sale. Y'know the kind. Multi-colored. Little pink slide. She bought it on the spot.
And then she realized: I've got no way to get it home. No matter how she finagled and figured, it just wasn't gonna fit in her trunk. Luckily, the seller took pity on Mommy and brought it over to her condo. She dragged it up one flight of stairs and set it up...where else...in the dining room!
I was thrilled and decided the only way a self-respecting bichon should get into the playset was by running up the wavey slide. I tried and tried and tried, clawing, panting, sliding backwards time after time.
But bichons don't give up. No sirree! "Sticktoitiveness" is our middle name!
And one day, I finally I got it! I clawed my way all the way up the slide to the platform at the top. Woof!
And that's how a bichon develops her thigh muscles and becomes a celebrity, Delly "Chicken Thigh" Thompson!
Hi! Delly here! I'm a bichon frise. My mommy says I'm crazy, eccentric and hilarious. These are my doodles. WOOF!