I'll never forgive Mommy for humiliating me...with a diaper! Yes, I have a boo-boo on my bum. Yes, I won't stop licking the ointment off. But...a diaper!?! I'll never live it down.
Not that it's anything new. Mommy's been putting diapers on me since I was a baby. She thinks they're just too-too adorable. Grrrrrrrrr.
I 'member this one time when Daddy had just shampooed the carpet. Mommy figured I couldn't possibly make a mess on the carpet if she put a diaper on me...just as a gentle reminder.
Jokes on Mommy! I poo-pooed through the tail hole!
P.S. How do you walk in this dang thing!?!
Hey! How many bichons are writers? Let me tell you, it ain't easy with just four paws and a schnoz to type with. The Bichon Frise Reporter has turned down this adorable white fuzzy journalist's bid to contribute a quarterly column for her fellow 'chons. And why? I'm too homespun. Too rustic. Too country bumpkin for their high-falutin' show bichon clientele. That's why!
Well! This bichon takes violent objection. You may look like a walking, wagging snowdrift but you're a bichon too, mate. You may look like a walking cloud, but you want to dry off in a dirt pile after your bath too. Y'know you do! You want to roll in the snow and make bichon angels. You want to get leftover spaghetti sauce all over your fuzzy mug. And, most of all, you want to bring shitsicles into the house!
We 'chons gotta band together and make our woofs heard! Or are we just gonna stand by and let the humans talk for us while we wag nicely. The woof, I say. We gotta bite 'em in the ass! Boycott their stuck-up magazine! Go on strike. Start a picket line. Let 'em know they can't keep us bichons quiet any longer. We've found our voice and we're gonna be heard!
Are you with me!?! All together now...
WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!
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'.
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!
I ain't the most graceful bichon on the block. Okay. I said it. It's out in the open. In fact, I'm downright #awkward.
Take the other night, for instance. I raced into the bedroom, took a flying leap in the general direction of Daddy's hospital bed, misjudged my trajectory and bounced off the footboard. #awkward
Then there was the time I tried to jump on Sandy's couch...and missed the whole dang thing. #awkward
The other day, Mom was playing "throw" with me in the house. (Most of you bichons probably call it "fetch." I call it throw because Mommy throws things, but I never fetch them back. Just chase and chew, baby!)
Where was I? Oh yes! Mommy had just mopped the kitchen floor, so it was nice and slippery. I ran in at top speed, but my brakes didn't work. Slid head first into the cabinets...bang! #awkward
Wait? Does this mean I can't grow up to be a ballerina? Dang it!
Blitzing. We bichons are artists at the bichon blitz.
It starts with a kinda' itchy, kinda' crazy, kinda' whacked out feeling! Then keblewey! We suddenly find ourselves running frantically, back and forth, round and round, growling ferociously, making snaps at our toys, bouncing off furniture and people.
Humans, there ain't a dang thing you can do about it. Just flatten yourself against the wall and wait for the insanity to pass.
If we're really lucky, we have a twofer. One blitz winds out, we pant for awhile, then we're off to the races again!
It's a bichon thing. Don't try to understand it. Just enjoy it. We do!
I'm so woofed! I'm the star bichon blogger here. Right!?! But Cousin Sandy comes over and goes viral. Boy, was she viral! She humped me in the kitchen, in the living room, in the bathroom, on the chair and while "we" were watching the nasty squirrel.
She took advantage of the situation. Hacked my Facebook. Posted obscene selfies of her humping me all over social media. And she said she was just looking at the big squirrel. Boy, was that a big squirrel!
And then she wants to cuddle!
Woof, am I miffed! I won't be able to show a whisker on Facebook or my schnoz on Twitter (@dellysdoodles) anymore. Oh the shame of it! I'll never outlive the "Great Squirrel Scandal."
But on the other paw, if it worked for the Kardashians, maybe it'll work for me! Watch out Kimmy! This bichon's gonna' break the internet!
Hollywood, here I come! (Eat your heart out, Lassie!)
Hi! Delly here! I'm a bichon frise. My mommy says I'm crazy, eccentric and hilarious. These are my doodles. WOOF!