There's no human I love more than my Daddy! One day he just showed up! And he's been here ever since!
The truth is, he and Mommy met online and only had one date before they got married. But I like to think I brought them together. Mommy told me later, she relied on my opinion of Daddy to make the final decision to marry him.
So she brought my sister and me to meet him on the day they had their one date.
I jumped on his lap, sniffed him a bit, licked him a bit and then jumped on his back! (It's my favorite trick!)
Now my sister, CweeCwee, she's a man hater. She does not like men. But she was right there with me, licking Daddy with her nasty, stinky breath. Mommy decided to marry him, cause CweeCwee will only lick a very good man.
You see, my Daddy is a Dog-Whisperer. He talks me to sleep. "You're getting sleepy, Delly," he says. "Your eyes are getting heavy, your soooo tired, you're gonna shut your eyes and sleep, sleep, sleep."
I tell ya! When he starts in with the dog-whispering-thing, I just cannot keep my eyes open! Snore.
Wishing all of my fellow 'chons a Happy Woofentine's Day! And if you want to make my Mommy's day, please LIKE and SHARE this article my Mommy wrote all about how she and Daddy met and married. It's a crazy story! It's her surprise Valentine's Day gift for Daddy...and she wants it to go viral soooooo bad!
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!
I play tag right! I run all the way around the room! But that lying, cheating Pomeranian, Sandy! She sneaks under the dresser, behind the stove...or just waits for me to run all the way around before pouncing on me.
Panting! Slipping! Eyes bugged out! Tongue hanging! I'm exhausted and she's cool-as-a-cucumber.
Ya gotta' keep an eye on Poms all the time. They're tricksy dogs. Always up to no good. Look away for a moment and they'll steal the food right outta your mouth!
And then they want to cuddle! I think CweeCwee's got the right idea. She simply pretends Sandy doesn't exist. No matter how Sandy climbs on her, sniffs at her, walks on her. "I see no Sandy, I hear no Sandy."
We 'chons only got once vice. Okay, okay. I steal cheese, have a 137 decibel ear-shattering bark and tease my sister unmercifully. Other than that, I've got just one vice. CRAPSICLES.
You poor humans got no idea how enticing, how mesmerizing, how delicious crap smells after it freezes. The bouquet just blossoms in the cold. And while my stupid sister simply rolls in frozen crap ("Just a little behind the ears!"), I prefer to bring it into the house to fully explore the joys of shitsicles at my leisure.
I dunno why that makes Mommy freak out! I can't tell you how many times she's shrieked, "Drop it, drop it, drop it!"
Then there was the time she didn't notice it in my mouth 'til after I got back in the house. Did I mention Mommy is terribly near-sighted without her glasses? Anyways, when she shrieked "Drop it!", I dutifully dropped that delicious-smelling frozen shitsicle on the carpet. And she picked it up!
You shoulda' been there! It took a second before she realized she was holding frozen shit in her bare hand and let out a blood-curdling scream. I was ROTFL when she flung open front door and threw that yummy-smelling shitsicle as far as she could. It was all I could do to keep a straight face while she scolded me. Wag, wag, wag. I got my clean-freak Momma to pick up shit!!
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.
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!
Hi! Delly here! I'm a bichon frise. My mommy says I'm crazy, eccentric and hilarious. These are my doodles. WOOF!