 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! WOOF! P.S. How do you walk in this dang thing!?!
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 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." WOOF!  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. 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. WOOF!  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!  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'. WOOF!  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! WOOF!...WOOF!...WOOF!  "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! WOOF!  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! WOOF!  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! WOOF! |
Delly
Hi! Delly here! I'm a bichon frise. My mommy says I'm crazy, eccentric and hilarious. These are my doodles. WOOF! Archives
September 2016
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Copyright © 2015-Present Lenora Thompson
This site is for informational and educational purposes only. Under no circumstances should it be considered therapy nor replace therapy and treatment.
If you are feeling suicidal, thinking about hurting yourself, or are concerned that someone you know may be in danger of hurting himself or herself, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (1-800-273-8255). It is available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week and is staffed by certified crisis response professionals.
The content of these blogs and all blogs written by Lenora Thompson are merely her opinion. If you are in need of help, please contact qualified mental health professionals.
This site is for informational and educational purposes only. Under no circumstances should it be considered therapy nor replace therapy and treatment.
If you are feeling suicidal, thinking about hurting yourself, or are concerned that someone you know may be in danger of hurting himself or herself, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (1-800-273-8255). It is available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week and is staffed by certified crisis response professionals.
The content of these blogs and all blogs written by Lenora Thompson are merely her opinion. If you are in need of help, please contact qualified mental health professionals.