Chloë Hits Double Figures

It’s hard to believe, I know, but I celebrated my 10th birthday this week. Ten years! It seems like only yesterday that I was rolling around with Frank, Stanley and the rest of my littermates up in Monroe, WA. I wonder what has become of them all. I never hear from anybody anymore; the rest of my Cousins’ Club must have marked me lousy.

Chloë (center) and two of her sisters, 4 weeks old.

So at 10, I’m still feeling—and often behaving—pretty puppy-like. I’m as stubborn as ever, and as apt to take off after a squirrel or scarf up mud from the ground as I’ve ever been. I’m spry enough to jump in and out of my camp chair several times a day and play fetch for 50 or more throws at a time—if I happen to be in the mood and there are no interesting distractions nearby, that is. My weight holds steady at a solid 20 pounds, which means Mike can’t cut my daily rations even though he’ like to. I have a few gray hairs, sure, but none around my muzzle yet. And that spot between my shoulders where I seem to be losing some hair? No problem; if it gets any worse, Mike will give me a combover when he grooms me before dinner.

Chloë at 10.

Although I received no birthday cake and nary a  card in the mail, I did enjoy a little recognition that day. Mike and Heather’s friend Kevin from Syracuse sent Mike an email: “I see on my calendar that Wednesday is Chloë’s birthday. When I mentioned it to my cat Tucker, he yawned, wondering why anyone would celebrate the birth of a dog. But tell her that I wish her a happy birthday.”  What a magnanimous guy! I might have to pay Tucker a visit this summer and give him a growl.

My Aunt Susie in Syracuse sent her regards via telephone, and contributed all the gourmet chewy treats I enjoyed all week. There was also a nice voice mail from Yankee, the doodle dog who belongs to my pal Juneau George. I want to get up to Alaska to visit him before I’m deemed “too old to travel” or some other nonsense.

Unwrapping her present.

Even Mike and “No Presents” Heather came through. They gave me extra treats all day, and after my cheese-laden dinner that evening they delivered the piece de resistance: a double-barrel gift of a Racket Raccoon Mushabelly AND a gourmet dog chew  stick made from 100 percent, open-pasture, grass-fed beefhide. The chewy treat was tempting, but there was no doubt which one I squealed for: There is nothing like a fresh Mushabelly.

Although this Racket Raccoon Mushabelly was hard to get out of his box, Heather finally helped me extricate him, and when we hit the floor together Mike started his stopwatch to see how long it would take me to break Mr. Racket Raccoon.

 

Beefhide tastes so good!

Luckily for you, my faithful readers, I won’t subject you to every second of my tussle with the aptly named Racket. Mike soon realized that Racket shut up whenever I wasn’t applying constant pressure to his belly, so he stuck the chewy stick in my mouth and earned a respite for the six minutes or so it took me to grind up and inhale the gourmet chew. I must admit I enjoyed it, and I would have gladly gobbled down a second and third, but when none was offered I turned my attention back to Racket and proceeded to throttle him but good.  It didn’t take long. By the 27 minute and 43 second mark on Mike’s stopwatch, I had Racket’s innards scattered around the living room rug, his infernal voice box silent by his side.

Throttling Racket Raccoon; Innards to the left of me, voice box on the right, stuck in the middle with Chlo,

Mike dutifully picked up Racket’s innards and stuffed them back inside his torso, and the next morning Heather sewed up him back together and gave him to me, alleviating much of my angst over his disappearance. I chased Racket around the house, just like I do with Lamby and Wiffie, but without his constant cackle his appeal to me will soon wear off, just like it did with all my previous Mushabellies after I silenced them. I never pull any of them out of my toy boxes anymore.

Oh well. I guess I’ll just have to wait until my buddy Penny returns from Florida in March. She always has some fresh Mushabellies at her house.

 

 

Chloë Chills for the Holidays

Stopping by the woods on a snowy evening.

I have been so busy the past few weeks that I simply haven’t had the time to sit down and dictate any notes for Mike to type out for me. So let me recall some highlights and catch up.

Pre-holiday festivities were light this season. Mike and Heather saved money and time by merging their annual holiday office parties (one employee per office), and I was the only outside guest. What a celebration! We enjoyed some extra string cheese as hors d’oeuvres and dined on roast pork with stuffing and, of course, sautéed kale, the hip side dish of the year. Although there was no Secret Santa gift swap, I’m happy to report nobody got too drunk and made a fool of him or her self.

Christmas Eve brought two storms to town, the first of the snow variety (very rare in temperate Seattle) and the second a visit from Heather’s sister Sammy, who is a whirlwind all her own. I mean she’s a perpetually high-energy person, at least compared to the slow and dour pace I normally seen from the people around this house, unless Mike gets excited during a Syracuse basketball game or Heather starts ranting at the PBS Newshour.

Winter wonderland on Christmas morning.

The festive Sammy is often whistling or singing around the house, and this time she apparently infected Mike with the musical bug. On Christmas Day she and Mike belted out a duet of “Winter Wonderland” on the telephone to Mike’s Mom Rosalie and my aunts Susie and Debby in Syracuse. Luckily, the You Tube cameras were not rolling at the time, but I got to see it live and in person. I wasn’t sure whether to cry or laugh, so I did a little of both. There were no encores.

We did get quite a bit of snow on Christmas Eve and Day, and I really enjoyed frolicking on the slippery trails and through the meadows in the park. Snow lasted in our back yard and in the park for a few days, but the sidewalks were pretty clear before Heather was able to shovel the whole neighborhood. I could see she was disappointed about that. Several nights of turkey, potatoes, stuffing and gravy alleviated her anxiety. I got to lick plates!

Santa brought Chloë a new ball.

As far as gifts go, Susie and Debby sent me excellent treats (some that taste like meat loaf, one of my favorites!), and a mouth-sized, gnaw-able ball that I immediately adopted as an alternative to Wiffie for inside-the-house throwing. I like the size and feel of the new ball in my mouth, but pawing it against the floor doesn’t put any backspin on the ball, like I can do with the Wiffie.  Therefore, within a few days of Christmas, Wiffie reclaimed his Interior Top Ball position, and deservedly so.

It’s a good thing Susie and Debby came through with their gifts, because nobody else did. Not my so-called friends (and you know who you are!) and not even Mike and Heather, my alleged caregivers. Apparently they couldn’t even find a special treat or a Mushabelly in the house to put in my stocking. Maybe this retirement thing brings an austerity budget along with it. They better make it up to me for my birthday in February.

Chloë lounges in front of the Yule Log..

Anyway, I survived this holiday disappointment, and on the first weekend after New Year’s we headed out to my foothills getaway for a few days to recharge the batteries. I always have a good time out there, even if I do have to share Heather’s affections with the resident dog Pumpkin. I cut the Pump some slack because she idolizes me so much.  Therefore, I don’t mind that Pumpkin goes on walks with us and naps on Heather’s other flank on the couch. But I’m not as liberal with my feelings for the cat Mr. Fuzz, who wisely stayed upstairs during this entire visit, or the latest arrival in the affection sweepstakes: Pepe, a donkey. Luckily, Pepe stayed in the barn, where I don’t go unless forced, so I missed meeting him this time, but I feared his presence nonetheless after Heather described him to Mike and me as “cute.” Hey, I’m the cute one around here, and I don’t want Heather or anyone else to forget it for an instant. #MeToo!

 

Chloë Celebrates Her Birthday Quietly

On the trail with Frank and Stan.

I got together with my brothers Frank and Stanley last weekend for our annual birthday visit. We turned 7 on Feb. 6. Although we hadn’t seen each other in a whole year, after an initial rush that lasted about 30 seconds, it wasn’t all that exciting. I was more excited to see their owners, Tiffany and Andrew, than I was to see the boys. I’d rather chase rabbits, or at least a ball. The boys don’t appear too wild about seeing me, either. Stan has gotten especially standoffish, the Greta Garbo of the wirehair breed. Too good for the rest of us? Someday it will catch up with him, and he’ll be a bitter old man.

Stan turns his back: He vants to be alone.

Frank? Frank has still to meet a camera he didn’t like.

Furry Frank

My actual birthday passed with little fanfare. It was a snow day, so Heather worked at home, and school was closed, so she took the kids next door to the park. Too much commotion for me. I stayed home with Mike and whined until Heather came back. But with our routines subsequently thrown off, it was almost dinner time before my birthday was even acknowledged, and even then it was only matter-of-factly noted, not celebrated boisterously with videographed ceremonies as in past years. No birthday cards, no presents. Not a Mushabellie or special food treat in sight.

Junior senior?

Perhaps it’s an acknowledgement that, at 7, my puppyhood is finally over. Mike has already noted to Heather that the dog food packaging reads “active, 1-6” and “senior, 7 & up.” I can see the handwriting on the bag. I’ve crossed the line: I’m officially a junior senior. I foresee more fiber in my future.

Frankly, I think the food I’m getting right now is fine already, so I wouldn’t change a thing. Except to get more of it, of course.

Chloë Receives Birthday Gifts

I generally don’t like to make a big deal of birthdays (although if readers dig back to Februaries past, you can see some past violations!), and so I didn’t expect much at all (if anything) this year for birthday #6. But lo and behold!

In the morning, I got an extra-large Frozen PBB from Mike and a birthday greeting from my vet that even has a dachshund in it!

Dear Chloe, Sniff Sniff…Do I smell birthday cake? Happy Birthday! Stay Healthy! Be Happy! Sincerely, Your Friends at Elliott Bay Animal Hospital /

And then…

 

Buzzie Bee, still in box

Wow, I never expected presents like those.

Bliss didn’t last long, however. I knocked the buzzing out of Buzzie Bee in less than 20 minutes. Now I’m left with a trio of mute Mushabellies to take care of. But don’t worry; I’ll survive.

 

Chloë Recaps Her Holidaze

Chloë’s shortcut

Sorry I haven’t written in so long, but the holiday season just got in the way. When I wasn’t taking long walks, napping or playing with new toys, then Heather was hogging the computer keyboard and Mike couldn’t get on it to take my dictation. Picky Mike claimed he cannot type fast enough on his tablet to keep up with me. (He’s not as tech-savvy as I would prefer in an executive assistant, but he is what he is, and I’ve got to live with it.)

Since on Christmas Day I wasn’t quite sure whether I was going to get any gifts from my owners Mike and Heather (just as likely a lump of carrot was headed my way),  I considered myself lucky − and was extremely thankful − to get gifts from my friend Charlie and my aunts Susie and Debby (whose package did NOT arrive via UPS, by the way). Charlie gave me more of the  yummy dried sweet potato treats that I like and a so-called indestructible ball that I destroyed and partially devoured in about 10 minutes. I had a great game of keep-away with its remains, until I finally got a treat for giving it up.

People’s exhibits A and B

My Syracuse aunts sent a smorgasbord of chewy things along with Mike’s tin of Susie’s holiday cookies. Mike (who’s too damn weight-conscious, if you ask me) of course wanted to ration out everything, small bets at a time. But he was foiled by two large rawhide bones that were too hard to break into pieces. He made the mistake of seeing if the rawhide was hard enough to withstand a full-bore dachshund onslaught, hoping that it would take several sittings for me to whittle it down to a nub. The first time, I got through about half of it before Mike was able to wrest it away from me with a Treat Party as bait. The next time, a week or so later, I  grabbed the other half from Mike, ran under the dining-room table and refused to come out or let him touch me until I was done chomping on it. When Mike pleaded with me to drop it, I didn’t growl at him, but I coiled up menacingly, gripped the remaining rawhide between my teeth and glared. Mike gave up, knowing he was no match for my will.

Chloë and Heckel

Hurby

Luckily, that last part happened well after Mike and Heather gave me my Christmas present: Heckel the Hedgehodge, another of the talking Mushabellies toys that my pal Penny turned me onto last year. I still have an attachment for Hurby, my original Mushabellie, even after I destroyed his vocal chords in about two hours, rendering him chewable but permanently mute. Heckel took a full 24 hours to silence, so he’s a tougher dude than Hurby. Even speechless, I still like Heckel, but not as much as I liked Hurby, judging by the relative slobber that I left on them during their respective peaks of popularity.

Heckel

Besides Heckel, I received another good new toy in December: an orange rubber ball that I found outside a neighbor’s house while we were borrowing her yard waste bin. The neighbor told Heather that since I found it, I could keep it, and it’s become a favorite. It’s hard enough that it bounces high, but soft and small enough to chew on. Gnawing on it makes a squishing sound that Mike hates. So what? I like this orange ball because we can use it inside as well as outside, and because it’s something different than Whiffie, quieter and not as fast or easy to spin backwards. I like to push the orange ball under the coffee table in the living room and take the short cut between the shelves to bring it back.

Napping with Heather: the best present.

Between the chewy treats, the new orange ball and Heckel, I certainly got some great new stuff at Christmas. But the greatest gift was having Heather home every day for walking, napping and hanging out. I don’t know about her, but I definitely know when it’s time to retire.