I woke up to white fluffy stuff all over the ground, in gentle mounds and drifts. Sleepily, my first thought was: Snow? My second thought was: Uh-oh. It’s inside the house.
It’s all coming back to me. Christmas had a bad day yesterday. I’m going to be welded to the vacuum. That’s enough right there to make me want to pull the covers back over my head.
Lapdogs are supposed to be cute, easily entertained, fluffy little fur balls, who consider a walk around the block roughly the equivalent of running the Iditarod. Dogs who like sofas and disdain cats.
Daisy laughed her head off when she saw the dog purse I bought.
“You’re kidding, right?”
I bought the purse before I knew who he was.
Christmas, when we adopted him, had all the outward signs of a lapdog. Long, fluffy black hair, short stature, and he could cock his little face into adorableness like nobody’s business. Lhasa Apso x poodle, the shelter said.
Right. Someone has never seen a terrier mix in their life. He’s inexhaustable. There’s also, unbelievably, bird dog in the mix. Nine inches tall, and he points.
We live in a semi-gated community, which, among other amenities has a lake populated with big mouth bass, water-lilies, turtles, and two urban savvy ducks who refuse to migrate. Christmas desperately points them out three times a day. Nose straight out, body rigid, foot up, tail straight back and still.
Mom. Ducks. Shhhhh. You can shoot them now.
Uh. How do you respond to such earnest quivering effort? Thank you honey, Mommy is going to shoot the ducks…later?
He tries to be patient. He tries to train me. He points frequently. I feel like a 6th grader that an elderly Aunt is reading a baby board book to.
Point: This is a Duck.
Point: This is a Cat.
Uber Point: This is TWO Cats.
Point: This is a Bird.
Point: Those are French Fries.
Right. Got it. Look! I have a cute little ball. Want to play ball?
He is completely baffled. He points again. Duck, Cat, Two Cats, Bird, French Fries. Category: Things We Kill. Clearly I don’t get it or they’d all be dead by now.
Thank heaven he’s not a child with a penchant for video game programming.
I need to go over to The Regal Vizsla, and ask Andrew what I should do. I have no clue what to do with a lapdog that believes he’s a bird dog.
From his vantage point, it was a terrible day: we migrated for food (complete disaster, we found it) and despite his utterly brilliant pointing, we didn’t kill anything. Not one measly duck. Not even a french fry.
It got worse. It proceeded to rain for forty days and forty nights in the space of 24 hours, and I didn’t make it stop (this is one lapdog trait he retained) and his feet got WET. At the barn, I couldn’t turn him loose in the indoor arena: approximately 32 grumpy horses and riders were going through the motions. Everyone (horses, riders) was disgruntled. They were NOT at home doing the sensible thing: remaining in their PJ’s and sleeping through the downpour. Nope, they were all in the arena and taking it out on each other.
He had to sit in the CAR while I did my share of disgruntling. He missed his play date with Toby the dachshund and Rubin the Chinese Crested Hairless. When we got home, The kids had lots of homework, and ignored his enticing game of “I have your dirty underwear…come get it!”.
Which he got in trouble for. Dinner was late. No evening walk.
By dog standards, his day sucked. Bedtime, we forgot to pick him up RIGHT AWAY and put him on the bed (another latent lapdog trait). Then when he cheerfully woke us up at the totally perfect hunting hour of two a.m. to go kill something, we were not appreciating his inner bird dog. We dumped him on the floor, and rolled over.
He waited until we were asleep, and took revenge by noiselessly emptying the trash cans in both bathrooms, the kids rooms, and the paper towel roll on the kitchen island, unwinding it down to the cardboard tube. Then he stayed up the rest of the night shredding all paper goods into little white bits he scattered throughout the entire house.
I looked again. Yup. It was all still there.
Christmas was curled up, completely conked out, in his fuzzy bed with his head on his fuzzy pillow, snuggled under his fleece blanket. He was the only thing in the room that wasn’t white and linty.
I could not wake him up. He slept until noon. Havoc, apparently, is exhausting.
I’m thinking about renting him out as a paper shredder.