Presidential Puppy?

I understand that Barack Obama has decided to choose a Portuguese Water Dog as the Presidential pooch. Apparently he doesn’t want the bother of a puppy, so he will be choosing a slightly older rescue dog. Might I be so bold as to suggest a very handsome 1 year old Portie named Jet? He’s adorable, can do a sit/stay for a full minute, lies down on command, and gives high fives and tens.

Oh, right, why does he need rescuing? Because he’s in the dog house, again. I’ve told you about the poopsicle obsession already, but since spring is upon us, Jetty has all but given that up. It seems he only likes them when they’re frozen. Now he needs to find another way to indulge his oral fixation. He’s been slowly chewing his way through the house. So far this week we’ve taken away from him: socks, a dime, paper, Gilly’s stuffed bear, a toothbrush, and Kleenex. Last night I heard him banging away at something and decided I better get up to investigate. It turned out that he had ventured into Gilly’s backpack and taken her recorder. He slipped it out of the case, and was happily chomping away on it. He thought it was even better than a Nylabone.

Now, I did take it away from him, although I must confess that I wrestled with the decision. I’m all for free speech, but Jetty is in a difficult spot, because he can’t speak. Was he just looking for something to gnaw on, or was he making an editorial comment on the awful sounds that come out of that instrument? It was a tough call because, frankly, I have to agree. Listening to the recorder is like some sort of punishment. Why children are forced to learn it is beyond me. Is the TDSB trying to foster a hatred of music amongst their students? Will that allow them to justify cutting the music programs in order to balance their budget? Or is it just a way to get back at parents? Who knows. Gillian checked the recorder over this morning, and (sadly) it still makes “music”. Perhaps tonight I’ll accidentally leave her violin case open...

How's Your Nozzle?

Last night Gilly and I were playing soccer with Jetty when she started shrieking in that awful pitch that only young girls can reach. “Mommmm, gross. He’s got something stuck in his nozzle.” Well, my first thought was—I hope it’s nothing fatal, because there’s no way I’m touching his nozzle.

Eventually I realized that the neighbours could probably hear us, so I had to pretend to be a grown up and overcome my intense desire to run away. I joined them to see what she was talking about. She kept pointing at him and groaning, but she was pointing at his head. I asked her to be more specific about what she meant (ok, really I just kept shouting WHAT? at her). “His nozzle, Mummy, his nozzle - there’s something in there.”

The penny finally dropped; I asked her if, perhaps, she meant nostril, not nozzle. Yes, she did. It turns out it was nothing to worry about, just a booger. And who knew dogs even had boogers? This dog ownership thing just gets better and better. Pass the wine.