He's never been happier

Laura says only I can make Jesse smile like this for the camera. Twice this week I've moved my way into their bed, and they can't get enough of cuddling and spooning me. It's a bit tight squeezed between the two of them, but my favorite trick is to stretch my limbs as far as possible during the middle of the night. By morning, Jesse and Laura are hanging on the edges of the bed. This exercise is good practice for my plans of world domination.

Wounds for lickin'

Gosh dangit, I submit!

There's a little bully in my puppy kindergarten class. He's a German shorthaired pointer named Jackson. You'd probably find him adorable. Big brown eyes, little waggy tail. Tonight he was proudly prancing around in circles with a quacking yellow duck in his mouth. "Quack, quack, quack, quack, quack ..." Harmless, right?

We started to play, and he basically beat the crap out of me. Everyone was watching to see if I would defend myself. At first I snarled and snapped back, but then he made me his bitch. If you look closely at the picture above, you'll see a little scratch on my snout that started to bleed during class. And I began to limp. At least I look a little tougher these days.

But before the night was over, Jackson finally let go of that darn duck. Lo and behold, the duck had a few smeared drops of blood on it. Jackson's dad checked his lip and found he had a cut there. That's right -- I had evened the score!

After class, my instructor Nancy presented me with my diploma. Yup, I've graduated from puppy kindergarten. I start "real" obedience class in November. Nancy gave me lots of hugs and said I showed Jackson who was boss, at least in the first round. "Some classes have a bully," she said. "You're a sweet pup."

Where's the dignity?

Last week's cold spell put me in a tight spot. When you need to go, but you hate the cold, what's a short-haired dog like me to do?

The answer, apparently, is to put me in a tube top.

Actually, it's a neck gaiter that Jesse bought from REI for running. But lately he's been spending more time dressing me up than working out.

The superior species

Another reason to love dogs, and another reason to ... well, just read on:

Cat starts fire, dog rescues resident

Splitting hairs

If you saw this picture and began to think, "What a handsome photograph of Memphis," I have bad news. That's not me.

It's a Vizsla. A Hungarian pointer. But I have to admit, I'm a dead ringer for the breed. When people see me on the street, at the pet store, or even while they're running the Twin Cities 10-Mile, they get so excited: "A Vizsla puppy!"

Well, tonight I met my first Vizsla at the Twin Cities Obedience Training Club, where I take my puppy kindergarten class. She was probably full-grown and -- given her calm and submissive demeanor -- was probably headed to a more advanced class. Our reddish-golden coats were a perfect match. Even her owner thought I was a Vizsla.

I think I know why.

Most Rhodesian Ridgebacks have black noses, but mine is what they call "liver-colored." (Not the most flattering description, I know.) The color of my fur, red wheaten, is also shared by many Vizslas.

OK, your turn. Can you guess which dog is which breed? I'll give you a hint. One of them is yours truly.

Thanks to Heshima Ya Kimbo kennel and Bondy-Vizsla.net for the photos.

Hungry like a wolf

Sorry for not posting earlier this week. I've been feeling under the weather lately.

Oh, why not cut to the chase. I've got the runs.

Laura thinks she's figured out how to get me back to my old self. She's put me on a diet of nothing but white rice and water. Are you kidding me? I've decided to go on hunger strike and lobby for a menu change.

Here's a poem I wrote, inspired by my hunger pangs:

I do not like white rice, no ma'am.

It does not smell. It's rather bland.

I do not like it in a dish.

I do not like it with a fish.

Not on a rug. Not with a pug.

Not in a pan. Not with some SPAM.

I do not like white rice, no ma'am!

I do not like it, the dog I am.

The boys of Minnehaha

Dog's best friend ...





is his man-dad.

The third generation

Grandparents are funny. They coddle you and shower you with toys and basically think you can do no wrong. Grandma Becky and Grandpa Larry came all the way from Chicago last weekend just to see their first grandpup.

Here I am looking docile for Grandpa Larry. He and I were waiting in the car together after the Twin Cities Marathon. I tried to squirm my way into the front seat, but he said, "Hey, just sit still." So I did. He couldn't believe it. He kept talking about it for the rest of the day.