. . . the book and my glasses were somewhere on my chest or on the floor, and my sleep was being disturbed by a noise. A familiar noise.
. . . the book and my glasses were somewhere on my chest or on the floor, and my sleep was being disturbed by a noise. A familiar noise.
If you’ve read the previous sixteen “Puppy” blogs, you know that Scooter understands at least 23 words. He knows what a command is. He’s done well, this 70% fully grown boy bearing all body parts and a puppy coat. Scooter’s development and training has advanced, swimmingly. But, on the particular day I strive to describe, it was as if a spell of forgetfulness had fallen.
But, back to our pup’s willingness to bite. People. He shouldn’t. But, he has. Me. This is a mistake and we mean for it to be corrected.
Even without his permission, I mean to tell you that Scooter Sublime made a major mistake on April 17th . . .
There’s little you can do. It’s unlikely that you can find spiders and insects enough to feed a brood every 20 minutes. Let nature take its course.”
I’m drawn to all this because my mom, Alice, was born in May, 1918, in Bisbee, Arizona and while the infant mortality rate hurled high, while thousands were dying and many more suffered the flu, my mom and her parents, survived.
Now, about Scooter Sublime. This yet growing twenty pound pup my husband privately calls “Frenzy,”
“Scooter! NO! Release! Bad Scooter!” said I, body extended on the floor, hand reaching to retrieve that which is forbidden.
it was Monday, February third, when I first approached my computer’s keyboard, meaning to tell the exciting news that Scooter Sublime had “lifted his leg.
It was a good thing, the giving of this hard-to-break-into-chewing-tossing-hiding-in-the-sofa-pillows-toy. Bravo!
Coffee, computer, and a quiet house this pre-dawn Christmas morning . It’s Scooter Sublime time in my mind. I’m tapping thoughts of his tail from the tips of my fingers. I’ve been wondering, is it possible that his tail could be broken? You know, benevolently.
This isn’t Christmas card suitable, this thought. It’s more like, “Merry Christmas! Let me mess up the traditional message.”
An unpredictable pulse of energy — a jump from one interaction to another.” Yep, Scooter!