Bad Doggy Gramma

Danny has reported to San Diego for Game Warden duty and Brandy is visiting family in Las Vegas. So, I am on Dog Sitting Duty.

This morning Ziggy awoke early. He is now five months old and at least 50 pounds. He is used to getting up with me at 5:30am but THIS is not a 5:30am day.

Saturdays mean nothing to him. My precious sleeping-in time is of no consequence to the black Labrador. It was O’Dawn Thirty when panting puppy breath, just at eye level, invaded my peaceful weekend slumber. I turned over. He licked my neck.

I am assuming he came upstairs because nobody downstairs would wake up. When licking my face didn’t work, he began working on the brown dog – trying to get his attention. Seamus was having none of it. He growled at Ziggy, sighed a doggy sigh, and went back to sleep.

So naturally, Ziggy attacked the bath mat. He killed it and then killed it again. Then he shook the carcass and ran it around the house, announcing his victory. Next came the bathroom trash can and its plethora of fun contents.

When the spewing of old tissue and the chewing of used Q-Tips failed to elicit response, Ziggy went after clothing on my closet shelf. Down came the brand-new, white and fuzzy hooded sweater, the one on sale. He killed it. Then he shook it and paraded the remains around the house. Nobody applauded his victory. I opened one eye while Dan yelled at him to SETTLE DOWN! He didn’t.

So, back to my face with his puppy panting. I noticed white sweater threads and a piece of toilet tissue around his snout. Feeling suspicious, I got up.

I took him outside and ordered him to “go potty.” He gave me a “pity pee” and began running around the yard. I threw toys, his ball, and an old bone. He dutifully ran after them and plowed into my legs with all of his overgrown puppy force. I stepped in mud trying to avoid broken bones. I found bathmat and white sweater wreckage around the family room. He attempted to wrestle the parts from me and kill them again.

I went upstairs to take a shower.

Now, Ziggy thinks all bathroom activities require canine attendance. A closed shower door is an invitation, apparently, to hurl his 50-pound-plus body against the glass and howl miserably, demanding entrance. Huge puppy paws clawed at the glass. The idea of sharing shower space with a stinky dog first thing on a Saturday morning is less than appealing, so I told him NO and he flopped down to wait. Mostly.

In between waiting episodes, he tried to get the brown dog to play with him. Seamus wouldn’t budge. He jumped on the bed but that didn’t work either. The brown dog does NOT get up early unless hell has frozen over. The weather has cooled, but there is no evidence of freezing over.

So, Ziggy tried to get into the closet but I ordered him, through soapy hair and water-blurred vision, to LAY DOWN! He did, temporarily.

But what does a moving bath towel mean to a Labrador puppy? YES! Tug! Tug! Tug! This explains the loose threads in my favorite $50.00, extra-plush bath towel. All mysteries are eventually explained.

FINALLY, Ziggy got breakfast. A few more throws of the ball were obviously NOT going to cut it, so I saddled up for a bike ride around the block to tire the dog out. The loop is hilly and Ziggy runs like he’s possessed. This is a GOOD thing for exercise so we rode around and around and around and around. He kept up with me until the fourth go-around, so I slowed down. Then we went around some more. He kept running, smiling his doggy smile, panting his doggy pant.

Until he stopped running. Just like that. No warning, no slowing down, nothing. Just… errrrk!

I noticed he was sending doggy saliva all over the place. We stopped at a corner house down the street where a pair of nice ladies were watering. They were more than happy to hose down the hot puppy and provide water.

“I don’t think dogs are supposed to foam at the mouth,” one of the hose ladies said.

“He’s not just tired?” I asked, feeling like Gramma of the Year.

“Um, no. He’s getting over-heated,” she replied, covering Ziggy with cool hose water. The dog flopped onto the shade of the sidewalk, licking up water and looking generally exhausted. It was really pitiful.

“Well, shoot. I’m not a very good doggy Gramma,” I confessed. Ziggy rolled over so the nice lady could hose down his belly. He snorted and looked more pitiful.

“Let’s just hope you do a BETTER job with the real thing,” said the hose lady. Her tone of voice indicated that SHE would never encourage a dog that kills bath mats and new sweaters to run around the block to the point of exhaustion. SHE would know when to stop.

Feeling contrite and wracked with guilt, I walked Ziggy home. To add to my misery, he began limping.

When we reached the house next door, Ziggy revived. He ran at the neighbor, rolled on the grass, and demanded a belly rub. Then he did a somersault and tried to bit the neighbor’s inert weed whacker. Then he resumed limping home.

I think I am forgiven because the black lab is asleep ON my foot right now and the bath mats of the house are safe from doggy destruction.

K (Bad Doggy Gramma)