These are my fellas:
Jimmy.
Otherwise known as
Poppy. JimmyPop. Potpie. Peapie. Clicketyclick. Lovie. James P Weinerschnitzel.
Tony refers to him as Walter or Brubaker or sometimes even Walter J Brubaker.
No wonder he doesn't come when we holler for him.
He doesn't mind us. He bites and throws temper tantrums.
He pees on the floor and then dares us to say anything about it. Master of the Death Stare.
We're all afraid of him.
Chews rocks. Never bothers the trash because it would be beneath him to eat garbage.
Took him to the groomer once and he was so bad, she had to call her husband from work to help her hold him on the table. She doesn't answer her phone anymore when I call.
We have to give him Doggie Downers when he goes to the vet because he can bite through a muzzle.
Jack Russell and Yorkie with a little bit of Satan mixed in.
My little dog. I love him beyond all reason.
Gilbert.We got Bertie at Helping Hands last Fall. I feel sorry for whoever lost him because he's One Good Fella.
When we first saw him, a family with a little boy was in the "Get Acquainted" room at the shelter with him; I
paced up and down the hall in front of the room 42 times, beaming in "DON'T TAKE HIM DON'T TAKE HIM DON'T TAKE HIM" mental warnings through the glass door. And they didn't. They were stupid. And we were lucky.
He's fairly swift but clumsy. Trips over his own long legs regularly. Doesn't apply his feet to the stairs when he goes down, simply spins his legs like wheels -- think Road Runner cartoons. Drags the cats around by their legs or heads. ... but gently. He wants to sit on somebody/anybody's lap. He's the happiest of dogs. Big heart, maybe a small brain -- but so what?
He's my little dog. I love him beyond all reason.
Calvin.
Vin. Vinster. TheVinsterator. SpotDot. A sweet old man with a smiling face. Fat boy in the front, all skinny hips in the back. Wobbly with arthritis, but in his glory days, man, could he run. We've had to be extra-vigilant with Vin because the minute he got off his leash or outside the fence, he would dash off in a single-minded pursuit of SOMETHING only he could see. He ran only in a straight line, never circled back home, so we would eventually find him in the next county or living at Camp Daisy with the Girl Scouts or maybe in Brazil if he happened to be pointed to the south when he escaped.
Now in his golden years, he loves to take a ride to the trashcans at the end of the driveway.
Mr. Softie Tony builds a fire in the workshop woodstove for Calvin when it's cold and he snoozes his days away on one of my raggedy quilts, soaking up the heat with his old bones and dreaming of trashcans and girl scouts and wet dogfood. Such a dear. I love him beyond all reason because he's my old dog.
Now I want to hear about your dogs.
