Home again, Happy Gonzo

Yes, I made it back home, and Gonzo was thrilled to see me. Of course, it's the same reaction I get when I've been gone 20 minutes to the store, or hours and hours on errands. "Oh my gosh! I can't believe you came home again! You're amazing!" How can anyone not love dogs?

My cat on the other hand, has not greeted me as of yet. More like,"Oh, you again."

I'm going to give Gonzo a chewie, and unpack.

Good Boy, Gonzo. I've missed you, too.

More to come, so come back if you're interested.

Vacation post day two

I imagine that if my parents didn't still have dial up, I would try to post from their house. But they do, so I won't, hence another video post.

I hope this makes you smile:

Good Boy, Gonzo. The babies are smiling at you.

More to come, so come back if you're interested.

Vacation posts

I'm heading up to my parents' house for the next few days, so video posts!

An homage to the first blog that made me laugh until I cried (for humanity:) Cake Wrecks, blogged by Jen Yates (look for her book!)

Good Boy, Gonzo. You've got frosting on your nose.

More to come, so come back if you're interested.

The Sofa Weasel! (Not half as naughty as it sounds)

Our boy, at first, was not allowed to sit on the sofa with us, as we were told that it's confusing to a dog to be allowed to sit on furniture and sleep in your bed as an equal. Confusing? I don't know. Less comfortable? Decidedly so. Anyway, we got a grip, and slipcovers, and our boy sits with us.

Gonzo is devoted to my husband with a passion that would rival any bromance, and wants to not just be near him, but as close as caninely possible. If our boy can get on my husband's lap, he is in heaven. However, having a 48 lb. dog on your lap is not what my husband would call comfortable. So, when our boy tries to squeeze in, sometimes he gets the heart-breaking,"Off!" and Gonzo slinks off the sofa with the most pitiful look on his face.

Then the Sofa Weasel starts his approach: First, Gonzo turns and faces the sofa. Then he'll lick the closest hand or leg to the planned point of attack. Soon, he'll put a front paw, then the other on the sofa. Then our boy goes into full weasel mode. Holding his body close to the sofa, balancing his weight forward, he'll bring his back legs up and slide himself back onto the sofa. Usually, he's so slick, we don't even realize he's back on the sofa until our boy tries to get back into my husband's lap. Hense, the Sofa Weasel. (I usually call our boy that in the annoying sing-song way that Paulie Shore used to say "Weas-el!")

Good Boy, Gonzo. It's more comfy up here, anyway.

More to come, so come back if you're interested.

Is there anything cuter then a dreaming dog?

Gonzo has his share of "puppy dreams," and usually they seem to involve running, yipping, and eating. Sometimes, though, at night, I'll wake up to hear him whimpering and whining. He seems to be asleep and dreaming, so they're not the happy dreams of the afternoon naps on the sofa. Our boy is a rescue dog, so it makes me wonder.

Do dogs have dreams of things they don't know? I mean, if they haven't experienced it, can they conceive of it? Are all they thoughts of actuality, and not fantasy? When our boy is dreaming, is he remembering something that had happened, or do dogs have imaginations? I sort of hope they do, and can have nightmares based on things they haven't experienced. Otherwise, our boy might have have some mean people in his life before we came along.

Our boy just loves older people. Where my parents come for a visit, Gonzo will stick with my mom or dad like glue. The same for any older visitors to our house. When we first got our boy, I was walking him around the neighborhood when we passed the apartment building two streets up. There was a little white haired lady walking into the building, when Gonzo spotted her. Our boy whined and pulled toward the lady, which he hadn't done before for anyone but my husband. I believe that our boy thought he knew that lady. I started to think that maybe, just maybe the reason our boy was given to the humane society had nothing to do with him. Maybe he was owned by a sweet older person who couldn't keep him anymore. Maybe that poor person had to go live in a home, or worse, passed on, and the owner's family put Gonzo in the pound. I hope that's the life our boy had before us, and that the nightmares come from his stint at the pound. I'd like to think that he's never met mean people that would hurt him, but sadly, I can't be sure.

Good Boy, Gonzo. Dream a little dream of me (or Mama Cass).