The silence of the Lab

Labs are very oral creatures -- a trait I've taken to the extreme. If given the chance, I'll munch on tanbark, rocks, the wood pile, just about anything I can get my teeth into. Then, the barfing starts. (I try to do that outside the house...) To avoid this charade, sometimes Dad sends me outside to "go potty" (another wierd human term) fully equipped with protective body armor.


My impression of Hannibal Lecter

Backseat driving

My Dad thinks I'm a backseat driver. Sure, I jam my wet nose in his right ear and lick it as he drives (I can't reach the left one), and yeah, he can feel the intensity of my hot breath pressing against the back of his neck, but what the heck, it's my nature to dominate -- to get ahead of the cars racing down the road. A Lab has got to do what he's got to do!

My cuppa joe

Every morning, my Mom and Dad have a cup of coffee. Sometimes Mom has a latte. It looks so delicious, she bought a doggie latte for me -- minus the foam and caffeine. I could become a java junkie!

Sawing wood

This morning, Mom told me that during the night, Dad and I were snoring up a storm, me on one side of her and Dad on the other. Like father, like son -- sawing wood in stereo!

Pining for the Parisian life

Oh, how I wish I lived in France where dogs are welcome in meat markets, grocery stores, restaurants, and bakeries. I know a Parisian dog who visits a patasserie every morning to munch on delectible little lemon cakes, called madelines. Ooo la la. What a life. In France, dogs rule!


Levitating at the thought
of living in Paris

Our lawn, the minefield

Sometimes, traipsing across our lawn is like venturing into a minefield, painstakingly trying to avoid stepping on "bombs" of grass-camouflaged turds (mine of course). Yesterday, before mowing the lawn, my Dad did a "clean sweep." Thank heaven for small miracles!


Tools of the trade

My expanding vocabulary

Last night, a TV program reported that dogs are capable of understanding 100 words. My Mom said I probably know about 200 different words. I beg to differ, after all, I write my own blog everyday (with the help of my Dad who does the typing). I figure I know at least 1,000 words... and counting!

A bone of mammoth proportions

Today, my Mom returned from the supermarket with a bone the size of a '57 Buick. Chomping on a juicy bone sure beats eating dirt, tanbark, or my Dad's firewood.

Sixty pound lap dog

Mom refers to me as her sixty pound lap dog. Every morning I greet her by leaping onto the bed, plopping on top of her, and digging my pointy elbows into her chest. She'd prefer a gentler approach, but frankly, it's just not in me.