This is me, Amos, all tuckered out, snuggling with my puppy momma, Myrtle.
Myrtle has this new friend. I call her Aunt Sandy, but really she is Sandra. Sandra is...well...sort of exacting. I love her. Oh, my heart pounds in excitement whenever she comes over and we play and play and play and play. But...to play with Aunt Sandy, I have to learn things. I had to learn to not jump all over her. I had to learn to not chew on bits of her. And I had to learn to sit!
Unfortunately, my beloved Myrtle has taken a page out of Aunt Sandy's book. So, I have now learned to "sit" and to "lay down." Because I am probably the most smartest of puppies on the planet, I actually figured out what Myrtle meant by "lay down" in just a few moments. Seriously, in no time at all, I was going from "sit" to "lay down." Myrtle was very, very, very happy with me. Still, she did not give me any bacon.
Tell me, what does a fellow have to do to earn even the merest morsel of bacon?
In any case, I am also wondering about this whole "lay down" business. Actually, for someone with a Ph.D., Myrtle is not all that smart, like I am! If she were, she would be telling me to "lie down," since "lay" requires a direct object. Of course, she would probably retort that her command actually means "Lay yourself down, Amos." That would make me the direct object. But I know better to point out her mistakes. Whenever Myrtle notices that her writing and speaking is becoming more and more filled with errors, she starts to weep again. A weeping Myrtle hurts my heart.
But grammar is not really my beef with this command. My problem is this: As you can see from the photo, Aunt Sandy is holding my baby hostage. Bumble Bee is being dangled precariously above me and I have to sit before she will let me have him. In fact, once I sat, Aunt Sandy flung him across the room for me to fetch. Poor Bumble Bee. Still, even that is not my point about these commands.
First, I have to "sit," before Myrtle will toss a ball for me. Now, I have to "sit" and then "lay down." That means that even thought I have to be on my feet to fetch the ball or my baby, I must first get all the way off my feet, lie on my belly actually, before I can get back on my feet to fetch my beloved ball or baby. Does that make any sense to you at all?
Right! It does not! I was certain that you would agree with me!!
Anyway, this is my life with Myrtle. Amos Adams signing off!
Good to see you posting again, Amos. You're quite the grammarian for a dog less than one year of age.
ReplyDeleteNow that you're learning to obey commands, maybe you could turn the table on Myrtle and teach her to snap to it when you tell her, "Relax." "Chill out." And the ever important, "Don't burn the bacon or you might find yourself having to make do with livermush."
This comment has nothing to do with this post. I was just noticing, Amos, that your choice of background for your blog is interesting. Although very cute and I like it, it's grass. And you are NOT that fond of grass. Or is it only wet grass?
ReplyDeleteYep, Aunt Becky, I am especially afeared of WET grass. Terrible stuff. Cold. Treacherous. You know, my puppy momma's favorite color is green, so I sort of had to pick this design. Plus, I am a fluffy white fellow, who is rather winsome, so the dandelion sort of fits me, don't you think?
ReplyDeleteUncle Dolph, you are asking for a miracle! My puppy momma could never learn those first two. Haven't you realized she's got her insides all twisted up in knots? Now, since she doesn't share the bacon, should I really be helping her out in the cooking of it????
ReplyDeleteIf you helped Myrtle cook the bacon maybe you could circumspectly sneak a piece or two of it while her back was turned. Here's how to do it. Go to the back door and bark ferociously as though a rampaging water buffalo were about to crash through and make a total shambles of the house. When Myrtle goes to investigate, whimper as if in abject terror and dash away. (But on your way through the kitchen snatch a couple of slices of bacon. Just make sure to do this before the flavorful porcine strips of streaked goodness are burned by you-know-who.)
ReplyDelete