Victory at last...

My new aunt Marie and uncle Paul came to stay in the basement space for a while.  That means the basement has been off limits to me for seven weeks.  I'm bereft.

However, having them here hasn't been all that bad.  You see, they are Amos fans!  And pretty much anything I do is adorable to them.  Wise folk.

Miracle workers, aunt Marie and uncle Paul got Myrtle to start eating at the table with them instead of in the GREEN chair.  Now, you might be thinking that is not such a good thing, since I could climb in Myrtle's lap in the chair, though not when she is at the table.  But think about this.  They got Myrtle to start eating at the table with them.  With!  That means three sets of dishes for me to lick, rather than a mere one!

Being a rather smart fellow, I quickly figured out that uncle Paul is the fastest eater, so I camp out at his side once they sit down.  Sure enough, once he's done, uncle Paul will set his plate or bowl or both down on the floor for me.  My puppy momma finishes next, so I take care of her dishes.  Aunt Marie always finishes last (this is because she does most of the cooking) and some times forgets to give me her dishes, but once reminded, she sets them on the floor for me.  Good times, eh?

Well, my adorableness has worn down their caution a bit.  They lost a bit of diligence in ensuring the door to the basement is always closed.  Now, don't misunderstand me.  I'm not that feeble.  I have managed to find my way to the promise land many times.  But each time someone was hot on my heels.  Not this time.

Myrtle, aunt Marie, and uncle Paul were busy play a game...a long game...for hours.  Something about phases.  Anyway, my aunt and uncle each went to the basement to tend to their needs throughout the game.  Being a patient fellow, I bid my time.  When the iron was hot, I struck.

VICTORY AT LAST!

Someone left the door open.  Of course, I was down there in a flash.  Sure enough, the basement really is the promise land.  Not just paper and all sorts of interesting stuff did I find to shred.  That didn't even catch my eye.  Like an arrow sprung from a bow, I shot straight to this fantastic section of bread left in the trash.  Oh, my!  This was no mere nibble, no bite given in pity.  This was practically an entire loaf!  Okay, maybe a third.  But still.  Wow!  To be fair, I must admit that I did not have the opportunity to devour all of it.  Pride goes before a fall.


I couldn't help myself.  I brought the bread back upstairs to show aunt Marie how much I appreciated the tasty treat she left right at the top of the trash can, for surely she did this for me. Surely!  However, Myrtle took exception to my display or my eating all that bread...or both.  Spotting disapproval painted all over her face, I raced up the stairs to our bedroom.  Myrtle is MUCH slower than I, so I figured I would have some time for my feast.  I was right.


Myrtle went back downstairs with a mere stub compared to the branch I carried up with me.  Most of that bread happily ended up in my tummy.  My puppy momma wasn't all that mad at me, though.  She was laughing when she picked me up to grab the bread out of my mouth, she was laughing as she walked back down the stairs, she was laughing when she showed aunt Marie and uncle Paul the little bit left, and she was laughing when she tossed it in the trash.  Too bad she didn't just let me finish it.


Still, I savor the victory.  I, Amos Adams, shall not be denied entrance to part of my own home!  Surely my perseverence was rewarded.  I wonder what I shall be given next time??


This is my life with Myrtle.  Amos Adams signing off!

What lingers still...

Myrtle and I are having a bit of a difficult time.  As you can see, I am not my usual happy, carefree, adorable self.

Out of nowhere, this wild, fierce, and rather terrifying storm came up and knocked out the power to our home.  Since my puppy momma cannot be without air-conditioning, we went to stay in the basement of Aunt Leslie's house.  While Myrtle was very thankful for a place to stay, its effect on me was rather hard for her to face.

It was hard on me, too.

You see, Aunt Leslie lives next to this place filled with lots of trees and wild animals.  Fearsome Beasts of all sorts!  That would have been terribly hard to face all by itself, but her back yard doesn't have any fences.  Yep...that meant I had to wear the horrible, wretched, terrifying leash each and very time we went out.

Facing your greatest fear all day long, day after day, is exhausting...as you can see in my picture.  Exhausting, draining, debilitating....mentally, physically, emotionally.  I was a basket case by the time we left there.  And, even in the haven of our home, it took me many days to shed the weight of my fear.

Myrtle and I don't talk much about the pit bull attack.  At least we don't with our mouths.  But our bodies sure are still vocal about it.  We each tremble like a leaf at things most folk don't bat an eyelash at...or so it seems.  Other folk seem so brave, so fearless really, about doing things like walking outside, being around strangers, and wearing leashes.  Myrtle tells me that I am fine just the way that I am, but being scared is not very fun.  It wears on a fellow.

Next week it will have been a year since we started getting scared together.  Next week it will have been a year since we were both scarred.

Myrtle tells me that sometimes she feels like she is still standing on the corner playing tug-of-war against the pit bull with my body.  Sometimes, she still feels my body slipping from her fingers, slick with our blood mingled together.  She doesn't remember anything from the last time she stumbled to her feet, clutching me against her until the two of us were lying on the ground...the attack finally over.

Only...it really isn't.  As much as we both wish it to be over, it is not.  It is not in our bodies.  It is not in our minds.  It is not in our hearts.  We startle at little things.  We fear little things.   And we think walking about the neighborhood is just plain a bad idea.

I guess, though, in a strange way it is good that it happened to both of us.  I mean, I don't EVER want anything bad to happen to my puppy momma.  EVER.  But since it happened to both of us neither one of us is completely alone.  Even if no one else does, we understand each other.  We understand the fear.  We understand the trembling.  We understand the weakness.


This is my life with Myrtle.  Amos Adams signing off!

Hard at work...

This is me, hard at work! 

Myrtle decided to finally paint the back stairwell and the hallway upstairs. Oh, my, if I had a quarter for each time she deliberated about stripping off the wallpaper first, I would be able to purchase all the bacon I could ever desire! [I wouldn't desire it so much if Myrtle would not be so selfish about sharing hers.] Over and over and over again, I heard the argument about the "horrid" seams on the walls and the possible "disaster" of pulling down the ceiling once she started. Something about the mess of old lathe and plaster. Finally, she decided to just paint. As she put it: to finish the blasted job I started over a year ago. 

You see, the hallway and back stairwell now match the foyer, main stairwell, and parlor. All of the walls that needed to be painted are painted. And the white walls that did not necessarily need to be painted but were driving my puppy momma slightly crazy now sport some color. 

This is me when my puppy momma started improving her walls, just after I came to live with her. Such a tiny little fellow, eh? Adorable, though, right? Back then, Myrtle's painting was so stressful for me. I could barely stand to be away from her and the ladder was so scary and I didn't understand what she was doing. Now that Myrtle has painted the basement living space, the basement bath area, the laundry area, the living room, the parlor, the master bath (including the antique tub), and all the places I mentioned above, I know full well what painting entails: Myrtle starts making a mess; hours later, Myrtle cleans up her mess. All the while she works, Myrtle doesn't want my help. 

This is the finished project (at least the hallway...the stairwell is kind of boring). I take full credit for it. Yep...you read that right: full. You see, painting is much, much, much harder for Myrtle now than it was when she started over a year ago. It causes her a lot of pain (which is why I think the walls were perfect the way they were before she started). Pain from her arthritis and pain from the now constant tendinitis in her elbows because of the muscle weakness in her forearms. So, I keep her company, the whole time. As you can see from the photo array above, I have learned to keep out of her way (I ended up with absolutely no Mellow Ivory in my curls--a first for me). And I am so darned adorable when I sleep that I kept distracting her from the pain as I shifted positions, looking even more adorable in the new one than I did in the one previous. So adorable, in fact, I bet you are having trouble reading this because your eyes are drawn back to the top and all my snoozing glory. 

That's the kind of fellow I am. I sacrifice willingly for my puppy momma. Instead of spending the ten hours it took for her to do the painting job comfortably in the GREEN chair, I spent all that time napping on the cold, hard, unforgiving floor. I did so, because even though I think Myrtle was slightly crazy for making herself hurt just for the sake of colored walls, I love her. I love my puppy momma. And she needed my help. 

This is my life with Myrtle. Amos Adams signing off!

A little advice...

Myrtle had two plumbers over to the house on Thursday to install a new sink in our bathroom.  Now, first I shall say that I preferred the old sink!  As you can clearly see, it is low enough that even a puppy dog can use it.  However, that's the very reason Myrtle replaced the sink.

My puppy momma has something called arthritis.  I think it is a disease that makes you cranky.  But Myrtle tells me that it is a disease that causes stiffness, swelling, and pain in joints.  For my puppy momma, using such a low sink was hard on her.  She would grunt and groan while doing so.  And she would be very, very grumpy afterwards.

Well, the plumbers were nice fellows.  They played with me a bit...at least until they grew weary of retrieving the fascinating bits and pieces I plucked out of their work bags. That was okay with me, however, because one of the plumbers very kindly took the toilet paper off the holder and set it within my reach.  Myrtle only ever lets me play with the empty core.  That kind man gave me an entire roll!

I had a grand old time with the toilet paper.  Myrtle had been complaining about how there was no mid-West winter, so I provided snow all over the living room floor for her.  Because the snow outside is rather tasty, I helped myself to some of the snow I made.  Okay, a lot of it.

Myrtle didn't really know that I had eaten the toilet paper.  She just scolded me over the mess.  As the evening wore on, though, I started to feel a bit peaked.  Myrtle didn't really understand why all I wanted to do was curl up in her lap. Once we went up to bed, I did not fool around in the bathroom or play with my Babies or anything.  All I wanted was the growing agony in my belly to cease.

It did.  After many, many, many times of throwing up foul bits of toilet paper.

Myrtle was not happy with me when she first figured out what was causing my belly ache.  But soon she ceased scolding me.  For a while, she ceased everything, having fallen down in a pile of former toilet paper.  When she awoke, her stomach emptied, too.  And there was lots and lots and lots of the kind of silence that you don't want to hear.

As she worked to get us both cleaned up and then tend to bedroom floor, Myrtle's face got very wet.  I dried it off for her once we were back in bed. It was a long, miserable night for us both.

So, well, I would like to proffer that eating a roll of toilet paper just might not be the best course of action.

This is my life with Myrtle.  Amos Adams signing off!

Finally...

Myrtle has been rather ill and oft discouraged, so she has resisted every attempt I have made of her to start typing for me again.  I finally convinced her that my many admirers were probably going through Amos withdrawal.  Hence, I'm back!

Did you miss me?

There are a gizillion new photos of me to post, but Myrtle says that to stick them all up here would make for too much work for her.  I begged for at least one to start things off.  She agreed.  So, I chose this one. Am I not still utterly adorable?

I am a bit reluctant to admit that Myrtle and I are going through a growing period, so to speak.  Sometimes, she finds me rather trying.  Mostly, she plain flummoxes me.  Frankly, I think I have far, far more to tolerate in her than she does in me.  But I am, after all, a very accommodating fellow.

Right now, we are in the midst of the Grand Experiment Take Two.  Therefore, I am quite pleased to announce that all baby gates in the house have been taken down.  Myrtle talked for hours...or so it seemed...about the fact that she wanted to see just how much I have grown up.  [After all, I am now 15 months old!]  She wanted to start trying to trust me in the house, to see if I could make wise decisions.  One way she did this is by not forcing me to do my major business immediately after supper.  Myrtle allows me the freedom to let her know when I have a need to do so, rather than following her need for me to take care of things.

Another way is the removal of the baby gates. With the last of the baby gates down, that means I now have total access to the two main floors of the house.  [My continued major business indiscretions on concrete preclude me from having the run of the basement, too.]  In other words, I can run up and down either staircase as much as my heart desires!

Yes, for the first few days, I did avail myself of this privilege many a time.  So much so that I suspect Myrtle was ready to fetch the baby gates again.  Now, racing up and down the servant stairs, the ones covered with thick brown grass, is a delight.  I can even skip a step here and there if I put my mind to it.  But there has been no such racing upon the main staircase.  The first time I ever stepped paw there, down I went its entire length on my belly to land in a pile at the bottom landing!  I am a tad ashamed to admit that I was frightened and rather sore afterward.  However, I am very proud to announce that I can now go up or down those ginormous wooden steps without falling or slipping or anything other than proper staircase navigation.

In fact, I used this new found ability to trick Myrtle when she was angry with me and tried to give me a timeout for something she had never forbidden.  When she closed the door to the parlor and to the dining room, she forgot that I still had access to the servant's stairs.  Once she was safely ensconced in the GREEN chair, I snuck up the servant's stairs and down the main staircase so that I could launch myself up beside her.  My puppy momma was so surprised that she relented on the time-out and allowed me to remain with her.

[Myrtle might very well have been afraid that I could have been hurt on the main staircase.  However, now I am quite confident on them myself and do not slip even a single time whilst traversing the smooth wooden steps.]

Why was I being disciplined?

Well, Myrtle had gone grocery shopping and she bought herself a treat: a fresh, sugar coated, yeast doughnut.  It was in a box at the top of one of the grocery bags.  While she was busy unloading the groceries, I helped her by unloading the doughnut.  Really, it took me mere seconds to nose open the box, remove the doughnut, carry it to the living room rug, and polish it off for her.  She didn't even notice I was gone.  She did notice, however, that the doughnut was gone.  A very, very loud and angry sort of notice.

But Myrtle never told me that doughnuts were not puppy-appropriate food. Never!  Tell me, then, how in the world was I supposed to know that the food so easily accessed was Myrtle-only food?  It was wrong--very, very wrong--for her to punish me for something I was not aware was improper behavior.

SIGH.

I will say that I have surprised my puppy momma with the fact that there have been absolutely no accidents on the brown grass upstairs.  I have been very, very good at following proper protocol in the disposition of my bodily excesses, with the tiny exception of the basement concrete floor.  [To me, it is identical to the garage floor, a space where Myrtle has not objected to my personal actions.  So, I do not see the problem with using it for purposes other than walking.]

I could have told Myrtle that I can be responsible when properly motivated.  And having the freedom of the house is motivation enough.  After all, that means that I can visit Flower Baby, who, if you remember, stays up in our bed all day long, whenever my heart desires.

But, really, Myrtle need not have worried.  The truth is that I prefer to be at her side, no matter where she is.  Even if I am napping, should she go to the bathroom or to the kitchen for a drink, I will gather myself up and follow her.  I even poke my nose up over the side of the antique tub each time Myrtle takes a shower just to be sure she is all right.   So, while I like the freedom to go where I please about my own home, where I always long to be most is with my puppy momma.

This is my life with Myrtle.  Amos Adams signing off!

Lost arts...

My nemesis is getting skinnier and skinnier...but he just won't go away. In the top left photo, you can see him fleeing my wrath after having squeezed his loathsome body between the side gate and the fence.  Chicken.  In the top right, you can see him sitting at the edge of my neighbor's house, taunting me.  There he will stay until I go back to Inside.  No matter how long I glare at him from my side of the house, he will remain.  The rat.

My puppy momma has told me, again and again, that I should learn the art of compromise or sharing or both.  Myrtle says they are lost arts.  I don't know about that.  I find nothing artful about having Fearsome Beast living in MY backyard and taunting me in the process.  Myrtle says I should feel sorry for him, because while I have gotten a tad...plump...he has shrunk in size over the winter.  She has worried that he will die.  Me?  Well, honestly, I would say, "Good riddance!" were that to happen.

But despite her confusing and somewhat treasonous stance on my nemesis, Myrtle does love me.  Truly she does.

Today, she bought me my own Baby Bunny, complete with a squeaker!

Now, this bunny is down right ugly.  And already I do not have the same love and affection I have for all my Babies.  Instead, I have found it a perfect object of all my ire and wrath and frustration over Fearsome Beast.

Already, I have ripped his whiskers off and damaged his tail.  I eaten one of his eyes.  And I am thinking that his ears might make a good snack, too.

I shall not tuck him into bed with all my other babies.
I shall not snuggle with him.
I shall not carry him about to keep him company.
I shall not love him.

This bunny shall be no Baby of mine.  I shall be making short work of him.

Too bad Myrtle won't let me get my paws on the real thing.  Maybe...just maybe...after seeing me pour my righteous wrath out upon this bunny, she will relent about continuing to allow the miscreant interloper to live in our back yard.  Maybe she will cover up the hole to his home beneath the back porch and dig up every single speck of greenery, so that, if Fearsome Beast chooses to continue to live in stubborn defiance of my rightful reign, he will die a horrible death of starvation.

This is my life with Myrtle.  Amos Adams signing off!

The grand experiment...

Myrtle has announced that we are beginning The Grand Experiment.  The dining room is now open for business...just still not my business!

You see, when I was but a little pup, my favorite indoor place to do outdoor activities was the dining room.  After umpteen thousand accidents, in a fit of pique, Myrtle closed the pocket French doors and set up a baby gate between the dining room and kitchen.  I was shut out.  Completely. I believe this move was rash and rather unfair.  I also believe that Myrtle should long have been practicing far more forgiveness than she has in this matter.

Well, I have kept up an unrelenting campaign ever since our canine visitor departed for Myrtle to allow me entrance to this most wondrous of rooms.

While she was here, Seri got to spend practically all her time in the dining room.  AND her free reign was allowed to continue despite the fact that she had several accidents since, as a baby puppy, she's still learning about the proper disposition of her bodily functions.  Now, does that sound fair to you? Seri had free run of the room while I was left to make do with peering over the gate or through the lowest panes of the French doors.

I am nearly 15-months old now.  I have lived with Myrtle for over a year, absorbing all those millions upon millions of house rules.  Fairly consistently, I have proven that, unless my puppy momma is being negligent on noticing my communicative efforts regarding my bodily needs, I understand all said activity needs to take place out of doors. Therefore, I believe it is high time that I be given access to the dining room.  After all, there is this fantastic table around which I can run laps, there are wooden grates in the floor that allow me to peer down into the basement, and I can get from the GREEN chair to my water bowl in a fraction of the time it takes to go across the living room to the foyer, through the parlor, and then across the kitchen to where my water bowl resides.

Today, victory was achieved!  After much lecturing about trust and responsibility and how second chances do not come around all that frequently, Myrtle opened the French doors without quickly shutting them again in my face.  Yes, I, Amos Adams, am now free to spend as much time as I wish sniffing about, exercising, and taking short-cuts.

This is my life with Myrtle.  Amos Adams signing off!