It's cool and rainy today here in Georgia. Pam is at work and I'm watching the Ravens/Colts football game. Go Ravens!
Anyway, Ruby and Chevy are good, as always. Ruby sleeps and Chevy watches TV or looks out the windows. That is, when they're not trying to get away from The Kraut. Olivia, the young German Shorthair Pointer, is charged. She's a bundle of energy. When she can't run, full bore, for an hour or two to burn it off, she's antsy. So what does she do? She torments the other dogs. She crawls all over them, snarling, nipping at their necks, legs, whatever.
I just yelled at her again. ENOUGH! She was all over poor Chevy, who was looking at me pathetically. Where's Ruby? I looked under the table and in the crate. Nope. Galley? Helmstation? Nope. Down in our stateroom? In the head? Nope. On the way out, there she was curled up in a fetal position at the foot of the stairs by the engine room door, next to the cat litter. Poor Ruby.
Back upstairs, I yelled at Olivia again. She looked at me sadly, and asked to go out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in.
STOP IT!
Sigh. I know she's a high energy dog, and not even a year old to boot, but it would be nice to relax and watch the game.
Hmmmmm.... where's the benedryl?
Anyway, Ruby and Chevy are good, as always. Ruby sleeps and Chevy watches TV or looks out the windows. That is, when they're not trying to get away from The Kraut. Olivia, the young German Shorthair Pointer, is charged. She's a bundle of energy. When she can't run, full bore, for an hour or two to burn it off, she's antsy. So what does she do? She torments the other dogs. She crawls all over them, snarling, nipping at their necks, legs, whatever.
I just yelled at her again. ENOUGH! She was all over poor Chevy, who was looking at me pathetically. Where's Ruby? I looked under the table and in the crate. Nope. Galley? Helmstation? Nope. Down in our stateroom? In the head? Nope. On the way out, there she was curled up in a fetal position at the foot of the stairs by the engine room door, next to the cat litter. Poor Ruby.
Back upstairs, I yelled at Olivia again. She looked at me sadly, and asked to go out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in. And out. Then in.
STOP IT!
Sigh. I know she's a high energy dog, and not even a year old to boot, but it would be nice to relax and watch the game.
Hmmmmm.... where's the benedryl?
In 1981, When Alfred my first Irish Setter, (of similar temperament) was that age, I was living in OKC. A friend from WI had gone home for Christmas and brought me a present of Good Wisconsin Beer (Leinenkugels Red, for drinking) Bad Wisconsin Beer (Rhinelander, for cooking Brats in) and some of my favorite Wisconsin Brats.
ReplyDeleteSo, on a day much like this one, I simmered the brats in the Rhinelander for the allotted time. After which, I grilled them and proceeded to watch a game, eating my brats and drinking my Leinies.
Thinking Alfred might like to join me, (he was making this point quite plainly) I decided to give him he pork juice laden cooking solution, having heard that cooking booze cooks the alcohol out of it.
Apparently not entirely. The mixture must have tasted good. Alfred stood there and lapped up every last drop of the 2/3 full six quart pan I placed in front of him.
After which, he turned to leave the patio, missed the gate opening and walked head first into the brick wall surround, fell down and passed out for four hours. And dreamed some tremulous dreams, no doubt.
Not that I'm recommending this in any way... LOL