The Prescott Dog: Hazel Howls
Dear Rocket Red Dog Journal:
Today I noticed in the door mirror, my “ear tufts” had turned white. They used to be red. I asked Dad about it, and he pointed out that it’s on my muzzle too.
At first, he told me it was because of my deep affection and devotion to Tucker, and I was just displaying the “white dog life.” That made me snort and squeak/yawn nearly at the same time. He patted my head to let me know he was just kidding. Then he bent down to look at my chest below the collar. He said he was looking at the star on my chest.
Dad discovered that my once well-defined “star” had gone super nova and had exploded and thrown white star stuff all the way up to my muzzle and ears. Funny, as I don’t remember any “explosion.”
“Don’t let that turn into a black hole, Hazel,” he said, standing up.
My Auntie, who was there during this discovery, interjected that I should try for a red dwarf instead. Dad agreed. (I’ll do my best, but I’m not sure how.)
Let’s see...bear with me while I try to remember if anything else happened since my last entry.
Oh, yeah, I finished my course on post-modernism/humanism with Dad. I passed my one sentence thesis and earned my bachelors in Philosophy. My thesis sentence was, “Two-leggeds will go to great lengths to explain why they don’t want to be happy or wag their tail.”
Dad was so impressed, he let me ditch my associates degree and promoted me. I am so grateful as awhile ago I had made the mistake of letting the neighborhood dogs know (the ones that can hear me from the backyard) that I was an Associate. Well, some coyotes overheard me and thought I worked at a big box store. Every time they saw me they asked if rabbit traps were on sale. Let me tell you, that joke was getting old.
[Hold on I gotta ask Dad if I missed anything…]
Dad said bachelors don’t say “gotta”. Gee whiz Dad, give a red dog a break.
He said I forgot the striped-cat adventure. Well, I didn’t forget, I just thought it wasn’t that big of a deal. Just another morning enforcing the fence boundaries, with one very slight hitch in the plan.
So, the night after Elle’s surgery, Dad stayed with her in the living room while Tucker and I slept in the bedroom with Mom. I guess Elle needed company because she slept on the couch instead of her space-capsule-tent-thingy. Dad had fallen asleep sitting on the floor next to her with his head against the couch. That’s where Tucker and I found him in the morning when we made our mad dash to the back door. Dad seemed to panic at our sudden appearance and scooped up Elle and put her up. He didn’t want her to participate in what Dad calls our “morning circus.” Come to think of it, looking back now, I don’t think Dad was all that awake when he let Tucker and me out. He didn’t come with us. The moment we stepped out however, I saw the striped-cat on the other side of the chain-link, and of course action had to be taken. And swiftly!
I charged with my vocal warnings at full volume. The cat wheeled around to face away from me as I reached the middle of the fence. A good sign I thought. Tucker took the fence’s corner position. In mid-bark, something wet went into my eyes and mouth, nasty stuff. I tried to continue but the second time it happened I had to yell to Tucker to take over while I tried to recover from the burning in my eyes. I ran past Dad at the door, who seemed to still be half asleep. I aimed for Mom’s office, but the door was closed. I bee-lined to the master bedroom to try to find some relief. That’s about when all the yelling started, kind of an uh-oh moment for me and Tuck.
Still outside, Tucker stood his ground like I had asked and started stomping and barking, and about that time Dad woke up enough to realize that Tuck was being sprayed and wondering where I was. Mom had come down the hall to a full frontal assault of the “aroma” I had spread throughout the house. Mom and Dad, bless their hearts, insisted I go back outside in the pre-dawn cold, and very stubbornly, very reluctantly, I obeyed.
Dad instantly slid the door shut behind me, leaving Tucker and I out in the cold breeze while he gathered sundry items in great haste. When I saw him come outside towards us with a bucket, rubber gloves and bottles and boxes, Tucker gave a sigh that I translated as either “uh-oh” or “Hazel, I will pay you back for this some way, somehow.” I prefer to believe the former.
Next, came the coldest “scrubbies” we have ever endured. Dad, knowing I had gotten the lion’s share of striped-cat spray, worked on Tucker first. (Boy, did I get some dirty looks.) Then Dad came for me with the gloves and bucket. I tried to tell him he was kind of defeating his own purpose by dipping the wash rag into the same mixture he had used on Tuck, but I could tell by the look on his face he had a lot on his mind.
I could go on about rugs being dragged outside, the second and third set of the scrubbies”.... Consternation and dismay abounded. Mom gave Tucker and me a stern lecture about impulsive behavior and kept asking us if we had learned our lesson. (Avoid the rear end of black cats would be my first thought.)
Aside from the chaos though, I thought it was just another day of good boundary enforcement with a dash of discomfort. I actually found the smelly spray stuff Mom and Dad ran around the house with more offensive than what the black cat with white stripes squirted. I guess one person’s “frantic adventure” is another dog’s “day on the job.” I wonder if I can use that on my next thesis?
~Hazel Bazel Rocket Dog
Bachelorette of the School of Homespun Philosophy
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