Chikadee's Furry Family

Rhea: The garbage collector is not stealing our stuff.

All 3: I do not need to suddenly stand straight up when I'm lying under the coffee table.

All 3: I will not roll my toys behind the fridge, behind the sofa or under the bed.

All 3: I must shake the rainwater out of my fur BEFORE entering the house.

Achilles: I will stop trying to find the few remaining pieces of clean carpet in the house when I am about to get sick.

All 3: We do not have a doorbell. I will not bark each time I hear one on television.

Qenna: I will not steal my Mom's underwear and dance all over the backyard with them.

All 3: The sofa is not a face towel; neither are Mom and Dad's laps.

All 3: My head does not belong in the refrigerator.

Rhea: I will not bite the officer's hand when he reaches in for Mom's driver's license and registration.

Qenna: I will not play tug-of-war with Dad's underwear when he's on the toilet.

Achilles: Sticking my nose into someone's crotch is not an acceptable way of saying 'hello.'

Achilles: I will not sit in the middle of the living room and lick my crotch when company is over.

All 3: I will not roll around in the dirt right after getting a bath.

All 3: When I say to move, it means go someplace else, not switch positions with each other so there are still two dogs in the way.

All 3: The dishes with the paw print are yours and contain your food.  The other dishes are mine and contain my food.  Please note, placing a paw print in the middle of my plate and food does not stake a claim for it becoming your food and dish, nor do I find that aesthetically pleasing in the slightest.

All 3: The living room was not designed by NASCAR and is not a racetrack. 

All 3: For the last time, there is not a secret exit from the bathroom.  If by some miracle I beat you there and manage to get the door shut, it is not necessary to claw, whine and try to turn the knob, or get your paw under the edge and try to pull the door open.  I must exit through the same door I entered.  In addition, I have been using bathrooms for years, canine attendance is not mandatory.

You Know You're a Dog Person When:

You have a kiddie wading pool in the yard, but no small children.

You refer to yourselves as Mommy and Daddy.

Your dog sleeps with you.

You can't see out the passenger side of the windshield because there are nose-prints all over the inside.

You have 32 different names for your dog. Most make no sense, but she understands.

You like people who like your dog. You despise people who don't.

You talk about your dog the way other people talk about their kid.

You don't think it's the least bit strange to stand in the back yard  chirping "Meg, pee!" over and over again, while Meg tends to play and forget what she's out there for (but what your neighbors think of your behavior is yet another story).

Your parents refer to your pet as their granddog.

People at work have stopped offering you their lint brushes; they realize it is a hopeless case.

Instructions for Dog

NEWSPAPERS: If you have to go to the bathroom while playing in the front yard, always use the newspaper that's placed in the driveway every morning for that purpose.

VISITORS: Quickly determine which guest is afraid of dogs. Charge across the room, barking loudly and leap playfully on this person. If the human falls down on the floor and starts crying, lick its face and growl gently to show your concern.

BARKING: Because you are a dog, you are expected to bark. So bark --- a lot. Your owners will be very happy to hear you protecting their house. Especially late at night while they are sleeping safely in their beds. There is no more secure feeling for a human than to keep waking up in the middle of the night and hearing your protective bark, bark, bark...

LICKING: Always take a BIG drink from your water dish immediately before licking your human. Humans prefer clean tongues. Be ready to fetch your human a towel.

HOLES: Rather than digging a BIG hole in the middle of the yard and upsetting your human, dig a lot of smaller holes all over the yard so they won't notice. If you arrange a little pile of dirt on one side of each hole, maybe they'll think it's gophers. There are never enough holes in the ground. Strive daily to do your part to help correct this problem.

DOORS: The area directly in front of a door is always reserved for the family dog to sleep.

THE ART OF SNIFFING: Humans like to be sniffed. Everywhere. It is your duty, as the family dog, to accommodate them.

DINING ETIQUETTE: Always sit under the table at dinner, especially when there are guests, so you can clean up any food that falls on the floor. It's also a good time to practice your sniffing.

HOUSEBREAKING: Housebreaking is very important to humans, so break as much of the house as possible.

GOING FOR WALKS: Rules of the road: When out for a walk with your master or mistress, never go to the bathroom on your own lawn.

COUCHES: It is perfectly permissible to lie on the new couch after all your humans have gone to bed.

PLAYING: If you lose your footing while chasing a ball or stick, use the flower bed to absorb your fall so you don't injure yourself.

CHASING CATS: When chasing cats, make sure you never --- quite --- catch them. It spoils all the fun.

CHEWING: Make a contribution to the fashion industry. ...Eat a shoe.

If you have to throw up, get into a chair, QUICKLY! If you can't manage that in time, get to an Oriental rug. If no Oriental rug is available, any good rug will do.

ALWAYS accompany guests to the bathroom. It's not necessary to do anything; just sit and stare.

 How Could You?

When I was a puppy I entertained you with my antics and made you laugh. You called me your child and despite a number of chewed shoes and a couple of murdered throw pillows, I became your best friend. Whenever I was "bad," you'd shake your finger at me and ask "How could you?" - but then you'd relent and roll me over for a bellyrub.

My housetraining took a little longer than expected, because you were terribly busy, but we worked on that together. I remember those nights of nuzzling you in bed, listening to your confidences and secret dreams, and I believed that life could not be any more perfect. We went for long walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice cream (I only got the cone because "ice cream is bad for dogs," you said), and I took long naps in the sun waiting for you to come home at the end of the day.

Gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career, and more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently, comforted you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided you about bad decisions, and romped with glee at your homecomings, and when you fell in love.

She, now your wife, is not a "dog person" - still I welcomed her into our home, tried to show her affection, and obeyed her. I was happy because you were happy. Then the human babies came along and I shared your excitement. I was fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled, and I wanted to mother them, too. Only she and you worried that I might hurt them, and I spent most of my time banished to another room, or to a dog crate. Oh, how I wanted to love them, but I became a "prisoner of love."

As they began to grow, I became their friend. They clung to my fur and pulled themselves up on wobbly legs, poked fingers in my eyes, investigated my ears and gave me kisses on my nose. I loved everything about them and their touch - because your touch was now so infrequent - and I would have defended them with my life if need be.

I would sneak into their beds and listen to their worries and secret dreams. Together we waited for the sound of your car in the driveway. There had been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog, that you produced a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories about me. These past few years, you just answered "yes" and changed the subject. I had gone from being "your dog" to "just a dog," and you resented every expenditure on my behalf.

Now you have a new career opportunity in another city, and you and they will be moving to an apartment that does not allow pets. You've made the right decision for your "family," but there was a time when I was your only family.

I was excited about the car ride until we arrived at the animal shelter. It smelled of dogs and cats, of fear, of hopelessness. You filled out the paperwork and said "I know you will find a good home for her." They shrugged and gave you a pained look. They understand the realities facing a middle-aged dog or cat, even one with "papers." You had to pry your son's fingers loose from my collar as he screamed "No, Daddy! Please don't let them take my dog!" And I worried for him, and what lessons you had just taught him about friendship and loyalty, about love and responsibility, and about respect for all life. You gave me a goodbye pat on the head, avoided my eyes, and politely refused to take my collar and leash with you. You had a deadline to meet and now I have one, too.

After you left, the two nice ladies said you probably knew about your upcoming move months ago and made no attempt to find me another good home. They shook their heads and asked "How could you?"

They are as attentive to us here in the shelter as their busy schedules allow. They feed us, of course, but I lost my appetite days ago. At first, whenever anyone passed my pen, I rushed to the front, hoping it was you - that you had changed your mind - that this was all a bad dream...or I hoped it would at least be someone who cared, anyone who might save me. When I realized I could not compete with the frolicking for attention of happy puppies, oblivious to their own fate, I retreated to a far corner and waited.

I heard her footsteps as she came for me at the end of the day and I padded along the aisle after her to a separate room. A blissfully quiet room. She placed me on the table, rubbed my ears and told me not to worry. My heart pounded in anticipation of what was to come, but there was also a sense of relief. The prisoner of love had run out of days. As is my nature, I was more concerned about her. The burden which she bears weighs heavily on her and I know that, the same way I knew your every mood.

She gently placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a tear ran down her cheek. I licked her hand in the same way I used to comfort you so many years ago. She expertly slid the hypodermic needle into my vein. As I felt the sting and the cool liquid coursing through my body, I lay down sleepily, looked into her kind eyes and murmured "How could you?"

Perhaps because she understood my dogspeak, she said "I'm so sorry." She hugged me and hurriedly explained it was her job to make sure I went to a better place, where I wouldn't be ignored or abused or abandoned, or have to fend for myself - a place of love and light so very different from this earthly place. With my last bit of energy, I tried to convey to her with a thump of my tail that my "How could you?" was not meant for her. It was you, My Beloved Master, I was thinking of. I will think of you and wait for you forever.

May everyone in your life continue to show you so much loyalty.