Rocco and Willy

Just Pictures: 2010

2011-04-12T19:21:00.000-07:00

Welcome, Willy: January 4–5, 2010

Baby Willy: January 2010

Rocco & Willy: February–March 2010

Rocco, Willy & Carl: April–May 2010


The Boys: July–August 2010

Auntie Ashie, Britt, Rocco & Willy: October–November 2010

They call him Willy

2010-01-22T23:13:00.000-08:00

That's right, friends. I have a new little buddy. His name is Willy, and he pees and poops wherever he pleases.

It looks like Mom and Dad are letting him live with us, so I guess I'll have to be nice to him. He's not bad to have around once you get used to all the biting and toy-stealing and attention-getting.

He does keep me company when Mom and Dad aren't home. It's nice not to be so lonely anymore.

Willy is just a baby right now. He was born on November 23, 2009, and he'll be nine weeks old soon. Mom and Dad brought him home on January 4, 2010, after they picked him up from Willy's real mom and dad who live in Sugar City, Idaho.

As you can see, Willy is a beagle just like me. (Except he doesn't have a cool "W" on his back or anything.) Soon we'll be able do all kinds of neat beagle things together, like rummaging through the trash when no one's looking, following our noses to our hearts' content while on walks with Mom, and begging for people food every chance we get.

For now, though, we just play and play-fight a lot, since Willy has lots of wiggles he has to get out in between his naps.

And thank goodness for naps! This pup wears me out. Mom and Dad are glad, though, because I'm not so "fluffy" anymore.

Aww, isn't it sweet of me to share my bed? I know, I'm such a softie. I have to share lots of other things, too. Like my toys. My bones. My blankies. My leashes and old collars. My treats. I mean, geez!

But you know what gets me? I share all of these things with him, and you know what Willy wants? He wants whatever I'm currently chewing/eating/playing with. Nooo, he can't just go find something else. He has to get up in my face and try to take what I have! I am so not cool with that. And thank goodness Mom and Dad let me growl at him for that, or I'd be ticked!

He'll soon learn how I run things around here, and he'll learn what's his and what's mine. Willy is a fast learner, too. He just watches what I do. I went out the doggy door the other day, and he just followed me through it. Some dogs are afraid to use the doggy door for the first few times, but not Willy! He also watched me go up and down the stairs, and it didn't take him long before he was keeping up with me. He's a cool pup.

I'm so glad Mom and Dad got me a buddy. We'll have lots of adventures together.

It's my berf-day!

2009-09-23T21:19:00.000-07:00

I'm threeeeeee! No more terrible two's (or terrible teens, in doggie years). So I guess my days of disobedience and destruction are over. (Heh heh, we'll see about that.)

Happy birthday to me!

Yes, I'm still alive . . .

2009-07-22T21:34:00.000-07:00

. . . but only because of the mercy of my extremely patient, unconditionally loving mom. (Yes, I'm a bad dog, I'll even admit it. What I'm about to relate is even worse than the bacon spankin'.)

So me and my family moved to a new house, but they had to confuse the heck out of me by returning to the old house every day to pick up stuff. We'd be in this new place and I just thought we were visiting it, because before I knew it, we were on our way back to the old place! I mean, c'mon. The last time we moved, all their stuff went into a huge truck, and they stuck me in mom's car for eleven, grueling hours, and then we arrived at our new home. There was no going back and forth. I had no choice but to mark the new trees, poop on the new carpet, and settle in. But that wasn't the way it was this time.

I guess you could say I had a little trouble adjusting to the new place. For one, it has no grass in the backyard. There's concrete, and then there's a perimeter of dirt around the concrete. Lame.

Then in the front yard, there's all of this beautiful, PRISTINE grass, but they won't let me poo on it. What's up with that? I think I overheard them saying something like, "We don't want him to contaminate the grass, because little kids play out there." Um, what? Excuse me? Little kids? Little kids get poop on their hands all the time! So why would it matter if a bit of my poop "contaminated" their precious little hands? What's the diff'?

So that's my frustration about the yard situation. Then there are the new "inside" rules. No jumping on the bed. No curling up on the couch. No digging in the trash . . . wait, that's an old rule. I still don't like it, though.

I used to roam around the old house, free to do whatever I wanted. Mom and Dad would open the back door for me whenever I needed to go outside. Now, they've installed this doggy door so I can come and go as I please. Sure, that's nice, but I liked the extra attention I got when they'd open the door for me.

And now, at bedtime, they barrier off my access to the carpet or couches. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't going to bed a time when you seek the soft, comfy places? I think Mom and Dad are going overboard with this one. Yeah, they give me my bed and blankies to sleep with, but still . . .

To make matters worse, they got me the blue collar. Now the blue collar is unlike my red one (with matching red leash), because it has these two barbs on it that poke me in my neck. And somehow, whenever I'm wearing that collar, I go to sniff around the trash can and Zaaap! Whoa. What the? I get this shock and something beeps at me. It sucks.

So not only am I forced to poop on a concrete pad, banished from the bed and couches, and subjected to wear the blue collar, but now I can't even get near the trash can without getting zapped.

And you know what? Mom didn't walk me yesterday, and I'll be honest---I was ticked about that. With this new place and all the new rules, I think I just snapped this morning. A little tantrum, if you will . . .

Dad went to work early this morning, so I knew I wouldn't get much attention from him today. He's usually home with me in the mornings, but not today. Then Mom goes to work every morning, so that was to be expected. But I think I was really dismayed when I saw Dad leaving the house at about 6:00 a.m. I knew Mom wouldn't be up for another few hours, so I just got antsy and did something shameful.

I used to flip my bowls when I was hungry or thirsty. That way, Mom or Dad would hear them rattling on the floor and they'd come over and provide refills. Well, they put my bowls in this stand thing, so I can't flip them anymore. That led me to Plan B: Go into the pantry in the laundry room and see what I can flip:

Hey, that can looks like it could be dog food. [Flip] Oh, nope. Crushed pineapple.

What about this can? [Flip] Dang it. Another thing of pineapple. (Why do they like canned pineapple so much?)

Ooh, that looks good. A bag of something. I can open this with my teeth! [Crunch] Hmm, spaghetti noodles. Lots of spaghetti noodles! Let's spread this out all over the laundry room floor and see how much spaghetti we're really talking about, here. [Shhwwsh] Oh, about two pounds worth. Not bad.

Wait a minute. There's a huge can of something in here. They give me dry dog food from huge bags they get at Petsmart. So why wouldn't wet dog food come from huge cans? [Flip] . . .

Uh oh.

That's definitely not wet dog food. That's not even pineapple.

Oh crap.

It keeps coming out. Ick, it smells nasty! It's like that stuff they were putting on the walls a few weeks ago.

Wait. It is that stuff they were putting on the walls a few weeks ago. And now it's all over my spaghetti noodles. Man!

I bet Mom's gonna be ticked when she sees this. I better just go back to bed like nothing happened.

* * *

An hour or so later, Mom came downstairs all ready for work (wow, she's wearing heels today), and she greeted me like she always does. As she was rubbing my back, I noticed that the rubbing suddenly ceased. (Yep, she's looking at the laundry room.)

"Rocco, what happened?" she said, with more a sense of wonderment than of horror. But then it drastically turned to horror.

For the next half hour, after removing her heels and dress skirt, she proceeded to pick up all the painted pieces of spaghetti noodles, the unrecognizable cans of what we previously identified as crushed pineapple, and she removed the rug by the back door that was now conveniently coated with paint on one edge and underneath it.

Then there was the task of cleaning up the paint all over the linoleum floor. If it had been edible, I would have offered to help, but I knew she didn't expect me to help with any "mopping" in this situation. Apparently, she couldn't find any paint thinner, so she busted out her bottle of nail polish remover and poured it all over the freshly painted floor. Then she grabbed some old towels and just started scrubbing. Of course that was after she got the bulk of the paint scooped up with a dust pan, which was now in the sink being rinsed under extremely hot water.

I just felt awful. I stayed curled up in my bed, head down, tail in between my legs. I couldn't hide my shame. I knew I was a bad dog.

After a while, she got up, threw all the painted pineapple cans, noodles, and towels in a box, and summoned me to go outside. She set my food and water outside with me, along with one of my blankies. I knew I wasn't going to spend any more time inside today.

Then she toasted a bagel, stormed outside, slammed the garage door shut, and drove away to work---half an hour late to work, she was.

Yeah, I guess I can't feel too bad---about being outside all day, I mean. I feel really bad about the mess I made, because I know better than to act that way. I just need to stop complaining and be glad that they don't keep me in a cage my whole life.

I'm a good dog, really. But aren't two-year-olds expected to have tantrums every now and then? Oh, that only applies to two-year-old humans? Well then in that case, that makes me a teenager in my years. So there! Maybe I just couldn't help it . . . all of those hormones . . .

The Aftermath:

Auntie Ashie Loves Me

2009-04-29T19:21:00.001-07:00

. . . but maybe a little too much. She brings to mind this cartoon character from a TV show of yore. I believe Mom calls it Tiny Toon Adventures. Elmyra, anyone?

Ok, Auntie Ashie's not that bad. But she did have the gall to brush my teeth while she was here for Easter weekend.

Brush my teeth!?! Dogs don't need their teeth brushed! But apparently she and Mom think so.

Have a look:

Yes, go on. Feel sorry for me. I know you do.

In other news, I think I have a food allergy. I don't know what it is, but every time I finish eating my food, I have to rub my face all over the carpet because my mouth itches! A minute or two of rubbing makes the itch go away, but it's annoying! Why don't Mom and Dad just feed me steak and chicken every day? Enough with this dry dog food crap.

Yes, keep feeling sorry for me. It's ok. (And send me some real food!)

That's me rubbing my face on the floor. No, I'm not sticking my butt in your face. I wouldn't dare!

Blankies

2009-04-14T17:16:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you've just gotta grab a blankie, knead part of it into a ball with your paws, and suck on it for a while. Y'know what I mean? (If you don't, you should try it some time. It's a great stress-reliever.)

Blankies are good for chewing, too. (Mom doesn't like when I chew my blankies, though. She doesn't appreciate that I make blankies look like pieces of swiss cheese.)

But really, pacifying on blankies can help calm you down after a long day of patrolling the house and napping. Life can be rough sometimes.

I also use my blankies for other things. Like for practicing love-making. -sigh- If only I had a girlfriend I could share my skills with.

And I must have a blankie to sleep with. I usually like to bury myself under my blankies while I'm sleeping---they keep me warm and cozy.

Note to Mom: I hate when you wash my blankies! I get them smelling and tasting just right between my chewing and love-making, and then you have to go and wash them with icky soap. So rude.

One last thought on blankies: Make sure the blankies you chew holes in are your blankies. That is, make sure Mom actually handed the blankie to you at some point. If you start chewing on a blankie that she didn't give you, be ready for a butt-spankin'. She'll get ya.

I just can't help myself

2009-03-22T20:37:00.001-07:00

Food is food, ok? I don't care of it's on your plate, on the floor, or in the trash. And if you're going to waste good food, that's your problem. But I'm going to do my part and make sure that food ends up where it belongs:

In my tummy.

Mom and Dad seem to have this problem with me trying to save food from the trash can. I mean, they didn't want it, right? So why on earth don't they first consult me before they just throw it in a bin under the kitchen sink? That's no way to treat perfectly good food! It at least deserves a chance with me and my voracious appetite.

And it gets worse! Sometimes I don't even get a chance to save the food, because Mom and Dad have put these locks on the cabinet doors so I can't get to the trash can. How rude!

. . . But every once in a while, those locks forget to do their job, so I make sure to check them now and then to catch them in their weak moments. And when I do, hallelujah! Don't worry, food! I'm comin' for ya!

It's hard to get to the food in the trash can under the sink. So naturally, I have to knock over the bin and let all the food and other stuff spill out onto the floor—just so I can get a better look at what needs to be saved first.

And you won't believe what I find in there . . . really ripe bananas, greasy paper towels, yogurt cups with several licks of yogurt still inside, bread heels, and of course the leftovers! Ohhh yeeeah. Spaghetti, chicken and rice, a few bites of cheeseburger. Y'know, the good stuff! I just don't understand how they could throw all this stuff away. Shameless, I tell ya.

The white stuff is melting! (And Little Jimmy's debut . . .)

2009-03-15T18:06:00.000-07:00

See if you can find me in this picture. (Nope, I'm not in the birdhouse.) I'm on the other side of the backyard---the side that I haven't seen for months! The snow has been too high to get over there, but now that it's melting, I can run around the whole backyard again. Oh, happy day!

So I told you a few posts ago that Little Jimmy would need to be featured in a future post. Well that time has come and that post is this one. Ladies and tramps, I present to you . . .

Feeding time with Little Jimmy

Gotta love that Little Jimmy. Gotta love me, too. (Did you see me at the end? Wasn't that mealworm gross? Ha ha! I am awesome!)

Hound Humiliation

2009-03-09T18:01:00.001-07:00

There are some dogs that can get away with wearing cute, knitted sweaters, printed t-shirts, fluffy socks, etc. Take my friend Charlie, for example. (He's pictured with Auntie Ashie in the right-hand column.) He can pull off wearing clothes and no one thinks anything of it. He's a foxy guy, what else can I say?

There are also little cuties like Ella. (She's pictured among my furry friends, too.) She can make anything look absolutely adorable, because she is adorable.

But me? No. I'm an overweight, stubborn, man's kind of dog. I don't do clothes. Or shoes. Or these:

(Mom! What were you thinking?)

And then the holidays came around and she had to subject me to this:

(Man, I look so fat in this picture.)

And then there were the boots. Mom thought it was a good idea to get me some boots so that when we go for walks in the snow, my paws wouldn't freeze (you can read more about my paws freezing in my post called Let me introduce myself.)

Sure, it was a thoughtful, albeit silly, purchase. For one, the boots didn't fit very well. I don't know if she bought the wrong size or what, but they just kept falling off. Two, they were blue. At least buy red ones to match my collar! Three, as I said above, I don't do clothes, and that includes boots!

Then they had to film me wearing the ridiculous boots. Oh goody. And of course, you get to see the video:

Even Dad was in on this one. But at least he saves me in the end.

(I forgive you, Dad. But not you, Mom.)

Baths, Birdwatching & Boredom

2009-03-07T11:26:00.000-08:00

Let me just say that baths are a bummer. You can be minding your own business one day, walkin' around the house, when all of a sudden---bam! Mom grabs you out of nowhere and carries you into the bathroom where she plops you down into the dreaded bathtub full of water.

I used to fight her more when she would do this, but I decided it was no use. I was getting a bath whether I liked it or not. (I also realized that there were quite a few treats involved if I cooperated.)

The bath ambush occurs about three times a month. After a week or two of rolling around in the dirt outside, getting muddy from the melting snow, and rubbing my face in other dogs' pee, Mom decides it's time for me to get all fresh and fluffy again.

It's not so bad once I'm actually in the warm, soapy bath water. Mom first makes sure I'm completely wet (except for my ears, because she knows I hate when my ears are wet), then she gets out my special dog shampoo and rubs me all over with it. That's my favorite part---the massage. Ahhh. I might actually wag my tail during this part. But then she has to get me all wet again! (That's when the tail-wagging stops.)

And then it's over. I give my body a hearty shake (and I get Mom all wet, ha ha!), and then I get another massage with a towel. Sometimes the towel part takes too long, though. Mom keeps me in the bathroom and tries to dry me off as best as she can, but after a few minutes, I just can't stand it anymore. That's when she opens the door and I take off! FREEDOM!!!

I run around the house as fast as I can and rub my body all over the carpet. Oh yeah, that feels so good. Mom looks at me like I'm crazy when I do this. But I don't care. I'm free!

But then, I'm not free. Then, Mom gets out a comb and the sticky thing. This is the part I always forget about. She calls the sticky thing a lint roller, but I just think it's a stupid sticky thing, and I hate it!

She combs all of my fur into place, and then she rolls the sticky thing all over my body. It makes this terrible sort of sucking noise, and I just can't help but cower when Mom does this. But then again, there are treats involved with the sticky thing too, so I cooperate.

And then, I'm free. Whew! I hate to admit it, but it does feel good to be all clean and soft again. Look how fluffy my coat looks in this picture. Don't I look amazing?

Now that the bath's over, I'm pretty worn out. So I decide to settle down on the bed for a while and look out the window. This is one of my favorite things to do when I don't feel like chewing on something.

Out the window, I notice some birds up in the trees. I sit and watch them for a while, envying the fact that they don't have to get baths. What's up with that? Birds get dirty, too. And they poop all over the place. Sure, I poop around, but not everywhere like they do! Birds disgust me.

That birdwatching video probably has you bored now. But then again, you're reading my blog, so you must have been bored before the video. Now I don't feel so bad about the video. Maybe my next video will show off my personality a bit more, because, like I said, that bath totally wore me out! I'm just not in the mood to display my more dynamic characteristics right now.

Actually, I'm in the mood to take a nap now.

So you can just leave me alone for a while.

Don Vito & Little Jimmy

2009-03-01T18:22:00.000-08:00

I am pleased to introduce two new members of the Clinton family:

Don Vito & Little Jimmy.

(Don Vito might be "Donna Vita," but we're not sure yet.)

Dad was talking to a guy in Petsmart the other day about these lizards, and the guy said he didn't want to take care of them anymore, so Dad said, "I'll take `em!"

They are Short-horned Lizards, or Phrynosoma hernandezi. You can read more about them and their cousins on this web site: http://uts.cc.utexas.edu/~varanus/phryno.html. They're one of the many species we have nicknamed "horny toads." I didn't know that there were actual lizards called horny toads; I just thought that's what Mom and Dad called me when I hump my blankies.

Anyways, Don Vito and Little Jimmy eat ants, crickets, and mealworms and stuff. They don't do much but lie around in their tank under some heat lamps. I check `em out every once in a while, especially when Dad puts crickets in there and they start chasing them. Then I get all excited because they actually do something!

I'd really like to get a good sniff of them, but Dad won't take them out of their tank. Sometimes I lick the glass to see if I can get a taste, but the glass is too thick, I guess. (The glass tastes good, though.)

Here's a picture of Don Vito, the bigger of the two, which is why we suspect he might be a she. (Little Jimmy will have to be featured in another post, because he was hiding under the sand---he's still a little shy.) That cap is about the size of a Gatorade bottle cap, so the lizards aren't very big. (Mmm, bottle caps are so good for chewing.)

Speaking of chewing, that sounds good right about now. Dad brought home a new bone for me to chew on the other day, so I'm gonna go work on that.

R is for Rocco, and Rocco is called P-P!

2009-02-23T22:39:00.000-08:00

Perhaps you've wondered why I am called P-P. For my name is, in fact, Rocco (there's a little r on my back in case you forget).

But everyone seems to be fond of this "P-P" sobriquet.

I guess I can come up with a few reasons for why they call me P-P. When I was little, they referred to me as "Puppy" or "Pup-pup!" Now I can make sense of how P-P would come of that. But it didn't just turn from "Puppy" into "P-P." It had to go through an evolution process to come to P-P:

Puppy

Pup-Pup

Poop-Poop

Poopy

Pip-Pip

Pip-a-lip

Pip

Peep-Peep

and finally . . .

P-P

And no, it is not Pee-Pee, no matter what anyone else says. I just don't understand why people are correlating P-P with pee-pee. There is a clear distinction.

The Bacon Spankin'

2009-02-08T21:05:00.000-08:00

Yeah, so I got my butt beat today over some bacon. Dad really let me have it. (But it was totally worth it!)

Let me back up. Mom got up this morning and started making breakfast like she normally does on Sundays. She usually makes some form of french toast that involves strawberries. Now strawberries are pretty good, but they make me shudder. They can be too sour. Mom gives me strawberry slices sometimes, and I'm reluctant to eat them right away, but then she'll lean in to take them back! That's when I gobble `em up. I'm thinkin', "Hey, you gave it to me! Just give me some time to decide what to do with it. No take-backsies allowed . . ."

But this morning, Mom didn't make french toast. This morning, I saw Mom take out three pans and proceed to open up three different packages. One was a carton of eggs. (Mmm, yeah, eggs are good.) The other was some tube of pink stuff---oh yeah, sausage! And the other---oh, the glorious other---package was of a texture and scent all-too-familiar. It's really a thing of weakness for dogs. Many of us lose our minds over even a whiff of the stuff. Yes, I'm talking about bacon.

Mom gets everything situated in the pans, and then I hear it all sizzling after a while. Sure, the sausage smells good, but it's got all kinds of other stuff in it. But oh, the bacon---the pure, unadulterated, smoked bacon. Now that'll get'cha. The smell wafting into my nostrils has me hypnotized as I watch Mom cooking.

In the meantime, she's microwaved a potato, which in my opinion is just a mouthful of bleh. (Don't get me wrong, though, I'll eat potato if there's nothing else.) Then she gets out some tortillas. (Yeah, those are nothin' special either.) Guess she's making breakfast burritos.

Once all the food is ready, she calls for Dad to come eat. (She never calls for me when it's time to eat. I guess she figures that since I'm usually standing right at her feet while she cooks, she doesn't need to.) One thing I know about Dad is that he loves bacon, too. But I'm not sure that he loves bacon as much as I do . . .

So Mom and Dad grab some tortillas and wrap up the eggs, bacon, sausage, and potato into burritos, and then they go sit down on the couch to eat. And all the while, Mom never even gave me a lick of bacon! The nerve. But then I notice something hanging over the counter. Paper towel? Hmm, that's funny. What would a paper towel be doing . . . oh, wait. Mom used a paper towel to wrap up the bacon. Could this be the same paper towel? There's only one way to find out . . . I pull it down on the floor, and lo and behold, the bacon comes down with it.

Now what happens next is all a bit of a blur. I remember savagely eating up all the bacon, grease, paper towel, and paper plate I could get to. I don't think I even breathed while this was happening. Next thing I knew, Dad had a hold of me, and I was growling and snarling to claim what was rightfully mine. (All humans should know that when food hits the floor, it belongs to the dog now.) And after a couple of smacks to the butt and a shove out the back door, it was over.

I stood outside in the snow, a bit dazed after what had just happened, and yet this sense of triumph came over me as I licked the bacon grease from my face. I had won. Dad may have won the battle, but I had won the war. That bacon was all mine---and it was all gone.

Yeah, I may have ticked Dad off a little. But I decided he'd get over it after a while. I mean, how can you hold a grudge against a dog as cute as I am? Impossible, right?

So Mom and Dad go to church after that, and I get to bask in the bliss of having a bacon-filled tummy for a few hours. Then they come home, pat me on the head, and Dad goes into the bedroom and shuts the door. Mom says he's doing homework, but I think he's pouting over the bacon incident. Ah well. Life isn't always fair. There's just not enough bacon in the world to satisfy everybody, so you've gotta fight for it. And today, I won!

Let me introduce myself

2009-02-07T20:30:00.000-08:00

Hello! Welcome to a blog about a dog. My name is Rocco, and I live in Rexburg, Idaho, with my family. Brittany is my mom and Taylor is my dad.

It's winter right now, so I've been a bit cooped up in my house most days. Mom decided I needed to create a blog to pass the time, so I thought I'd give it a try. She helps me type up the entries because, well, let's face it: dogs can't spell.

So let me tell you about life in Rexburg. It snows a lot here, as many people know. In fact, when Mom takes me for walks, most of the snow piled up on the sidewalks is taller than I am! At first, I wasn't sure what the white stuff was. Being a native Vegas dog, I'd never seen snow before. My paws had to get used to how cold it was. There were a couple days when I'd be outside walking around, and before I knew it, my paws were frozen! I couldn't move! I tried lifting two legs at a time when I was standing in it to thaw my paws out, but it was no use. My mom had to come pick me up and take me back inside the house. (It's embarrassing when your mom has to save you from the snow.) But I'm more used to it now. Mom hasn't had to save me in a long time.

Mom and Dad's cars get stuck in the snow sometimes. They always manage to get the cars unstuck, but it might take a couple of minutes. Then they come inside all tired and pet me with their cold hands---good thing I have lots of fur!

Besides the snow, Rexburg is a great place to live. Mom introduced me to walks once we moved here. She didn't take me for walks in Las Vegas because we lived in a neighborhood with lots of troublesome kids and big scary pitbulls behind low, questionable fences. So I'm glad we live in a place now where we feel more safe.

Mom works at BYU-Idaho in the Student Records & Registration Office. She's the Registration Specialist, so she gets to help students register for classes. She also tells Dad about all the name changes she has to process when students get married. I guess she does hundreds of those every semester. But she always comes home in a good mood. She even comes home for an hour during lunch! That's when she plays with me and takes me for walks (and sneaks bits of people food to me).

Dad works at Petsmart, the greatest place in the world! He's the expert on fish down there, and lots of customers will only want to talk to him, because he's so helpful and friendly. And when he comes home, he always exclaims, "P-P! Oh boy, oh boy!" as he reaches down and pets me and hugs me. Then I get to sniff him all over because he smells like other dogs. Ahh, Dad's the greatest. I'm glad he likes working at Petsmart.

Dad is also going to school right now at BYU-Idaho. He spends quite a bit of time at the kitchen table where he does a lot of reading and typing on his laptop. I usually just curl up by his feet when he's doing homework. He told Mom he wants to be a physical therapist, so she spent a lot of time at her computer one day typing up a school plan for him so he can graduate with a degree in Exercise Physiology and a minor in Health Science. Maybe when he's a physical therapist he can buy me more treats!

Speaking of treats, I've been eating too many lately. I'm a bit on the chubby side right now, so Mom and Dad have got me on some diet dog food. (Little do they know that the diet stuff tastes better than the regular! Mwuahahaha! But don't tell them I told you that.) But I've thinned down a bit since the holidays, at least. Mom takes me for walks when the temperature outside isn't too cold.

So here are some quick facts about me:

∙ I am a purebred beagle, tri-color, as you can tell by my photos. I am sometimes caught sporting a red collar (with bling, mind you) and a matching red leash.

∙ I am two years old, and I'll be three on September 23.

∙ Some of my favorite things include going for walks, going for rides in the car, and hearing the words, "Treaty-treat! You wanna treaty-treat?"

∙ The only people food that I don't like very much is Jell-O. The texture of that stuff is just too weird. Other than that, I'm game for whatever is dropped on the floor.

∙ I hate when the train comes by. The railroad tracks are just down the street from my house, and I just don't understand why the train has to blow its whistle so loudly. I always bark at it, but it doesn't listen to me.

∙ My favorite spot in the house is on Mom and Dad's bed. Sometimes they don't let me in there, but when they do, I like to burrow myself under the blankets and nap for hours. That's the best!

Well I think this is a good introduction for now. I hope you enjoy my blog.