Iris, our favorite girl

Iris is called a Rhodesian Ridgeback. Ridgebacks originated in Africa, but Iris doesn’t remember the climate since she was never there. Her DNA dictates that she is cold and she shivers. Somehow, she and others like her ended up in Minnesota where it is said to be very cold. It isn’t cold today, but that is off-topic. It was cold the day you took her picture. Iris may have felt humiliated in this outfit when you laughed at her, but she loves you anyway. She shows this by dipping her head and running headlong between your legs. You love her anyway even when she knocks you off-course and you try (sort of) not to laugh at her outfits, but you just couldn’t stop laughing on this particular day. Iris’ mom, Stephanie, does the best she can to keep Iris toasty despite the fact that Iris’ garb is slightly disharmonious. (No, I did not make up that word. Remember I have a very large vocabulary.)

This brings me to Bearded Collies, which is what I am and what Biscuit is and what a new little guy named Booker is. Booker belongs to Sheryl. Booker and Biscuit and I are called Beardies because we have a tuft of fur under our chins that looks like a beard. We originated in Scotland where it’s very cold. Some dogs wonder what we are because we far exceed most dogs in the hair/fur department. One dog whom we will not name tried very hard to wipe poor little Biscuit out of existence a few weeks ago, but Biscuit’s hair/fur protected him from a terrible fate. His opponent’s powerful jaws simply could not pierce through to Biscuit’s neck. You saved him and brought him to iris’ home for comfort and then to our home to me where we carried on as usual in our safe little abode. So we may look silly to some, but we manage to survive because of, not in spite of, our abundance of hair/fur. Dogs, which is what we are, have adapted to their country of origin as well as to their country of adoption. Biscuit and I could never wear what Iris wears, and she would look quite unusual if she had a beard.

Lest you think Iris only stands still, let me explain she is quite a runner. Although she looks like a kangaroo, she runs like a cheetah. And Biscuit and I are pretty good sprinters.

Advice from Oliver: When assessing someone’s attire, remember that their place of origin may dictate their choice of fashion.

PS See my beard?

It is very important to love thy neighbor as thyself. Above you see Hannah. She lives on the other side of the wall. Biscuit and I love her and she seems to love us back, but it’s a long-distance relationship. Hannah rolls over on her back when she sees us and we dance around her. There hasn’t been much actual contact, just extra-polite sniffing. We’re polite with her because despite her size, we believe she exudes delicate femininity…a certain reluctant”Paws off, you brutes!” Oh, well, if she won’t engage in our rambunctious tumult, we will continue to quietly admire her, especially in the cheesecake photo you see above.

For those of you who understand our type of energy, you can relate to the fact that we never give up hope that Hannah will arise from her slumbering pose, leap up, and charge through the door with abandon to chase squirrels with us or with our closest relative, Iris, and her dear friend, Vern, both of whom exhibit tendencies that more closely resemble our own. Every dog is different. We are very tolerant of differences.

It is finally snowing today and I just saw a rumbling truck on the lake path clearing away the minuscule layer of snowdust. Ha! We want the real stuff, but Patience and Prudence are our sisters, along with our elder sister, Hannah, the poseur.

Advice from Oliver: Tout vient a qui sait attendre. I never told you I also speak French. All (good) things come to those who wait.

Hello, all my fanbase. As you can see, Biscuit and I are creating our own fun with the good ole simple Stick Game. Obviously, I am still Champion Stick Puller. In human language, you may have called it Keep Away or King of the Hill or some human name like that. Our game in Dog is simply: STICK. Points are determined by Style and Physics. There is some intimidation involved, I admit. A deep growl helps. What I lack in operatic basso-profundo voice-quality I make up in prance.                                 

Look right. See how effective I am? I like to show off awhile. Then I allow the Biscuit to precede me in our road parade. He is joyous and I am ever so casual. We both know our roles in this game.

We wouldn’t mind a little snow because we really like to run around in it even though it collects ice balls between the pads in our paws and keeps us from running fast, but it feels so lovely in our fur.

Biscuit and I and our non-furry humans wish everyone who reads this HAPPY NEW YEAR!!

Let it snow and stick. Stick is a homonym. (Remember my large vocabulary.)

Advice from Oliver: When things don’t happen the way you expect, make up your own games. Let the other guy lead you at the end to preserve her/his ego.

I can hardly remember a time when there wasn’t a Biscuit. He’s technically my nephew. That is to say, he’s my sister’s pup. But Biscuit is much more than that. Much, much more. He’s a pal when we’re alone in the house with classical music playing. I don’t change positions from when you left and have reminded us, “I’ll be back!” I know you’re telling the truth because you always come back. Eventually. I listen to all the sound/music on the CD player, but I have a favorite: Chopin. After we’ve waited through many musical compositions, we hear the garage door go up. I’m first at the door. Biscuit wakes from his tenth nap of the day and joins me. He tries to imitate my happy expression when you come home. Biscuit sniffs your shoe and wags his tail. I jump on you and hug you. He doesn’t have nearly the keen sense of drama that I have. But you pet both of us equally. It’s only fair that you love us the same, even if I am older and wiser.

Biscuit is also an excellent playmate when we find a big stick along the walking path. Sometimes I take one end and he takes the other. Sometimes when I’m feeling Alpha-ish, I growl low in my gullet and Biscuit drops his end and I go sailing off with the stick bouncing down the path. I feel sorry for him and prance in front of him in order to demonstrate just the right swagger, head up, feet a-dancing. He tries to pick up the dragging end of the stick and I completely fake him out by running away again. It’s a great game. 

Biscuit’s an accomplice when I steal socks off the drying rack in the laundry room. He tries to take part of one sock, but I hold on tightly. We both run upstairs to see if when we stand at the front door, you’ll let us outside on the deck to patrol the neighborhood. I have to fork over the socks before you let us out. You let Biscuit out if he jingles the bells on the door, which requires no effort or ingenuity.

I used to be boss regardless of the time and place, but what good is that if there’s nobody to follow? Now I have Biscuit to help convince you that I need to go outside this instant.

Since Biscuit arrived, when the day folds in and it’s good and dark, it becomes absolutely necessary for me to remind Biscuit and you and Dad that I am Leader. When he jumps on your bed and he thinks he’s closest to you, I have to jump in front of him even closer. If he lies on your feet and acts like a big fluffy baby, I usually let him get by with it because I know who I am. I am not fluffy. I am sleek and elegant. I do not have to prove 100% domination because Biscuit and I both know who’s Top Dog.

Advice from Oliver: It takes a source of competition to prove one’s true excellence.

Daisy and I were about the same age. She was as beautiful as I am handsome. This blog is for my beautiful friend, Daisy, who left our world a few weeks ago.

She was a Rhodesian Ridgeback. I am a Bearded Collie. We are what you call dogs. We have four legs. You have two legs and two arms. I hug you with my front legs like you pet me with your arms. Daisy and I mostly chased each other in circles. She jumped over my head and I barked. We had a lot of room to do that up at Old Pines, where she is resting in the photo above. Daisy had long legs and was bred to hunt lions who run very fast . I was bred to herd sheep which are slower and shorter and are intimidated by loud barking. Almost every time you saw Daisy, you patted her lovely head, and sang a very old song to her. It sounded like this:

“Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer true. I’m half crazy all for the love of you. It won’t be a stylish marriage. I can’t afford a carriage, but you’ll look sweet, upon the seat of a bicycle built for two.”

For those of you who have reached a certain age, you may remember that song. For you young ones who just like the song, you might like to know that it was written by a man named Harry Dacre in 1892 for someone he loved named Daisy, Countess of Warwick. She was one of the many sweethearts to the King of England named Edward. But Harry loved her too and wrote the song for her.

My pal Daisy was related to me somehow but we never know how to describe that kind of relationship. She lived with Iris, her sister, in the household of your daughter and all of those humans at that house, Stephanie, Howard, Eleanor and Eliah. I don’t really understand what you’d call us, cousins or uncles or aunts or something. The real thing that mattered is that it was always clear we loved each other and that is what counts. We sniffed each other all over in the important places and in the respectful ways that dogs do. Iris and everyone around your house and mine and miss you, but we are taking good care of each other and will remember you forever.

Advice from Oliver: Love the ones around you, no matter how many arms and legs they have. And no matter how many other people love them. Sing to them, even if it’s an old song, (131 years old). Bark if it’s in your genes. Sniff them if you feel like it. Remember them forever.