First she took my shoe downstairs, and then she took another shoe. Normally this is a sign of great excitement, though I did have my suspicions. It was only when she stood up on her hind legs to grab her coat out of my hands and take it downstairs as well that I finally understood.
Nellie is having a snow day.
No, I do not mean she is the official hunting dog of a city in Germany. I mean that this beautiful, speedy whippet, a dog who might have hunted with Diana herself, likes to sniff along at the grass, dig up whatever worms she smells, and then rub her back on their squiggly sliminess.
We still think of her as a princess.
Nellie caught her first bird today. Trapped it under the porch but never actually took it into her mouth. Too delicate to eat something so wet and bedraggled, I suppose.
The bird is recovering in a bush on the front stoop, where the dog can't get at it.
I know this is the first dog I've ever lived with, so I don't really know what I'm talking about. But do all dogs burrow to the foot of the bed? Under the covers? Nellie likes to go deep - I'm guessing she finds the smell of our feet comforting, in true dog fashion. But how does she breathe? She is not a small dog. She weighs a little less than 30 pounds, but standing on her hind legs she's about four feet tall. Her front legs are long too. If we let her, she'll spend the whole night there, though sometimes she does come up for air.
Is this typical for dogs? Or is my wonderful, beautiful, and very speedy Nellie just weird?
Truly, Princess Nellie is a most unusual dog. She's slept with us most of this winter, and has taken to burrowing in under the blankets on cold nights. Head first. With her butt sticking out. But last night I think she set a new deep diving record. What I thought was a furry leg poking me in the knee turned out to be Nellie's furry nose.
Anyone else have a dog who submerges itself in the covers?
At least as far as Princess Nellie is concerned. Her eyes bulge, her movements become hasty and erratic. She jostles other dogs in her quest for the precious meat!
Curse you, Dad, for introducing my dog to crack cocaine.
Nellie is home. Stitches in her belly. But she's such a good dog, she's not licking them at all. An therefore does not require any silly headgear.
She's not very happy though. Treats tonight!
She went in to be fixed this morning. I feel like a ghoul. I actually miss her looking up, her tags jingling, every time I so much as twitch at my desk.
She'll be home tomorrow.
Turned it off at about the 55 minute mark, and I never turn anything off. But when the protag manages to pass unchellenged all the way to the hospital bed of his infected wife, and the secure area during the code red turns out to have an unlocked door for the infected to get in through, and the last few folks alive decide to leave their safe hiding place in the middle of the night to escape (escape to where?), I couldn't take it any more.
My dog could have written something more believable.
Currently she's living through the beginning of Season Six. That's because we're back from Thanksgiving in the country, with long meadows to gallop across and squirrels to chase and worms to kill by rolling on them and about six people to offer a smorgasbord of cheese, turkey and beef to snap up and gulp down, and long tramps through the woods and more squirrels to chase and long naps on the couch in front of the fire to close out the day. You, too, would think you'd just been pulled back from Paradise if your stupid people brought you back to Brooklyn.
Just call me Willow.