My Bonny lies over and over

By the time a dog reaches six years of age, shouldn’t she have developed at least a modicum of integrity? Of honesty?

So why does my Bonny carry deceit and cunning to a level that would make a cat blush?

Take last week. Bedtime.

My husband and dog had beaten me there: the former on his side of the bed where he belongs, the latter on my pillow where she doesn’t.

I told her to move and she declined with a growl. 

Not a ‘watch out or I’ll take a nibble’ growl so much as an ‘I was here first’ grousing. 

I nudged her off and changed the pillowcase. 

She grumbled the entire time but I am bigger and have opposable thumbs and ‘convinced’ her.

I took my rightful place on the pillow and slept.

Two hours later Bonny startled me awake when she leapt from the bed and stood quivering at the top of the stairs, 

a ‘Who goes there?’ growl percolating in her throat. 

I tiptoed after her, heart a-thumping, turned on the hall light and followed her fixed gaze down the steps. Nothing.

I looked down to ask what she had heard and–she was gone.

I found her on my pillow, eyes squeezed shut and fake-snoring.

I shoved her over (again) ignored her mumblings (again) and changed my pillowcase (again).

In the wee hours of the morning I woke to her whimpering at the bedroom door.

Bonny weighs 14 pounds. 10 of that is bladder. We have not yet determined how long she can hold it, and I couldn’t remember when we had last let her out. When a dog of that bladder capacity says she has to go, you don’t question. You just hold open the door.

I did, then grabbed my robe and headed for the steps, watching my feet to make sure I didn’t trip over a dog trying to hold her 4 legs together.

She wan’t there.

I looked at my pillow.There was the Queen of Deceit, deja vu mingled with smugness all over her fluffy fibbing face.

I blame myself. The little deceptions that were so cute when she was a puppy have mushroomed into a shameless furry package of whopping falsehoods.

If you ever visit with Bonny, I warn you. 

Take everything she tells you with a grain of salt.

And watch your pillow.

It's Green. Beware.

If The Prude's dog Bonny could use a keyboard, the following would be her post:

Something big and green is on my picnic table. It doesn't belong there.

It's looking at me

I'll just hide behind this chair

It's looking at me again

I'll give my warning bark

And... it's still looking at me.

Green is coming closer.

I'll sniff the end that can't see. It smells like no hind side I have ever met.

That end can't see me, silly. I'm 100% sure that end can't see me.

Well. Maybe 99%.

But no worries. I see it has gone where all things evil and green go to die. Burn, evil Green. Burn.

A Prude and her Dog

Prudes are not always consistent people.  We espouse the beauties of organization
even as we have to close a bank account simply to figure out our checkbook.
We extol euphemisms and then write a post on Mucous. Instead of ‘Nasal Cavity Leakage’.
And sometimes we own pets that are not in the least prudish.

The Prude owns this dog.

Who has no compunctions about performing necessary bodily functions in front of an entire troupe of Girls Scouts.  Or nuns.
Who rolls with joyful abandon in piles of bodily functions remains left behind by other dogs. And then leaps, with full assurance of approval, into the Prude’s lap.
Who volunteers her tongue as a sort of One-for-All family tissue to clean out the noses of any and everyone who suffers from the sniffles.

These are the Prude’s dog’s toys.

When the Prude’s children were young she would bleach their toys every week. She would tear the house apart looking for a missing piece from any toy set. She would then organize bleach-stained but completely originally equipped toys on shelves. According to size.

The Prude’s dog has personally shredded and salivated over every one of these toys.
Most at one time had a squeaker in them. Dog can dismantle any toy with a squeaker in less than 4 minutes and then spit out the hated squeaker along with 30 yards of the stuffing that surrounded Squeaker and the little bits of rubber and plastic that gave their lives futilely defending hapless Squeaker.

And then the dog refuses to part with any of these distinctly off-putting, unsanitary, and dismantled toys.

Here is the toy, whose loathsome presence The Prude was unable to bear any longer, threw in the trash.

The dog stood vigil at the trash can most of the day, alternately begging and nagging The Prude to get it back out. So far The Prude has stood firm.

The Prude’s dog has one trait exhibited in Prudes everywhere.
She won’t quit nagging till something changes.

But the Prude will remain steadfast and not return the offensive, fuzz covered half bone. At least until she can bleach it.