Button the Snorthog
She is small, a miniature Poodle. She is black in colour, but for a few patchy grey streaks back of her legs that she has always had, even as a puppy. She is twelve years old, and still as energetic and mischievous and playful as ever she was. People infer from the grey streaks that she must be old, but I explain the grey is part of her colouration, not indicative of her age. She has large, expressive eyes, notionally button-like, and hence her name. Truth is, she is not pure-bred, but a mix of Pomeranian and Poodle. Her physical characteristics are generally Poodle in origin, as is her acute intelligence. From the Pomeranian side she has inherited stubbornness and no little amount of bossiness.
Although another little dog shares space in this household, she is the Alpha. The other dog is a pure-bred Poodle, a toy variety, Apricot-coated, and male. He is six years of age. He has been cursed with more than his share of testosterone and his aggressiveness toward other dogs is a constant source of irritation and embarrassment. His name is Riley and he is sweet and lovable and requires constant cuddling which Button does not. He knows she is the boss, yet occasionally will assert himself. She tolerates him.
We erred this spring, deciding, since we had missed spreading the compost from our garden compost bins in the fall, to do it in the spring. In so doing, we innocently-enough provided Button with her very own Paradise-on-Earth. Surrounding her home environs, within her very own territory, manna fell from heaven. Its fragrance, which at first almost knocked us off our feet, was sweet and promising to her. In this single instance, stupid little Riley turned out a superior intelligence. It was she, not he, who attempted to roll in ecstasy on the dark, dessicated, still wet compost. It was she, not he, who found this especial nibbling-source so irresistible. It was she, not he, who occasioned us to have to accompany her out of doors on every and all occasions to ensure she would not indulge overly on the stinking mess laid over our gardens.
She has honed her cunning. In the flash of a momentarily-averted eye she is capable of dashing to a sheltered space in the garden and indulging, in a flash. We threaten, we cajole, we warn, we disavow her, but nothing seems to work. I've warned her that we will withhold hitherto-attractive treats if she continues this behaviour, but nothing is permitted to curtail her great pleasure in life, and she continues to devour what she can, when she can.
She is devious, an opportunist of the first order. She is nothing if not resourceful. Withhold her special treats? Hah! Each day as we hike through the ravine across from our home, once halfway through the hour's trek, Button and Riley customarily anticipate their very special treats, and small bits of a flexible, chicken-flavoured strip-concoction are offered for their delectation. What's left over remains in a small plastic bag and shoved back into my pocket. On the latest occasion the pocket resided in a pair of trousers I'd worn to the ravine.
Why was I not surprised to discover she had winkled the bag out of the pocket as the trousers hung in our clothes closet, and left the now-emptied bag as a cocky admonition for my discovery. Gotcha!
posted by Pieface @ Friday, May 12, 2006
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