The balls arrived. Eighteen of them in orange and red. Low bounce tennis balls, guaranteed the best for young tennis players and ball-addicted dogs. I bought the “low bounce” balls in the hope of saving some of my “stuff” from being shattered. Now, I see that we are going to have to put in bumpers to keep the ball from rolling under the table. Garry has been spending way too much time fishing the ball out from under the furniture.
I am patting myself on the back, albeit with a good deal of shoulder discomfort. I figured that Duke would be the only one of the three dogs with any interest in tennis balls … and I was right. Bonnie and Gibbs looked at them, looked at me, looked back at the ball. Looked at each other. If dogs could shrug, they have been doing it. They like stuffies, but balls don’t squeak. No matter how hard you shake them, they don’t play dead. They think toys make better friends.
He has torn out chunks of the first ball of the two I gave him. I’ve been explaining to him he should not eat the balls, but I’m not sure he’s listening. I actually don’t know where the second ball went. I’m betting it’s outside in the big, soggy yard.
Yes, folks, it’s raining again. Thunder. Lightning. Pouring rain. Duke isn’t exactly afraid of the thunder, but he definitely doesn’t want to go hang with it in the yard. I’ve had dogs crazy enough to race into the yard to bark down the storms.
Bonnie hates the rain, but she loves sitting at the window and watching the wind and the weather. Gibbs isn’t afraid of storms, either. He doesn’t hide from thunder. Fireworks don’t bother any of them which is good since we have a shooting club just down the road. You can hear guns often … and they hunt these woods in the fall. Personally, I wish they were further away when they shoot, but at least it doesn’t make the dogs crazy.
Duke is making us younger, or at least, making us act younger. Garry has been crawling around the floor regularly. Retrieving balls, and toys. Grabbing sticks and the pieces of rocks Duke has dragged in. I was out in the yard yesterday and wondering how he got so many twigs piled up like that. There are no trees in the yard. Where did they come from? Wind? Or has he collected them from wherever he could find them in the yard?
Wherever they came from, he has made a nice pile of them in the approximate center of the property. It’s possible the sticks are his sheep and he is keeping them corralled.
Duke is 15-months old, at the peak of adolescent dog lunacy. Soon, he will begin to level off. Meanwhile, he is funny, sweet, and smart. Alert to every movement. He watches your hands, watches your eyes. Except, like now, when having chased his ball around the living room, he’s sacked out.
And I’m pretty sure he’s working on computer literacy. Tune in. He’s readying his Facebook page.