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Bella, the 7-lb chi (who thinks she's an 80 pound rottweiler) has this need to carry thing around in her mouth. Not to eat or play with, more like Linus' security blanket. Occasionally cute, rarely disgusting, and always exasperating, they range from:
- Subway napkins and Cheeto-bags from the construction site halfway down the block
- pinecones from the tree around the corner
- sticks that are everywhere; ditto goose poop
- the occasional hairball from one of the marauding cats in the neighborhood
and, on this particular occasion, a pepperming Altoid mint. Now I usually indulge her need to drag something around, unless it's poop (Bella! Drop it! Followed by fishing around in her oh-so-tiny mouth and little sharp needle teeth) or a nasty dried up hairball.
So she spies the mint, and happily pops it in her mouth. This should be interesting, I think. Her head is up, proud that she's found a "treasure" that Mom won't object to. The tail is fanned up high and waving in the breeze. She makes it half a block (aka a half marathon for 3" legs) and then stops dead in her tiny furry tracks.
Ptui! Out comes the Altoid. She jumps 3 feet straight back, and proceeds to bark at the slobbery little white disk, melting gently on the sidewalk. The barks are now accentuated with little hops. She looks at me, and blue eyes clearly ask, "what the hell is THAT?"
"Pretty hot, huh, munchkin?" I ask, giggling like a madwoman. Bella turns back to the mint, picks is up and determinedly marches on. For all of 3 feet, and then the Altoid is projectile-spat into the grass. She looks back at me, eyes slightly glassy and panting heavily. She emits a low growl and lunges for the disk. Somehow, I will win this battle, her determined little stance says.
I'm now snorting into my sleeve an wiping the tears from my eyes. She's barking madly at the mint, which simply lies there in its gooey glory. "Enough!" I roar. "LEAVE IT!" I think she's grateful that I've intercepted so there is no loss of face, merely a mom-induced stalemate. With one last huff, she turns her back on the offending thing and trots off with her head (and tail) as high as ever. I'm hoping that this might cure her of her need to pick up every disgusting thing she sees on the sidewalk.
Which it does....for about 20 feet. Something lumpy blows across her field of vision, and we're off after yet another "treasure."
- Subway napkins and Cheeto-bags from the construction site halfway down the block
- pinecones from the tree around the corner
- sticks that are everywhere; ditto goose poop
- the occasional hairball from one of the marauding cats in the neighborhood
and, on this particular occasion, a pepperming Altoid mint. Now I usually indulge her need to drag something around, unless it's poop (Bella! Drop it! Followed by fishing around in her oh-so-tiny mouth and little sharp needle teeth) or a nasty dried up hairball.
So she spies the mint, and happily pops it in her mouth. This should be interesting, I think. Her head is up, proud that she's found a "treasure" that Mom won't object to. The tail is fanned up high and waving in the breeze. She makes it half a block (aka a half marathon for 3" legs) and then stops dead in her tiny furry tracks.
Ptui! Out comes the Altoid. She jumps 3 feet straight back, and proceeds to bark at the slobbery little white disk, melting gently on the sidewalk. The barks are now accentuated with little hops. She looks at me, and blue eyes clearly ask, "what the hell is THAT?"
"Pretty hot, huh, munchkin?" I ask, giggling like a madwoman. Bella turns back to the mint, picks is up and determinedly marches on. For all of 3 feet, and then the Altoid is projectile-spat into the grass. She looks back at me, eyes slightly glassy and panting heavily. She emits a low growl and lunges for the disk. Somehow, I will win this battle, her determined little stance says.
I'm now snorting into my sleeve an wiping the tears from my eyes. She's barking madly at the mint, which simply lies there in its gooey glory. "Enough!" I roar. "LEAVE IT!" I think she's grateful that I've intercepted so there is no loss of face, merely a mom-induced stalemate. With one last huff, she turns her back on the offending thing and trots off with her head (and tail) as high as ever. I'm hoping that this might cure her of her need to pick up every disgusting thing she sees on the sidewalk.
Which it does....for about 20 feet. Something lumpy blows across her field of vision, and we're off after yet another "treasure."
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