Sailor here.
We celebrated Chris’s birthday last evening. Mom’s son (human) turned 23. That’s about 3 in dog years, more or less. To figure out his exact age, you’ll have to check his teeth.
Chris came over early since Mom was late coming home from work. He walked into the kitchen with an armful of food-store bags and unloaded everything onto the kitchen counter. It’s times like these that I wish I were a real Leonberger, and not just an honorary one. Then I’d stand about 32” at the shoulder. Then I would have an easy time sniffing everything on the counters. As it was, all I could sniff was the celery, which leaned out over the edge.
Chris said he was planning to bake lasagna and Zoe and I could help. While we drooled, he chopped, grated, mixed and layered. When he put the lasagna into the oven, Zoe and I stood watch and, noses in the air, smelled all the wonderful smells. We drooled on the floor, too, which I bet would not please Mom in the least when she comes home.
Finally the dinger dinged. Mom, home at last, was not as patient with us as her son had been, and waved us away from our places by the oven. Zoe went into the family room to beg ice cubes from Chris. I stood by Mom in case she needed any help.
Mom opened the oven door, reached in with big fat blue hands and lifted out the pan. As she turned to place it on the marble counter, disaster struck. Well, she wailed in that unmistakable disastardly way, but to me it was a gift from the Dogs.
I am not sure exactly what happened. Did Mom trip? Did she have a lapse of hand-eye coordination? Did the pan miss its front handspring as it vaulted out of the oven? I’ll never know, but the lasagna did an impressive double-full Yurchenko, bounced off the counter, ricocheted off the wall, and landed right side up on the floor. I scored it a 9.975.
Mom COULDN’T have picked a worse time, however, to have me practice my Leave It! command. But she did and I had to. Drat. That was the bad news. That and the lasagna, of course.
The good news for Mom was that only about a puppy-sized serving of lasagna splashed out of the pan. The good news for me was that I got to lick the cupboard doors and Zoe got to lick the wall. Then both of us got to lick the floor.
Of all the gymnastic moves, I think I like the vault the best. It sure beats the Tsukahara that pesky duck did at the duck trials.
I am going to encourage more lasagna making and gymnastics in our kitchen, starting tomorrow. In November, when I turn four (that’s 28 in Chris years), I want a perfect-10 floor lasagna, just for me!
We celebrated Chris’s birthday last evening. Mom’s son (human) turned 23. That’s about 3 in dog years, more or less. To figure out his exact age, you’ll have to check his teeth.
Chris came over early since Mom was late coming home from work. He walked into the kitchen with an armful of food-store bags and unloaded everything onto the kitchen counter. It’s times like these that I wish I were a real Leonberger, and not just an honorary one. Then I’d stand about 32” at the shoulder. Then I would have an easy time sniffing everything on the counters. As it was, all I could sniff was the celery, which leaned out over the edge.
Chris said he was planning to bake lasagna and Zoe and I could help. While we drooled, he chopped, grated, mixed and layered. When he put the lasagna into the oven, Zoe and I stood watch and, noses in the air, smelled all the wonderful smells. We drooled on the floor, too, which I bet would not please Mom in the least when she comes home.
Finally the dinger dinged. Mom, home at last, was not as patient with us as her son had been, and waved us away from our places by the oven. Zoe went into the family room to beg ice cubes from Chris. I stood by Mom in case she needed any help.
Mom opened the oven door, reached in with big fat blue hands and lifted out the pan. As she turned to place it on the marble counter, disaster struck. Well, she wailed in that unmistakable disastardly way, but to me it was a gift from the Dogs.
I am not sure exactly what happened. Did Mom trip? Did she have a lapse of hand-eye coordination? Did the pan miss its front handspring as it vaulted out of the oven? I’ll never know, but the lasagna did an impressive double-full Yurchenko, bounced off the counter, ricocheted off the wall, and landed right side up on the floor. I scored it a 9.975.
Mom COULDN’T have picked a worse time, however, to have me practice my Leave It! command. But she did and I had to. Drat. That was the bad news. That and the lasagna, of course.
The good news for Mom was that only about a puppy-sized serving of lasagna splashed out of the pan. The good news for me was that I got to lick the cupboard doors and Zoe got to lick the wall. Then both of us got to lick the floor.
Of all the gymnastic moves, I think I like the vault the best. It sure beats the Tsukahara that pesky duck did at the duck trials.
I am going to encourage more lasagna making and gymnastics in our kitchen, starting tomorrow. In November, when I turn four (that’s 28 in Chris years), I want a perfect-10 floor lasagna, just for me!
Photo courtesy PDPhoto.org
No comments:
Post a Comment