Friday, October 16, 2009
Sleeping Beauty
In reply to Julia from Ottawa, check out the earlier posts for some Oreo pix. I notice, however, that there are no recent pictures of the pampered pooch. For your amusement, I'm posting one today of Oreo in one of his more common poses. And Julia, you may think cats are nice but Oreo still doesn't agree!
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
Portie Alert!
This is not the first time it's happened but it may have been the scariest. I'm speaking, of course, of one of Oreo's infrequent dashes for freedom.
This one occurred in the parkland near our house last Sunday morning. Cheryl sometimes takes Oreo there for his morning walk and occasionally even lets him off the leash. Big mistake.
While Cheryl bent down to retrieve some of Oreo's poop, he took off. By the time she stood up, he was nowhere in sight.
Cheryl wandered up and down the field yelling Oreo's name and undoubtedly waking any late-sleeping neighbors whose houses backed onto the field. Meanwhile, Oreo had headed across the field and onto the adjoining street.
Luckily, some kind people who live on that street spotted Oreo racing around looking for an entrance back into the field. They grabbed him, tied him up and phoned the number on his dog tag.
That's when I got the call to come rescue our nomadic dog. I drove to the rescuers' house, thanked them and headed back to the field to look for Cheryl. By this time, of course, she had given up and headed home.
Eventually, I was able to find both my wife and my dog. A happy ending although Oreo had no clue as to the danger that he faced.
This one occurred in the parkland near our house last Sunday morning. Cheryl sometimes takes Oreo there for his morning walk and occasionally even lets him off the leash. Big mistake.
While Cheryl bent down to retrieve some of Oreo's poop, he took off. By the time she stood up, he was nowhere in sight.
Cheryl wandered up and down the field yelling Oreo's name and undoubtedly waking any late-sleeping neighbors whose houses backed onto the field. Meanwhile, Oreo had headed across the field and onto the adjoining street.
Luckily, some kind people who live on that street spotted Oreo racing around looking for an entrance back into the field. They grabbed him, tied him up and phoned the number on his dog tag.
That's when I got the call to come rescue our nomadic dog. I drove to the rescuers' house, thanked them and headed back to the field to look for Cheryl. By this time, of course, she had given up and headed home.
Eventually, I was able to find both my wife and my dog. A happy ending although Oreo had no clue as to the danger that he faced.
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
Porky Portie
It's been some time since I've updated our life with Oreo. But an article on Oreo's younger, more famous cousin in today's Washington Post reminded me that Oreo had a summer, too. Only Oreo's summer was hardly in the same league as Bo's. No galavanting in The White House, no evening walks with the President of the United States and no Martha's Vineyard getaway.
Not that Oreo can complain too much. For the most part, he got to lie around the house getting fat. Which brings me to the subject of today's blog: the porkie Portie.
Somehow, between sneaking in extra feedings and us being a bit slack on giving him table scraps, Oreo managed to pack on a few extra pounds. His mid-summer haircut-cum-shave revealed that our dog had a bit of a belly.
This discovery resulted in a new dietary regime for Oreo. No more table scraps, no inadvertent extra feedings and a slight (albeit noticeable) reduction in his daily portions of dog food.
Did Oreo notice? Definitely. He was not happy about this involuntary reduction in his caloric intake and tried to make up the difference by ingesting more than his usual share of grass, sticks and God-knows-what.
Despite his initial reluctance, Oreo has adjusted to his new mealtime regime. And the results are starting to show. He appears to have shed a couple of pounds and may soon regain (re-lose?) his once trim appearance.
Stay tuned for more progress in the PWD slimathon that we hope will turn our porky Portie into a dapper dog.
Not that Oreo can complain too much. For the most part, he got to lie around the house getting fat. Which brings me to the subject of today's blog: the porkie Portie.
Somehow, between sneaking in extra feedings and us being a bit slack on giving him table scraps, Oreo managed to pack on a few extra pounds. His mid-summer haircut-cum-shave revealed that our dog had a bit of a belly.
This discovery resulted in a new dietary regime for Oreo. No more table scraps, no inadvertent extra feedings and a slight (albeit noticeable) reduction in his daily portions of dog food.
Did Oreo notice? Definitely. He was not happy about this involuntary reduction in his caloric intake and tried to make up the difference by ingesting more than his usual share of grass, sticks and God-knows-what.
Despite his initial reluctance, Oreo has adjusted to his new mealtime regime. And the results are starting to show. He appears to have shed a couple of pounds and may soon regain (re-lose?) his once trim appearance.
Stay tuned for more progress in the PWD slimathon that we hope will turn our porky Portie into a dapper dog.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
The First Puppy
MEMO
TO: Bo, The First Puppy
FROM: Oreo the Portuguese Water Dog
My owner tells me that you have just been chosen by the Obama family to be The First Puppy. Congratulations, Bo. That’s quite an honor. But before you get too carried away with all the attention, best to heed a few lessons from someone who’s already been around the block a few times, so to speak.
For starters, your biggest asset is that you’re cute. Believe me, that will take you a long way. I’ve got the same markings and curly hair as you and, boy, they’ve helped me out of some big jams especially those times when I rolled around in that delicious dead animal matter. Despite what trouble you get into, looking cute means your owners can’t stay mad at you for long.
Next, enjoy your puppyhood but remember, it won’t last. So long as you’re small and cuddly and cute, you can get away with murder. Pee on the rug all you want and chew everything in sight. You’re a puppy; it’s expected. But just so you know, this stage won’t last forever. There’ll soon come a time when your owners are going to expect you to pee outside and actually respond to commands.
Just a word of warning. Beware of the obedience course. It’s no fun but I strongly advise you to just go along. The sooner you perform well at one of these courses, the sooner you can be done with them and get back to doing just as you please. Owners seem determined to get you to graduate with honors. But don’t worry; they seldom have the patience to continue the training regime at home.
Once you’ve completed the obedience course, it’s time to start training your owners. As for the basics, no need to fret. They’re generally housebroken and know to come when you bark. But when it comes to food, treats and walks, they’re sometimes a little slow.
Typically, you’re going to have a couple of bowls - one for food and one for water. Your owners are going to give you regular feedings of dog food but, trust me, that’s not going to be enough. You’re quickly going to have to train your caretakers to give you more dog food and to supplement it with some nice leftovers or table scraps.
One surefire method to get more is to play one owner off against another. I believe you have four owners so this should be a piece of cake for you. Once one of them has fed you, wait an hour or so. When another owner enters the room, shake your food bowl, bark and generally pretend to be starving. Chances are you’ll get a second or even a third helping.
Initially, humans tend to be conscientious about taking you for a walk. Just so you know, twice a day is the accepted minimum. Unfortunately, over time, some owners get a bit lazy and start to cut back on the frequency and length of your daily outings. That’s when a little extra training may be required.
If you find you’re being shortchanged in the exercise department, let your owners know. First try barking. If that doesn’t work, bring them your leash. If even that fails, start leaving little "presents" around the house which should quickly bring them around.
As for sleeping arrangements, humans tend to think you should sleep on the floor or on a doggie mat. That’s OK for starters but don’t settle for that. If you feel like sleeping on a sofa or a chair, do so. Your owners will probably shoo you off the furniture at first but eventually they’ll give up. With a little luck, you’ll be able to sleep in one of the Obama girl’s beds or, if you play your cards right, maybe even the Lincoln Bedroom.
Good luck, Bo. We’re all counting on you. You’re the first Portie to inhabit The White House and hopefully you won’t be the last. After all, we don’t want another Scottish Terrier living there any time soon, right?
Monday, January 12, 2009
Portuguese Water Hound?
I informed Oreo tonight about Barack Obama's announcement today that his family has narrowed its canine acquisition down to two choices. In the words of the president-elect, they're deciding between a "Labradoodle and a Portuguese Water Hound."
Needless to say, Oreo was not impressed with Obama's use of the designation Portuguese Water Hound. He figures if the guy can't even get the name of Oreo's breed right, we may be in for four more years of screw-ups like with that Bush fellow.
I explained to Oreo that Obama is not at all like Bush. But Oreo is so incensed about the misnomer that he just keeps barking and refuses to listen to me. At least that's what I'm assuming he's doing. It may, of course, just be his usual demeanor.
I'm also getting the impression that Oreo is not impressed with Obama lumping him in with Labradoodles. After all, Oreo is a purebred Portuguese Water Dog and Labradoodles are nothing more than uptown cross-breeds, mutts in minks if you will.
I'm just hoping that Obama does the smart thing and chooses a PWD. I suspect that if a Porty becomes the First Dog, Oreo may calm down and forgive the new president for his verbal gaffe today and give him a second chance.
Needless to say, Oreo was not impressed with Obama's use of the designation Portuguese Water Hound. He figures if the guy can't even get the name of Oreo's breed right, we may be in for four more years of screw-ups like with that Bush fellow.
I explained to Oreo that Obama is not at all like Bush. But Oreo is so incensed about the misnomer that he just keeps barking and refuses to listen to me. At least that's what I'm assuming he's doing. It may, of course, just be his usual demeanor.
I'm also getting the impression that Oreo is not impressed with Obama lumping him in with Labradoodles. After all, Oreo is a purebred Portuguese Water Dog and Labradoodles are nothing more than uptown cross-breeds, mutts in minks if you will.
I'm just hoping that Obama does the smart thing and chooses a PWD. I suspect that if a Porty becomes the First Dog, Oreo may calm down and forgive the new president for his verbal gaffe today and give him a second chance.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
My Third Christmas
This one appeared in the Tuesday edition of The Christian Science Monitor (http://www.csmonitor.com/2008/1209/p19s01-hfes.html):
Let me introduce myself. I'm Oreo, a 2-1/2-year-old Portuguese water dog currently lodging with a human family of three.
The family consists of a dad, Dave; a mom, Cheryl; and a 12-year-old daughter named Sarah. For the most part, they're a pleasant bunch, and I generally have few complaints regarding my room and board.
Except when it comes to this time of year. For some reason, the month of December causes my caretakers to go a little crazy.
Early in the month, they erect a tree in the living room. Two years ago, they brought in a real tree and stuck it in a pail by the front window. Dave spent a good hour or two grumbling under his breath and jamming bricks and pieces of wood into the pail to keep the tree upright.
At first I thought the tree was for my benefit. I figured they were providing a place for me to mark my territory so I didn't have to venture outside in the cold. I appreciated the gesture although the appreciation was not reciprocated.
In fact, the following Christmas, the tree wasn't dragged in from outside. Rather, it was taken out of a box in pieces and slowly constructed from bottom to top. Again, I figured this new tree was for my benefit.
But it turns out this new "tree" is no tree at all. I've sniffed and sniffed and sniffed, and as far as I can make out, the thing's made of plastic. Apparently it's there for the family's benefit, although I'm still unclear as to its function.
As the month progresses, the family members add boxes wrapped in colorful paper under the tree. Sarah and Cheryl seem to take delight in this ongoing custom. Dave, on the other hand, keeps muttering something that sounds like a sheep saying "humbug."
Actually, putting the wrapped boxes under the tree throughout the month doesn't happen anymore. I'm not sure exactly why although it might have something to do with my pleasant discovery of cookies in one of those boxes two years ago.
Now they don't put the boxes under the tree until sometime during the last week of the month. One day there's nothing under the tree, and the next morning the floor's overflowing with junk.
I'm not sure what all this activity symbolizes. It doesn't happen any other time of the year, just December. And I'm still unclear as to why these humans go through the exercise at all. Sarah seems to get a kick out of it, but it definitely tires Cheryl out. And Dave isn't fit to talk to until at least January.
The day before all the boxes go under the tree, other humans move into the house for a couple of days. And – wouldn't you know it? – they bring a bunch of paper-wrapped boxes, too.
The day of the boxes under the tree is the craziest thing I've ever seen. Everybody gets up early and even more people show up at the door with – you guessed it – more boxes! And all this stuff ends up under the tree.
What happens next is really quite silly, if you ask me. They spend an hour or so passing the boxes to each other and tearing all the paper off.
I've never pretended that I understand humans. But after 2-1/2 years of living with them, I thought that I had pretty much figured out their routine. Yet this end-of-December madness makes no sense to me.
It all wouldn't be so bad except for what happens next. After the paper-destroying exercise, Dave and Cheryl put a huge, delicious-looking turkey in the oven, where it stays, cooking all day. It doesn't seem to bother them at all, but, as I'm sure you can understand, it's pure torture for me.
With all this madness going on, I'm fortunate if I even get fed and walked. I think I agree with Dave; I could probably do without this annual free-for-all. But every year there's a little box under the tree with my name on it, and what's inside usually tastes pretty good. So maybe this thing called Christmas isn't so bad after all.
Let me introduce myself. I'm Oreo, a 2-1/2-year-old Portuguese water dog currently lodging with a human family of three.
The family consists of a dad, Dave; a mom, Cheryl; and a 12-year-old daughter named Sarah. For the most part, they're a pleasant bunch, and I generally have few complaints regarding my room and board.
Except when it comes to this time of year. For some reason, the month of December causes my caretakers to go a little crazy.
Early in the month, they erect a tree in the living room. Two years ago, they brought in a real tree and stuck it in a pail by the front window. Dave spent a good hour or two grumbling under his breath and jamming bricks and pieces of wood into the pail to keep the tree upright.
At first I thought the tree was for my benefit. I figured they were providing a place for me to mark my territory so I didn't have to venture outside in the cold. I appreciated the gesture although the appreciation was not reciprocated.
In fact, the following Christmas, the tree wasn't dragged in from outside. Rather, it was taken out of a box in pieces and slowly constructed from bottom to top. Again, I figured this new tree was for my benefit.
But it turns out this new "tree" is no tree at all. I've sniffed and sniffed and sniffed, and as far as I can make out, the thing's made of plastic. Apparently it's there for the family's benefit, although I'm still unclear as to its function.
As the month progresses, the family members add boxes wrapped in colorful paper under the tree. Sarah and Cheryl seem to take delight in this ongoing custom. Dave, on the other hand, keeps muttering something that sounds like a sheep saying "humbug."
Actually, putting the wrapped boxes under the tree throughout the month doesn't happen anymore. I'm not sure exactly why although it might have something to do with my pleasant discovery of cookies in one of those boxes two years ago.
Now they don't put the boxes under the tree until sometime during the last week of the month. One day there's nothing under the tree, and the next morning the floor's overflowing with junk.
I'm not sure what all this activity symbolizes. It doesn't happen any other time of the year, just December. And I'm still unclear as to why these humans go through the exercise at all. Sarah seems to get a kick out of it, but it definitely tires Cheryl out. And Dave isn't fit to talk to until at least January.
The day before all the boxes go under the tree, other humans move into the house for a couple of days. And – wouldn't you know it? – they bring a bunch of paper-wrapped boxes, too.
The day of the boxes under the tree is the craziest thing I've ever seen. Everybody gets up early and even more people show up at the door with – you guessed it – more boxes! And all this stuff ends up under the tree.
What happens next is really quite silly, if you ask me. They spend an hour or so passing the boxes to each other and tearing all the paper off.
I've never pretended that I understand humans. But after 2-1/2 years of living with them, I thought that I had pretty much figured out their routine. Yet this end-of-December madness makes no sense to me.
It all wouldn't be so bad except for what happens next. After the paper-destroying exercise, Dave and Cheryl put a huge, delicious-looking turkey in the oven, where it stays, cooking all day. It doesn't seem to bother them at all, but, as I'm sure you can understand, it's pure torture for me.
With all this madness going on, I'm fortunate if I even get fed and walked. I think I agree with Dave; I could probably do without this annual free-for-all. But every year there's a little box under the tree with my name on it, and what's inside usually tastes pretty good. So maybe this thing called Christmas isn't so bad after all.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Presidential Canine Advice
TO: The Obama Family
FROM: Oreo the Portuguese Water Dog
My owner tells me that you folks are looking for a dog. First of all, I’d like to reassure you that you’re making a very wise choice. Anyone who tells you that you should be getting a cat instead is just not thinking straight.
Now the last I heard was that dad has decided that he’d like to get a mutt from the pound. That’s a nice gesture and I heartily endorse the sentiment. But I also heard that ten-year-old Malia is allergic to dogs and that the number one priority is to get a dog who’s hypoallergenic.
With no false modesty, I can heartily recommend that you acquire a Portuguese Water Dog. Yes, there are other breeds that are hypoallergenic. But if you want a real dog in The White House that Malia can actually play with then a Porty is the way to go.
Some folks are going to tell you that you should get a Bichon Frise. Sure, they don’t shed and those with allergies won’t have a problem. But do you really want a Bichon? In case you didn’t know, they’re small, yappy dogs that even other dogs don’t like.
I’m sure you’re going to have all kinds of people telling you that you need a poodle. OK, you could do worse but I don’t think the President of the United States should be owning a frou-frou dog like that. Pick a Portuguese Water Dog and you’ve got all the advantages of a poodle and none of the stigmas.
Look, if you’re still having doubts, give me a call and I’ll be glad to pay you a visit. Who knows? Maybe we’ll hit it off and I can become the First Dog.
It’s not that I don’t like my current family. But they live in Ottawa and, frankly, it’s not the greatest climate here. I hear that Washington is a heck of a lot milder and I sure wouldn’t mind escaping these long Canadian winters.
Plus, my owners are not the most generous when it comes to dog food. It turns out that I, too, am allergic and therefore need a special dry food made from potatoes and salmon.
For the first year or so, I didn’t mind too much. But now I’m downright sick of the stuff. I hear that you folks have your own personal chef. Maybe he or she could treat me to the odd meal of roast beef or steak tartare.
So, think about it. You’re all about change and I sure could use a change right about now. Plus, as a Canadian PWD, maybe I could help you formulate some new policies. After all, we’ve got socialized medicine, gay marriage and medical marijuana up here.
If my offer sounds good, give me a call. But please don’t let my current owners know. For some reason, they’re kind of attached to me. For now, you can contact me through my blog and no one else has to know.
