Houseguest

We've had a house guest for the past several days, he of the big eyes, big teeth variety. No, not the big bad wolf. It's little bad Simon, my son's Boston Terrier. Greg and his wife Lindsay were on a road trip to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania for a short vacation.

And I'm kidding when I call Simon bad. He has mellowed much from his delinquent youth when he attacked and killed a rabbit in our backyard, dragging its carcass inside our house and traumatizing our pampered poodle who witnessed it all. No longer does Simon go out into the backyard with the attitude, "Hmmmm, what can I kill today?"

Now he's content to lie outside, sunning himself. Of course, he'd rather you be out there with him, working in the yard. Then, if you're clipping or pruning, Simon might acquire his most cherished toy, a stick. "Get the stick" is his favorite game.

It's a variation of "fetch." Except that once Simon retrieves the stick, he doesn't give it back. So the game becomes "Get the stick back." He'll come over and lie down tantalizing close to you, tempting you to reach for the stick. If you do, then he pulls away, trots a few steps in another direction, then lies down again to chew on the stick some more. If you try again to get his stick, he casually gets up, trots off, and lies down again, just out of reach. It's a dog thing.

Sometimes with a flash of sleight-of-hand, I can grab the stick. But I have to be careful because sometimes Simon's bite is just as quick. Ouch!. It's an accident, I know, but our old dog Doogie was a lot more sympathetic when he accidentally bit me while we were playing. He'd be like, "Omigod, I don't believe I did that to you. I am so, so sorry" while giving me please-forgive-me doggie kisses.

If Simon accidentally nips me, he gives me this deadpan expression as if to say, "What do you expect when you put your fingers so close to my mouth."

For indoors, we bought Simon another of his favorites, your garden variety squeaky plush animal. They don't last long usually. It's like a Simon version of a Sidoku puzzle with the goal being to rip the squeaker out of the toy. Then the fuzzy animal becomes as unwanted as last year's Christmas toy.

Wendy gave Simon one of these plush toys when he first arrived early Thursday morning. By the time I got out of the shower and downstairs, the squeaker was out, with the $5 plaything ripped almost to shreds. So I bought him a squeaky rubber ball. He loved it. Wanted dearly to destroy it. But I would let him play with it only a few minutes at a time, then I'd take it away and put it up.

Simon was distraught he couldn't have his toy. He lay for long stretches on the carpet next to the piano where I'd put his ball. He'd cry. When he wasn't looking I took it in the other room and hit it behind my back while I sat in the recliner. If I'd put a pinch, the ball would squeak. Simon hurried over, staring at me, checking behind my chair, jumping into my lap, looking for his ball.

I would also set it up where he could see it, but couldn't get it. Can't get the ball, eh. Just like I couldn't get your stick, eh Simon! How do you like it, huh? You know what they say about paybacks, Simon?

Heh, heh.