A few suggestions, here. I've been away a few days hedonistically enjoying myself by

hiking miles and miles along a deserted Oregon Beach; and throwing sticks into a

pristine Sapphire Blue Lake for my three happy Goldens. Unlike those of you who stayed

home and wrote bad nasties to the G&H list. Shame on you. I admit I didn't read **all**

the posts thoroughly. Too depressing. I did some scanning. But--I came up with a few

ideas. After reading 24K Barbs post about allowing herself to be crated in order to gain

some attention for Rescue Dogs the following thoughts occurred to me. Other than the

obvious. Can we fit her into a 500 Sky Kennel? Do we stuff her head first? Or do we fold

her, shove her in butt first? What should she wear for this stellar occasion? A bikini?

Maybe to spice things up a bit toss a few hungry ferrets in with her? Then, the

following thoughts came to me. Maybe I need a Dr.

1. Sell a video of Suzanne Bria's perfect Gemma slaughtering a Woobie. Be sure to get

lots of guts & gore. The audience likes that. Also, get a close-up of Gemma's anal

glands. Add a close-up of Suzanne's face; expression aghast, still in denial over the

whole thing. Edit it for TV.

2. Get underground photographs of Jim Bushey joining **all** the lettered associations.

AKC; GRCA: NRA; NOW; NCAA; FFFP; FFA; NDAA; FRAP; AAA and perhaps--the GOP.

Sell 'em.

One thing I must ask in Jim's defense, here. How come is it if you're a dog, you gotta

be "intact" to get your "letters" in the show ring? I say, fair is fair. All you PhDs;

MBAs, BAs. etc. --drop your trousers! I think we need to check your er, "credentials".

No dangles, no degrees. Yeah, ladies I know. Don't ask. Don't bring it up.

3. I say we need to bring awareness to the spay/neuter programs. This fits right in

there with crating 24K Barb. Barb; you're gonna love this one! Leave Barb's crate in

front of the studio where they film the Geraldo Rivera show. Sleaze sells. Oprahs not

sleazy enough. Now, listen close. This would sell. Get other rescue people to hide

around a corner out of sight of Barb's crate. Helen, Nancy, Paulette, Jane and anyone

else who wants to volunteer. Have the cameras ready. At **just** the right moment, 24K

Barb springs out of the crate, and neuters Jim Bushey on National TV while the rescue

people cheer! Hey, Jim, it's for a Great cause! In the long run, believe me, it'll save

you trouble, too! We could even raffle off any no longer necessary body parts!! For

trophies the size of these, the bidding would go crazy!! Once you're my age, Jim, it

won't seem like too big a deal anyhow!!

4. The follow up video. Picture this. The National GRCA--AKC Convention. The Vienna

Boy's Choir. Jim Bushey; singing lead Soprano on a rousing rendition of "Thank God and

Greyhound They're Gone"! The other option would be to get Brian to write a special song

for the occasion. He shows talent in that department! So--whadda ya think? We could use

some more ideas, here! Don't be shy!

Earnie [I think I'd be really worried if I were you, dad. Jim Bushey has guns. He hunts.

I bet he'd really like you stuffed & mounted over the mantle.]

Becky [Yeah, didn't Jim sorta tell ya to *get stuffed* a couple of times in

the past?]

Peggy Sue [It's a Great idea! Jim has a good sense of humor. Maybe we could just use

catsup during the neutering part. The problem would be getting the 24K grin off Barb's

face.]

Michael & Scotty

The Golden Gang

Becky; The Red Scourge of Squirrels, Feline Track Coach; Peggy Sue; Pixie,

Lover

of Every Creature; Fecal Gourmet

Earnie; Marriage Test, Woobie Shredder, General PITA

Living in SW Washington State; USA

Our girls, Becky & Peggy Sue have birfdays one month apart. This year we decided to

celebrate both B-days at once! After spirited discussion on what we should do, Peggy Sue

hit upon going to the beach. She dearly loves dead Seagulls. Becky likes live Seagulls.

Earnie loves 'em all. So, we hooked the Trailer to the Truck and headed out for the

Southern Oregon Coast! Having lived out all of my 57 years in the NW has a few

advantages. There aren't many places on the Oregon Coast we haven't been. So, we've

developed a few favorites. One in particular is absolute **Dog Heaven**. Fire up your

imaginations. If you're sitting at your 'puter at work, this comes easier on company

time. It always did for me.

Picture: a State Park with over 100 RV spots--with one RV in the whole place. Picture

pulling your trailer right into the premier RV spot next to the trail to the beach!

Picture three very excited Goldens, having been here before and knowing what's down that

trail! Patience is not one of their virtues. After setting up the Trailer, and

disconnecting the truck--down to the beach we go! The trail to the beach is maybe 1/4

mile long, parallelling a perfect little stream complete with deep potholes suitable for

rinsing sand off two Sandbitches and a Surfer Boy. Picture a deserted stretch of beach

at low tide, as far as the eye can see! Sea Birds in abundance! Off with the leashes!

Screw the leash law! Those Gulls need exercise! Picture the Red Rocket dog; closely

followed by the Blonde Surfer-Boy at **top speed** chasing those birds to hell and

beyond! Out into the surf, down the beach--Ya-Hoo! Peggy Sue, in the meantime, searching

the high tide line for whatever died and floated up the last month or so. 3 or 4 hours

of this, rinse 'em off in the creek by throwing rocks for them to dive after! Back to

the trailer with three **wet** and still sandy dogs! Dinner, bed, and early-up next

morning for the long hike through the Dunes a few miles South! We cherish a little-known

loop trail; which begins about a mile from the Ocean, heads toward the beach through the

dunes, then turns South either by walking the beach for a few miles, or walking the

dunes. The weather Gods had smiled on us. A picture perfect day, not a cloud in the sky!

Unusual weather for November in Oregon! After a few miles of walking South and much

running amok and Sea-bird chasing, we turn inland and walk perhaps a mile. We climb a

tall, beautiful sand dune; topped off with scrubby Pine trees. On the other side,

nestled between the sand dune which runs straight into the water from a height of

perhaps 300 feet; and the forest on the other side--a perfect sapphire of a fresh-water

lake! Down the dune, full-tilt boogie run three excited Goldens! Splash! All three dive

into the lake! We spent the next two hours finding and retrieving sticks thrown by--moi!

But, like all good things, time was our enemy. Knowing it's a three mile walk out to the

truck through a marvelous Coastal Forest, not wishing to do that in the dark-- we took

our leave. All three dogs were reluctant to depart this God-given marvel of a spot. Me,

too. But leave we did. It was a **very** good birfday celebration! The dogs slept very

well that night. We would have slept better had there not been some woodland creature

gnawing at the undercarriage of the trailer most of the night. Munch! Munch! Pretty

noisy! So--now we're home, and a very dirty trailer awaits the vacuum cleaner. Sand? Oh,

yeah! But worth it, oh yeah, worth it. If you want a second opinion--ask the dogs!

Earnie [Can we go back for my Birfday?]

Becky [I think I chased all the birds--didn't I?]

Peggy Sue [There is some **way cool** dead stuff down there. Seals, gulls, crabs, and my

favorite--jellyfish!]

Michael & Scotty

The Golden Gang

Becky; The Red Scourge of Squirrels, Feline Track Coach; Peggy Sue; Pixie,

Lover

of Every Creature; Fecal Gourmet

Earnie; Marriage Test, Woobie Shredder, General PITA

Living in SW Washington State; USA

The term "your dog" has a different twist in this household. Not words any of us want to

hear--"your dog". "My dog" is used when the dogs do something right. As in Agility Class

tonight both dogs did very well. Earnie took no *fliers" tonight. Therefore, tonight

Earnie is "My Dog". Last week when he was misbehaving; Earnie was not "My Dog". He was

"Your Dog"--as in my wife's dog for the night. Misbehaving. Must be **Your Dog**; right?

*"My Dog"* doesn't misbehave. Same when the dogs want out and I'm too lazy to get up and

let them out. If I spot Peggy Sue leaning against the sliding glass door, legs crossed,

having to pee--I say "Your Dog" wants out. "Whadda ya mean; **Your Dog?**" My wife

says. "That's **Your Dog**! Get off your lazy arse and let her out!" Of course if we're out

and about and some kind soul makes a fuss over one of our "Beautiful Dogs" then it's

back to "That's **My Dog**"! Favorites? Not in this house.

Becky [I hate the words *Your Dog*!! My Dog is better---!]

Peggy Sue [I'm usually "Your Dog". Particularly when I'm dining on Lawn

Tacos.]

Earnie [I finally made the rank of "My Dog" in Agility tonight! A red letter day! I done

good!]

Michael & Scotty

The Golden Gang

Becky; The Red Scourge of Squirrels, Feline Track Coach; Peggy Sue; Pixie,

Lover

of Every Creature; Fecal Gourmet

Earnie; Marriage Test, Woobie Shredder, General PITA

Living in SW Washington State; USA

This is a tough one. I've been head down, with all three dogs for several hours now. So,

far, we can't figure out who's responsible. I mean, who's responsible for defining

what's responsible? Who sets the example of what's responsible? If I'm being

irresponsible--is some other list member responsible for my irresponsibility?? Darn,

this just gets more tangled. Peggy Sue has *never* claimed responsibility for her

irresponsible poop eating. She claims she's not responsible, and refuses to accept the

burden of any responsibility for her actions. She claims the Devil makes her do it. Does

that make the Devil responsible? While we're on the subject; if the list is cluttered

because of irresponsible posts--doesn't the list become more cluttered by irresponsible

posts complaining about others off-subject posts being irresponsible?? So, if you're

really concerned about whose responsible, and you show it--aren't you being

irresponsible by posting to the list adding to the number of irresponsible posts? Seems

to me a truly responsible person would just send a responsible private post to the

person he thinks is being irresponsible. Whew! I'm getting a headache. Earnie sums the

whole thing up. He's taking a nap. He says he's not responsible and he doesn't care who

is. Becky says she'll claim responsibility for everything if I give her a cookie. I

guess that makes her responsible. Red Dogs rule! Blonde Dogs Drool!

Becky [For two cookies, I'll take full responsibility for the Clinton

scandal.]

Peggy Sue [Not me. Eating poop isn't near as nasty as that whole thing.]

Earnie [ZZzzzzzzzzz----did I hear the cookie bag rustle??]

Michael & Scotty

The Golden Gang

Becky; The Red Scourge of Squirrels, Feline Track Coach; Peggy Sue; Pixie,

Lover

of Every Creature; Fecal Gourmet

Earnie; Marriage Test, Woobie Shredder, General PITA

Living in SW Washington State; USA

I may have inadvertently discovered a potential health hazard. Problem is, I'm not quite

sure whose health is at risk here. Mine or Earnie's? Yesterday, while lounging in the

hot tub it could have been my health at risk. One of Earnie's favorite pastimes is

dropping tennis balls in the Hot Tub while I'm making an attempt at relaxing. Yeah, I

tried taking the tennis balls away, and he dropped the Giant Kong off the porch steps

into the Hot Tub. That thing weighs several lbs. Damn near got me, too. I tried putting

him in the house while we're trying to soak. He lays by the sliding glass door where

it's impossible **not** to notice him and looks pitiful, [the "you don't love me anymore

look"] as only a Golden can do so well. Jewish mothers cannot lay guilt trips like my

Goldens. So, I always give in and let him out so he can terrorize us by dropping objects

into the tub. I'd rather get my lumps than suffer guilt. He thoroughly enjoys going

after these objects once they're ejected from the tub at high speed. In the interest of

safety--- mine, not his--I acquiesced and gave him three tennis balls. Safer than the

Kongs, or whatever else he may find to dump in the Hot Tub. Three is the number he likes

to pack around. Not one. Not two. Three. I have photos. Yesterday I decided to take a

soak. Nasty cold rainy weather, nothing like a relaxing soak, eh? I give the boy his

balls which he promptly drops into the tub. I really don't want to throw them--I want to

relax!!! I think "I know! I'll just ignore him! He'll go away!" Didn't work. He got my

attention with a bang. Frustrated because I had not tossed a ball for about thirty

seconds, he reaches into the tub and grabs a floating tennis ball. He rolls it around in

his mouth, munch, munch. I continue to ignore him. He climbs up the stairs by the Hot

Tub and marfs this soggy tennis ball closer to my face. I ignore him. He makes eye

contact, bites down hard on the tennis ball--and **BLAM** the damned thing literally

exploded from his jaw pressure. Sounded like a blown out tire. Blew slimy dog saliva all

over my face and glasses. I thought this was a random accident. Weak tennis ball. I took

it away, climbed out of the tub and trashed it. Climbed back in the tub. He leans over

the side, makes eye contact and blows another one up in my face. At that point I decided

it was easier to just throw the bloody things. I hope he never gets mad and bites me.

This dude has jaws like a Pit-Bull.

Becky [A lady would never destroy her toys! What a brat!]

Peggy Sue [Maybe we could use those jaws. The trash compactor is busted.]

Earnie [Ignore me, huh? I'll teach ya to ignore me! Watch this--!]

Michael & Scotty

The Golden Gang

Becky; The Red Scourge of Squirrels, Feline Track Coach; Peggy Sue; Pixie,

Lover

of Every Creature; Fecal Gourmet

Earnie; Marriage Test, Woobie Shredder, General PITA

Living in SW Washington State; USA

Agility. Positively the most fun you and your dogs can have together. Clothes, or no

clothes, I don't care. Last night, which was our last class until January, was extra

special. Perhaps it was the atmosphere. You decide.

In the midst of a howling windstorm with gusts of 65 MPH we left for our Monday night

Agility Class. Trees were falling. Power lines, down. This was to be the last class

until after the first of the year, the trainer takes December off. Screw the weather,

we're going to class! Been pretty much house-bound all day with the nasty storm we're

having here in the great NW.

We arrived at the Equestrian center where the Agility classes are held. Huge barn, open

on both ends. The floor of it is dirt, finely ground dust, actually. Nice soft surface.

Well, mostly dirt. There's probably a 20 year accumulation of powdered horse padookey in

there, too. Mixed with the dirt. On a good night, if you're a dog, you can snack on

fresh Road Apples in between exercises. What they don't eat gets powdered into more

floor surface.

The wind was howling right through the barn! It blew so hard, it knocked some of the

jumps over! Each time a big gust came through, it picked up clouds of theer, "stuff" on

the floor and blew billowing clouds of it clean through the place. Earnie loved it. You

could watch his massive chest swell, while he inhaled this stuff! Sort of a doggie

version of "snuff". Myself, I found it rather disgusting. Whatever else this

"atmosphere" did, it seemed to energize both dogs! Earnie was "right on" for 50 out of

the 60 minute class! Plus, on the up side, if you're a dog -- only three of us showed up

for class! Wow! A whole agility course all to ourselves, and flying horse pookey too!

Life is good, eh? Now, the poor human here has *two* dogs in classes. One at 6 PM

[Earnie, beginning] and one at 7 PM [Becky, advanced]! So, the hapless human ends up

running for two solid hours. For me, that's an hour too many--! Becky also had the best

night ever. Barked her way through the tunnels--too funny! The pupils of her eyes

dilate, her jaw vibrates--she gets so excited! I thought of bagging it after Earnies

class, I bet I'd already inhaled several lbs. of powdered poop. But, I was reminded that

I'm generally pretty full of uh, you know, anyway--and how could I deny my Red Dog her

class? Ah, it was good, let me tell you. I'm still blowing it out. Ugh.

Becky [I can flyyyyyyy in this wind! Wow! Inhale that marvelous stuff!

Mmmmmm good!]

Earnie [There *are* advantages to having a humungous honker! Inhale

deeply--ahhh!]

Peggy Sue [Hey! Becky & Earnie smell good! Where have they been? What did I

miss?]

Michael & Scotty

The Golden Gang

Becky; The Red Scourge of Squirrels, Feline Track Coach; Peggy Sue; Pixie,

Lover

of Every Creature; Fecal Gourmet

Earnie; Marriage Test, Woobie Shredder, General PITA

Living in SW Washington State; USA

Earnie here. Ok. I've had it with all you wannabe woobie whackers. Humbug on all you

Gemma-come-latelys. Girls! Next thing ya know they'll want to vote, or something too! I

got news for ya! It's time for youse dudes & dudettes out dere to remember who the

*Original Woobie Wacker* is! I gots pictures I keep in my drawers [no, not THOSE

drawers, you dummies!] of dead sheeps, and chew-men, some of them from Vermont, even.

Wherever that is. I only know those Vermont Chew-Mans is tough, tough, tough! Not like

those imitation Chew-Men from the pet stores. They died hard. They even hung around for

a while with no stuffin' in 'em. Weird. Scary suckers. I even killed my Hump-D-Bear

'cause it had a headache. Sex crime of the decade. Wheaties wants to put my photo on

the box. Yeah, you guessed it. Cereal Killer of the Century! Picture this: really dead,

totally shredded Woobie dangling from my bared white fangs, piles of pink polyester

woobie guts surrounding me! Macho, no? So, yeah, you wanta be serial killers just like

me? You better grow some. While we're at it--hey, **girls** need not apply.Stay in the

kitchen. This is a guy thing. I forgot more than you'll ever know---! Bring on the

woobies! Rrrrrrr!

Earnie

>OK, Mr. SmartAss Earnie Richardson! Although everyone knows that GIRLS

>RULE and BOYS DROOL, you have thrown down the rawhide gauntlet, so here goes:

>

>Gemma's List of Ways in which Golden Girls are Superior to Bronze Boys (not

>an exhaustive list by any means):

Ho hum. Yawn. Typical hysterical hormonal unbalanced female blather. Thank

doG we males think with our heads. Not our hormones. I'll address this point by point.

Except in most cases the only point you have is the one on top of your little girly head.

Suitable for carrying a traffic cone in case of emergency. Like a big sale at the local

Shopping mall.

>

>1) Boys feel the need to hump everything, living or inanimate, no matter

>how inappropriate, uncooperative, or ill-timed.

So--what's your point here? That's the problem with you females. No spontaneity If it

feels good, do it. Besides, I notice you girls engage in humping too. Whatever for???

It's a mystery to me---? Penis envy?

>

>2) Boys not only drool more, even when food isn't under their noses, but

>they also PANT incessently! For no reason!! It could be SNOWING, and those

>dummies are out there, freezing their butt feathers off, and PANTING like

>steam engines!!

We pant because we run warmer. Higher wattage, so to speak. I notice you challenged the

male intelligence below. Humph. If you're so smart, why aren't there any female

Presidents? You know why? Because if there were, she'd wake up one morning with a bad

case of PMS--and push the button blowing us all away. You got close with Susan B.

Anthony. But you notice how long her dollar hung around, right? Ah, well, I don't blame

you for being jealous. It's not your fault you were born female.

>3) Boys not only HAVE anal glands, but they have XL size, and feel the need

>to express them onm a regular basis.

Hey, from time to time it's cool to make a stink. You get noticed. Learn to live a

little. Besides, you got 'em too. Typically, you're in denial. Plus, yeah, ours are

bigger and better. Like most other male things.

>

>4) Boys are none too high in the wattage department; they are several aces

>short of a deck, way low on oil, and chase the bats in their own belfrys

>(but never catch them).

See above. Once again, you simply don't understand us. We like it that way.

>

>5) Boys feel the need to kill their woobies (as opposed to just a light

>maiming), ingest the polyester guts (which don't even taste good), then urp

>them up on the bedspread in the middle of the night. They then have

>nothing but woobie skins to left to play with.

We've been the hunters from time immemorial. That's what we do. Hunt & kill to feed

our--females and helpless young.! Woobicide is just practice--. At least we eat what we

kill. Good hunters do that. Girls are gatherers. You should know that. Hey, we're cool,

I think. We usually bring home the game so you can skin it and cook it. Keeps you in the

kitchen. One of the two places you really belong.

>6) Boys are like bulls in china closets-- they run into you when the

>doorbell rings, knock you over on their way to the kitchen for dinner, and

>can't catch a frisbee without landing on and hurting something or someone.

Common misconception. Probably a rumor started at a ladies' Bridge Club. Think. Great

Dancers. Gene Kelly. Fred Astaire. Rudolf Nureyev. All men. Sure they had partners--but

remember how they were billed. Fred Astaire AND Ginger Rogers? Hmmm. Message

here? Man first, female--second? Hey, Gemma--are you listening?

>

>7) Boys have to pee 10 times for every one time that girls pee, and they

>can't squat -- they have to lift their back leg-- and often fall over.

I don't know who you've been watching--but *I* never fall over. About the peeing 10

times--hey, we're just marking for future reference. You wouldn't understand if I

explained it. Territory thing. Like Wolves do. So we can protect the weaker sex. You

*do* know who the weaker sex is--don't you?

>

>8) Boys howl at the moon for no good reason, sniff everyone's crotch or

>butt (or both), and dribble when they eat.

We're inscrutable. doG help us if you girls ever really completely understand us. Next

thing you'll want to run our lives. So--what's wrong with a little crotch sniffing? Hey,

you put on perfume, so either you're covering up the fact you rarely bathe--or you

*want* us to sniff you. Then you complain. Typical illogical female behavior. Dribble

when we eat? Yeah, I guess we do. But we have you girls to clean it up.

>

>9) Boys have fat faces and big galumpy paws, and eat their feet even when

>you're looking.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Gemma, you should be old enough to like boys by

now. Unless--? Eat your feet? Sorry, doesn't compute.

>

>10) And WORST of all, boys want to wink*wink when we have a headache.

Once again, see above. Lack of spontaneity. It wouldn't be so bad except we never can

tell when you're telling the truth about those headaches---!

>

Your Pal

Earnie

Once again I've come up with an idea that should make me rich! How many of you have one

or more dogs who use their *noses* when wanting attention? Out of the three dogs we live

with, *one* has the less-than-wonderful habit of waltzing up to you and if not

**immediately** noticed--uses her *nose* to gain your *full* attention. Becky can run

her nose from wrist to elbow in under 1/10 of a second. I've timed her. Leaves a wet

trail all the way up your arm. Hard to believe something no larger than her nose holds

that much fluid. But it does. Earnie is a "leaner". Leans on your leg hoping for a

stroke or two. Peggy Sue is a "singer"--roo-roos at you doing the "Happy Dog Hula"-- the

full-body wag. Hard to ignore. But Becky uses that cold, wet nose. Now--check your

Veterinary manuals. A dogs body temperature is around 100 degrees F. True, yes? So, can

**anyone** tell me how a mammal with a body temperature of 100 degrees can have a nose

that is just barely above freezing? The fact it's so *wet* tells me it isn't frozen. It

just feels that way. Plus, if you check the trail of "Pupkus" left up your arm, it's

jelly-like, lugubrious, **snotty**! Not frozen.

OK--here's my proposal. A battery-powered Nose Mitten. Hey, many dogs wear those weird

electric collars, so the battery pack should pose no problem. The design of the actual

Nose Mitten is a bit tougher, I admit. I'm experimenting with a pair of those electric

socks they sell to duck hunters. In principle, these work fine. Problem is the dog is

losing weight. Maybe that's due to the fact the sock covers the entire muzzle making

eating difficult. Hmmm. But--it also stops the drooling problem quite nicely. Ah,

trade-offs!

Becky [Get this thing off of me! Go back to designing your anal-gland expresser

receptacle!]

Earnie [You meant that horses Oat-Bag he hung off my tail? Made it hard to squat, lemme

tell ya.]

Peggy Sue [Oh, man am I glad he's not experimenting on me. I wonder how long it'll be

before Mr. Brilliant realizes that Nose-Mitten would stop my poop eating,

too---]

Michael & Scotty

The Golden Gang

Becky; The Red Scourge of Squirrels, Feline Track Coach; Peggy Sue; Pixie,

Lover

of Every Creature; Fecal Gourmet

Earnie; Marriage Test, Woobie Shredder, General PITA

Living in SW Washington State; USA

Well, it finally happened. After many, many years of being really Great [**we** think

so!] dog parents, we have hit a chuck-hole in the road of dog parenting. We are *bad*

doggie owners today. Rough figuring tells me we've lived with dogs for the last 20

years--with a one year hiatus in there between our beloved Doberman now at the

Bridge--and these Goldens. Old age is an insidious enemy. It sneaks silently upon you.

It does not rush at you, like Wile E. Coyote chasing the Roadrunner. One day you wake up

and--Voila! You know that God whupped you with his aging stick sometime during the

night. So it was today.

After a marvelous workout for the dogs [and us, too!] today, consisting of whacking

tennis balls into the flooded fields behind the house, with all three dogs running

through chest-deep water and at times swimming after the balls--we all came home a bit

fagged out. Tired. Well, so the humans and two of the dogs [Becky & The Pigguer] were

tired. Earnie, our 28 month old Golden Son, didn't appear too tired. He's at that age

where it's not easy to wear him out. So it was that the dogs were napping while my bride

went merrily about her business decorating the house for Christmas. At least we

*thought* all three dogs were napping. We were wrong. Apparently while Michael was

hanging lights off the back deck railing [the closest house behind us is a half-mile

away, I dunno WHY she does this. Only we see the darned things. Never question your wife

if she's happy] Earnie must have gone out the patio door into the back yard. Nothing

unusual there, we let them out there all the time. It's fenced with 42" chain link. What

was unusual was the fact we decided to go buy a Christmas tree and do some errands. So,

we took the Truck. Couldn't take the dogs who **always** want to come along [they'd

accompany us on the Highway to Hell if they got to ride along] because the tree was

going to fill the back of the truck and likely the canopy doors wouldn't close. Not safe

for doggies. Out the door we go. Becky and the Pigger sleeping on the futon. Last place

I'd seen Earnie was up on the loveseat in the family room, doing his best King Farouk

imitation. Figured he was still there. I was wrong. We returned home a couple of hours

later to find *My Son* sitting by the fence with his best "you LEFT me!" look on his

face. Man, did he ever have that "gee, I'm glad to see you" look about him. We had left

the boy outside, unaccompanied, unsupervised, and as it appeared--unhappy. Never, ever,

in 20 years had we driven away and left the dog outside. Oh, the guilt! I fear we are

becoming--forgetful! At least all's well, the boy probably spent most of the time

sitting by the sliding glass door, wondering when we were finally going to let him in

out of the rain. Playing in the rain, if you're a Golden, or swimming in ice water is

OK. Being left outside in the rain, is probably unforgivable. So, tonight, extra tummy

rubs and I'll even toss a few extra tennis balls down the hall for him. Anything to

assuage my guilt.

Becky [Way cool! Did ya**FINALLY** get rid of him? Oh, joy!]

Peggy Sue [Hey! Becky! Lookit! There's a handsome Blonde dude in the back

yard!]

Earnie [You don't love me any more. Can I come in now? I'm cold!]

Michael & Scotty

The Golden Gang

Becky; The Red Scourge of Squirrels, Feline Track Coach; Peggy Sue; Pixie,

Lover

of Every Creature; Fecal Gourmet

Earnie; Marriage Test, Woobie Shredder, General PITA

Living in SW Washington State; USA