Observations by Hayley Lamb
(Translated From “Dog” by W. H. Lamb)
Hello again to everyone. My name is Hayley Lamb, and you can see my picture at the top of this article, where I’m sitting in front of MY house. This is my second article for this newspaper that I’ve written. My Uncle Boomer used to write a lot for The Times Examiner before he decided to cross over the “Rainbow Bridge” back in 2015. He was into unimportant stuff like politics, but he also wrote about really relevant and important things like chasing cats and squirrels, riding in his Grampa’s car, keeping big birds out of our yard, and making sure that the mailman didn’t come onto our property. He even ran for the office of “Dog-In-Chief” way back in the dark time of 2012, before I was born (but he lost). He did belong to The National Anti-Cat Society, just like I do. He was a real cat hater/cat chaser, so I know from whom I got my “anti-cat” propensities.
Just to refresh your memory, I’m an eight-year-old female Pit Bull/Black Lab mixture. I’m still not sure what being a “mixture” means, but that’s what my humans call me. I haven’t figured out yet what being a female means, except I know that my gramma is a human female, or a woman, I think they are called (but if she’s a female woman, and I’m a female dog, why am I not called a woman, also?). My grampa looks different from her, so what is he called? I think he’s called a man. Am I right? Human society is so confusing to me. Whey can’t they all be like dog society? They’d be much happier if they were. You probably don’t agree with me, but I know I’m right.
Oh, I forgot to tell you—their names are “Grampa” and “Gramma”, and their last name is the same as mine. I let them use my name. Obviously they look different than I do, and I sometimes feel bad for them because while they have four legs, they use only their two long legs to walk upright, and they don’t seem to be able to walk as well or as fast on them as I do on my four legs, poor things. Their top legs have skinny-looking things called fingers on their paws, and I’ll have to admit that those finger thingies are much more useful than my paw claw fingers. My Gramma has a hard time walking at all, these days, and my Grampa doesn’t seem to be able to take me on long walks like he used to do—just short walks, but I still enjoy them, even if he refuses, as he always has, to let me chase squirrels and my arch enemy--cats. He told me that he’s getting too old to do that. I’m not sure what “getting old” means, but if it means that I can’t walk well any more and chase cats, then I don’t want to “get old”. I prefer to stay just like I am.
Last time I wrote that I was frustrated because my Grampa’s computer keyboard wasn’t made to allow me to use it. Grampa just ignores my complaints about that, so I’ve resigned myself to the fact that the humans who make keyboards really don’t want we superior dogs to be able to use computers (we might write bad things about them—I know I would), so I compromised when he explained to me that I could narrate my thoughts to him in my dog language, and that he would translate and write them out with that computer thingy he’s always in front of. The same that my Uncle Boomer did with him.. He’s always doing nice things like that for me. (He even learned my “dog” language, so we can communicate well together and I can tell him what I want him to do).
I long ago took over running our den (they call it a house), and I’ve got both of them trained pretty well, now, and they almost always do what I want them to do. Except for my Gramma, who sometimes is stubborn and doesn’t do what I want her to do. I sometimes have to discipline her with my warning barks and growls, and she tells me I’m being “naughty” (whatever that means) which makes my Grampa look at me with that scary look on his face that I don’t like, so I stop barking. Now let me tell you, I have my own personal couch in what they call their living room. It’s where I sleep every night, and sometimes during the day. The problem is that my Gramma likes to lie down on MY couch from time to time, especially when she and my Grampa are in MY living room and want to watch something on that computer thingy they use all the time. My Gramma never asks me for my permission to lay down on MY couch, and just brings her pillow in and starts to take over MY couch. I have to let her know, in my language of course (barks and growls) that I don’t want her to use MY couch, but she just comes and takes it over anyway, even when I get right under her and scowl and growl as a warning to her to keep off of MY couch. I expect my Grampa to side with me, but he doesn’t—he just agrees with my Gramma and tells me to “behave”. I always behave (well, most of the time). Why are humans so rude to their dogs, who are just trying to keep order in the pack? Why can’t my Gramma lay on the floor, like I have to do when she takes over MY couch? Humans are so hard to train, and our relations can be frustrating at times when they don’t obey. But I digress.
I never met my Uncle Boomer, who was 12 years old when, as my humans told me, he “crossed over the rainbow bridge”. Apparently on the other side of that bridge is a place where dogs go after they live with their humans for many years, and I’m told it’s a wonderful place with lots of trees and grass and ponds to enjoy while they wait for their humans to come and be with them again. Frankly, I’d rather stay here in MY den that has comfortable furniture for me to lay on, and lots of good food. I wonder who feeds dogs on the other side of that Rainbow Bridge, and what kind of food they get? Do you know? I asked my Grampa if there were any cats there, but he was noncommittal. Which made me very suspicious, and if I ever cross that Rainbow Bridge and find that there are also cats living there, I’m turning right around and coming back to live in my den with my humans, whether they like it or not.
I had an interesting adventure recently. I was riding with my Grampa in his car, something I do almost every day. The window on my side was down, and I had my head out so the wind could blow on it and make my ears flap around, which I love. My Grampa stopped his car at something he calls a “red light”, and suddenly, right beside me in another car, was a big brown dog, and his window was down also. Well, for a brief time we just stared at each other, waiting to see who would make the first challenge. I guess I did, because to tell the truth I’m not too fond of other dogs. Well, this big brown dog (he was bigger than me, I think) accepted my challenge, and began barking loudly at me, telling me that HE was “top dog” and for me to stop barking back at him if I knew what was good for me. Naturally I couldn’t take his challenges without responding, and suddenly both of us were barking loudly at each other. I heard his human yell at him to “shut up” (whatever that means) but he and I just kept up our barking. Finally I saw his window go up, and my Grampa suddenly put up my window also (how does he do that?), which truly upset me. Finally that other dog drove away in his Grampa’s car, and my Grampa started driving his car also, but it was soon right beside that brown dog’s car again. So naturally we continued our barking and snarling contest until that other car went off in another direction. I gave it a few final barks and then told my Grampa to open my window again, which he finally did. It was an exhilarating experience. I wonder if humans ever do the same thing with each other?
My Grampa and I had another adventure not long ago. It involved some silly looking things that my Grampa called Road Racer lizards. My living room has two doors so we can go outside. One is a thin steel door with a big glass window that takes up half of it. He calls it a storm door, whatever that means, but it has a small opening under one side of it. The other door is a big steel door that my Grampa keeps open when he’s working on that computer thingy of his. Anyway, I was laying on MY couch, getting really sleepy, when suddenly from under that storm door crawled one of those silly lizards, and it came right into MY den. Can you imagine? We were being attacked by a creature I’d never seen before, and I was sure that it had lots of big teeth to bite me with. For some unknown reason, my Grampa started talking to this lizard and didn’t seem one bit worried that we were being attacked by it. I immediately jumped off of MY couch and attacked that lizard, barking as I ran toward it. It immediately ran back under that storm door and disappeared. But I had saved both of us from being ripped to pieces by that beast. My Grampa explained that there had been a family of Road Racer lizards living under a corner of our front walkway for many years, and that he always saw them sunning themselves on MY front porch or on part of our front brick wall, and that they were good little lizards who ate mosquitos and termites and bug larvae. But I knew better, and I told my Grampa that I had saved him from being bitten by their big teeth. He just laughed at me and told me that lizards like that didn’t have teeth, but I knew better. Aren’t you proud of me? Now whenever I come into MY den from outside, I have to inspect to make sure that there are no dangerous lizards lurking on the porch.
In my last Times Examiner article I didn’t mention an adventure I had when I was about four years old. I was sort of embarrassed to tell you the story, but my Grampa told me that I should, so I will, because he told me I should. It’s still kind of embarrassing, but my Grampa told me to tell you the story anyway, so I will. For about two years before this embarrassing incident, my Grampa used to take me, once each week, to a place that was like a “camp’ for dogs. The humans there interviewed my Grampa, and then me, and then they took me into a big room that was like a giant cage, and it had a lot of other dogs in it, and they were about my size. Now I had never seen that many dogs before—not ever—and I didn’t realize that there were so many other dogs in the world. That other human took me into that room full of dogs, and we sniffed each other, looked at each other, and then most of them went off and ran around the room with their friends. So that strange human at that dog camp told my Grampa that I would be welcome to come there one time every week (I’m still not sure how humans measure time) and spend the day playing with the other dog pack.
For the next two years my Grampa took me to this dog camp once each week, to spend the day playing and running around with the other dogs. We could stay inside or go out into the sunshine if we wanted to. So for those two years I went to this camp once a week and played with the other dogs. Some of them, I discovered over time, could get a bit snarly with me, and they tried to intimidate me, it seemed. Naturally I snarled back at them, letting them know that I wasn’t about to let them intimidate me. But most of the time we spent our day running and playing with each other, taking occasional naps on the floor, and enjoying being petted and scratched by the human who was in the room with us at all times.
Thing went on like this each week for about two years (whatever they are—I’ve never discovered just what a “year” is, but my Grampa seems to think it is something really important. But I digress). Near the end of that time, I discovered that some of the other dogs seemed to like to snarl at me and try to scare me away from the water pails. Now if there’s anything I really like, it’s a drink of nice cool water after I’ve been running around or gone for a walk. I decided to put up a resistance against these other dogs and protect MY water pail, and so I did. For the final couple of times I was there I protected MY water pail, and did my best to keep the other snarly dogs away from it. The human in the big room with us kept telling me that I shouldn’t do that, but what did he know? He wasn’t the one being snarled at. I was. So I tried to snarl at these other dogs even more, to keep them away from MY water. What I didn’t realize was that the other dogs who were not snarling and barking at me were thirsty and wanted a drink of water from MY pail. But when you’re defending your possessions from others who want them, you don’t always think of other dogs and their needs.
The last day I was at that dog camp, one of the humans came and put a leash on me, and pulled me away from MY water pail, and put me in a small room, all by myself, where I had to stay until my Grampa came later and got me. I saw him talking with one of the camp humans, and then they brought me out and gave me to my Grampa. When we got into his car, he told me that I had been “naughty” and “mean” around the other dogs, and that he had been told that I could not come back to that camp anymore. I could tell from his voice that he was angry with me, and I didn’t like it. By the time we got home I was feeling very embarrassed that I had behaved badly, according to my Grampa, and had been banned from returning to play with the other dogs. But it was all their fault, I knew, and I was only trying to defend what was mine. You agree with me, right? Anyway, that’s the story of how I got banned from that dog camp. But who needs other dogs, anyway? I have my humans.
Speaking of being embarrassed, a couple of weeks ago I did the “unthinkable horror” in my Grampa’s and Gramma’s den: Yes, I did THAT on their carpet, not once but twice during the night. I usually wake up my Grampa to take me out, but for some reason I “forgot” to wake him up that night, and I had two “accidents” on their carpet. I had forgotten about it by the time my Grampa woke up and discovered my “indiscretions” during the night. He really yelled at me and made me feel like a silly, naughty puppy, which I didn’t like. We got into an argument over my “accidents”, and as he spoke harshly to me I barked harshly back at him. But he soon cleaned up my bad behavior and I gave him lots of kisses to assure him that I forgave him for yelling at me. You agree with me, don’t you? I know you do.
I’ll admit that taking care of my two humans can be tiring, so I have to sleep a lot to keep up my energy—ten or twelve hours a day. Doing all of my work in our den does make me hungry, and my Grampa prepares a big dish of good meat and vegetables for me that I enjoy usually in the morning. I have my own personal set of raised up bowls—one for my food and one for my nice cool water that I love to drink. He also prepares a bowl of healthy crunchies for me, that I usually eat at night, unless I’m not in the mood to eat them. Then I just leave them in my bowl. Sometimes I feel like eating crunchies, and sometimes I don’t. Do you know what I mean?
About every two months my Grampa take me to a place I really like. It’s called a Veterinary Hospital where, besides making sick dogs (and I guess cats, too) well again, they also do grooming and bathing. I really love to go the Vet and get my bath, my skin treatment, my ears cleaned, my nails (claws) trimmed short, and my “back end” cleaned (if you know what I mean). It feels wonderful to get my bath there, and they really do a special job making me feel good. My Grampa calls it the Wade Hampton Veterinary Hospital, and I really love going there (did I already say that?) You humans should go there yourselves and let them bathe and groom you. You’d love it!
Many days when I’m awake with my two humans, I hear them discussing humans that run in other packs. Some packs my Grampa calls “liberals”, and he really doesn’t like them. I seems that those liberal human packs believe just the opposite of what my pack believes. Why any human packs would upset my Grampa and Gramma like they do is beyond my dog understanding. For example, I recently heard my pack condemning some politician they called President Biden. From what I gather (I might be wrong) this Biden and his pack not only spend all of their own bones but they take all of the bones from other packs all over this country to spend on stuff they want, but which my humans say is wrong and wasteful. Even I know that this is not right. Let this Biden pack earn their own bones, live within their means, and buy Kibbles & Bits instead of Gourmet Steak & Gravy. After all, bones don’t grown on trees! Do they? (I’ve never seen a “bone tree”. Have you?) But I digress.
My human pack sometimes talks about what the “government” should and should not do. I don’t really know what “government” is, but from what I gather it is a really large pack of Pit Bulls, Dobermans, German Shepherds, and Chihuahuas who bully all the other packs around this country into believing that they are smarter and meaner than everyone else, meaning that they are the ones who get to sleep on their human’s bed, or on their personal couch, and not on their floor or in their dog beds, especially when so many of the rest of us are forced to sleep in a cage or in the back yard in a “dog house” (Yuk—that is cruel—don’t you agree?). It doesn’t seem right to me that this “government” gets to dictate its demands to my pack, or to any other pack. It seems to me that there is too much “government” around our country. Don’t you agree? I know you do!
If it was up to me, I’d insist that this “government” should be made much smaller by getting rid of all the Dobermans and Shepherds and half of the Chihuahuas. All of the Pit Bulls could stay, of course, and all the Labs, too, because my Grampa told me that there are a lot of bad humans all around us, and if the “government” won’t protect humans, then we Pit Bulls or Labs will do the job, because we are good protectors. We really are. Don’t doubt me!
I’ve also heard them recently discussing the economic mess that our country is in, thanks to a bunch of packs that call themselves Democrats. I don’t really understand what “economic” means, but I assume it has something to do with how many bones my Grampa and Gramma must pay, not only for my food, but for their food as well. Now let me tell you—I really do like the food they eat, which they seldom share with me unless I give them my “starving dog” routine (which I’ve become very good at doing, I’ll admit). It’s just that they’re so selfish about it. They have way more food to eat than I get, so what’s wrong with them sharing just a little bit with me? Don’t you agree with me? I know you do.
I’ll end this second article with something my Grampa did a couple of nights ago—which is that he made a “mess” in our den. He spilled a glass of iced tea (he called it). Wow, you should have heard him getting upset. Now I know that I’m not the only one in our pack who makes occasional “messes”. I’d laugh at him, but I can’t get my lips to move to look like I’m laughing at him. But I AM. Hah hah. Until the next time, this is Hayley, saying woof, woof, grrrr. woof, lick lick!
