Let me paint you a mental picture. It’s early evening; you’ve long since passed the 3pm brain crash and are in desperate need of a nap or about seventeen gallons of caffeine. You’re wondering if you pressed reply or reply all when responding to your office potluck email, stating heck no you won’t attend and endure another one of your boss’ “home cooked catastrophes”. Did your office bestie receive it and giggle, or did the whole office receive it and now said boss will have her assistant vindictively throw your lunch out of the company fridge for the next week? You arrive at your apartment door and are searching the depths of your purse for your keys (they’re jingling, so you know those little brass ninjas are in there somewhere). There’s a lot going on in your world right now. Suddenly your ears are invaded by what can only be described as the piercing war cry of ancient Viking marauders intent on pillaging innocent villages (or your apartment building). The adrenaline instantly starts pumping, you drop your lunch bag and its contents spill out onto the floor as you clutch your chest in terror. You brace yourself for the impending assault from what you can only imagine is either a crazed hallway lunatic or a rabid squirrel that has infiltrated the building through the air ducts. You slowly turn to face your assailant while trying to stave off panic as it rises in your throat. Fear not, my petrified neighbour. It’s just my tiny baby dog, who has recently decided scaring the living crap out of neighbours, small children, and all other living creatures is his new hobby. Once your pulse returns to normal and you’ve been checked for residual cardiovascular arrhythmias I hope we can be friends again…
Chesney will do anything and everything for treats. If it was physically possible for a sixteen week old puppy to stand on his head he would, if I offered him a pumpkin liver freeze dried snack. This makes him appear deceptively brilliant in our puppy class where all puppies are fed treats for positive behaviours. While his counterparts race around like an attack squad of little drunken monkeys Chesney obediently sits, walks, comes, and lays down for anyone holding a goodie. Which is everyone. They all think he’s some sort of Albert Einstein in dog form. Yeah, try asking him to do something while not dangling the proverbial carrot in front of his nose. He’s what you might call food motivated. And smart enough to know when you have nothing but lint in your pocket. Shockingly my boy genius can sit beautifully six thousand times in a row with nothing but a brief hand signal so long as you have the goods, however try achieving this without the Scooby snack and he’ll stare at you like you have ten heads and just asked him to recite the Gettysburg Address in Latin.
It has come to my attention that over the past couple of months Chesney has developed The Face. This is the face your children make when you realize they spilled spaghetti sauce on your cream coloured rug six months ago and hid the evidence under a chair. Or when they back the minivan into your week-old mid-life-crisis Lexus. The face your boyfriend makes after he’s devoured all your kettle corn or turned the bathroom mirror into a contemporary art piece a la toothpaste right before your mom comes over. The face the cat makes after consuming your African violet and subsequently regurgitating it on your white bedspread. Yet despite these misdemeanors, you forgive all wrongs simply because of The Face. If used by a novice The Face can serve to soften the blow of unfortunate events, but still leave behind enough resentment to cause reproach. However there is an elite league of masters who have meticulously developed The Face into a psychological mindbender so irresistible it could turn Attila the Hun into Mother Teresa in a matter of seconds. Chesney is campaigning for entrance into this league, and he’s doing a darn good job. You just can’t be mad at The Face!
That’s all for now, my ever-faithful internet following. Check back next week for the latest pupdate! 🙂