Several years ago, when my children were very little, I read them the Laura Numeroff book, "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie." Like many children's books (and TV shows and movies) the premise of this book annoyed me: You give an animal one thing and it will want more and more.
Me: JUST TELL THE DAMN MOUSE NO, ALREADY! HE MUST LEARN BOUNDARIES!
Anyway, the mouse in the book wanted a cookie and he got one. Then he wanted something else, which turned into desiring another item until the protagonist child nearly goes bonkers trying to meet this mouse's demands.
I also have to add that "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie" and other books such as "If You Give a Moose a Muffin" really don't encourage the fine art of sharing. Why the heck would I give you a cookie if you're just going to end up demanding that I find fine French macaroons for your pleasure?
Needless to say: We've got a bit of a Mouse + Cookie situation going on in our house.
It all started with my daughter sharing. (See? We should have read the book multiple times to have that concept really sink in. Don't share if it will end up bothering Mom later on.) She had a beanbag that really didn't fit in her already small room.
Our dog, Rusty, has eyed that beanbag since the moment it came to our house. Sometimes I would find him sneaking off to lie on her beanbag while she was at school, which, I might add, was a nice respite from all the times I found him sneaking off to eat tissues out of trash cans.
Somehow, we decided to give Rusty a chance at the beanbag. (We had to throw out his 2nd dog bed last year after an unfortunate incident where he went completely bonkers in his kennel and destroyed it.)
Our dog is a giant schnoodle-- that is, he is a standard poodle mixed with a giant schnauzer. Basically, he's neurotic. That's what schnoodles are. Neurotic. He's also getting older (he's ten) and when he's shaved down (like he is now) he is the most pathetic, liver-spot ridden bag of bones you've ever seen.
If Rusty were a human female, he'd definitely be the kind to humblebrag, "I just eat and eat and I never gain any weight!"
Not only is he bony, shaved down and covered in liver spots, he suffers from seasonal allergies. Medication helps a bit, but really, it's just something we have to ride out. So...he has red skin. And he itches and scratches until he gets little scabs that bleed.
Basically, he currently looks like the type of dog the humane society would put on an ad to get donations to help save hopeless pet cases. (Luckily, once the hair grows back and the allergies stop, he'll get back to looking cute and adorable. We just have to wait.)
After an initial period where he eyed the beanbag (which we moved to our foyer) wearily, wondering if it was some sort of trick, our bag of bones has embraced it. In fact, he's embraced it a little too much.
Gone is the dog who'd happily laze on his memory foam dog bed in his kennel for a portion of the day. When I arrive home, he's standing in his kennel, staring at me, ticked off that I've denied him of the beanbag FOR THIRTY MINUTES. Thirty, woman!
I ask him to get up from said beanbag, he rolls his eyes and acts as if he can't hear me. (Luckily, his hearing is still 100% when I say the word "walk." Apparently it is only the words "cage" and "bed" that fall on deaf ears.)
Recently, he started barking at about 5 in the morning. My husband would get up, dutifully let him outside and put him back in the cage, where he'd start to bark again. He couldn't understand what was going on. Why was Rusty barking? He's never done this unless it was an emergency of the bathroom kind.
That's when I realized it: He wanted the beanbag. We have created a monster.
Luckily, on the bright side, I can always take a page out of Ms. Numeroff's book. I'll just write a book: If You Give a Schnoodle a Beanbag.
It'll start off this way...if you give a schnoodle a beanbag, he'll want you to give him a tissue. If you give him a tissue, he'll want you to blow your nose in it first.
I have a feeling there's a bestseller lurking in here. I just know it.
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