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It had been raining all day and the dogs were very bored. Rosco, who has been likened to a Buddhist, tuned into nothinghood; should something happen, he'll turn on again. Fips, on the other hand, suffers his restlessness.
Twice during the day, I beckoned Fips to come to the open door. With an eager hop, he came over, stood at the threshold and peered out into the layers of falling droplets. "Es regneti, Fipsie, es regnet," I said as he let out a little snort. The second time, with a dubious hop, he came to the door, confirmed it was still raining and with a weary sag trudged back to his spot on the bed. "What's the use?"
By nightfall he was in serious chien fatale mode. Laying on his side, with his head thrown back and his eyes staring heavenwards, he plunged into doggie existentialism. "Life is useless." Those who have met Fips know that I am not making this up.
I couldn't stand it. So I bundled up, got into the jeep and drove to the market to buy a fuzzy squeaky. $6.99. I also bought a small steak. $2.99. When I returned both dogs were up and waiting to see what I had brought. They got under foot as I headed to the counter to cut each of them a chunk o' meat. Gulp & Gulp. I always wish they'd slowly savour what they anticipate so enthusiastically but I guess dogs aren't made that way.
After the gulps I got down on the floor and pulled out the real prize. Now life was worth living again! Fips immediately lunged for the prey and we began a game of tuggies. It is amazing how much energy he has for tuggies at almost 15. When he was a puppy I could literaly spin him through the air in an arc -- die fliegende dachshund holding on to rope or fuzzy-wuzzy with determined jaws. I wouldn't dream of doing that now, but I give him tugs for his money and he makes sure I work at it.
As always, Rosco quickly joined in, coming up to Fip's ear and barking enthusiastically: wauf- wauf .... wauf- wauf .... wauf -wauf. Fips really doesn't like this and the neighbours don't either. So after a few barks, I tell Rosco to be quiet now. He looks at me innocently. I pet him on the head. He comes over to give me a kiss. I hold out a rope-toy for him to tug. He half chomps it and lets it drop. I toss it. He trots over to pick it up.
Rosco has never been into tuggies. On rare occasions, he will give it a go for a short while but it's not in his blood the way it is in Fip's. Rosco tugs because he knows I expect him to, but the whole concept of resisting me seems to confuse him. What he really likes is to eviscerate and eventually he turns to destroying an older toy as Fips and I continue on
tugging....
and tuuugggggggg-ing
and tu-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh gggg ing!
Needless to say, Fips has imposed a variety of rules and modalities on the Tuggies Game, just as he has on the bal game, the stick game and any other occasion for ritual. I never sought to teach Fips tricks but played with him in whatever way he responded to with most evident eagerness and pleasure. As a result, Fips let me know the way in which he wanted the game to be played; and, as a further result, there now exists a collection of doxielogies which must be followed.
Tonight, between bouts of tugging, Fips turns and steps off into a "corner" of the rink where he works at making his prey beg for mercy. Squeak-y, Squeak-y, Squeak-y, Squeak-y ... At a certain point, he lies down, and while keeping a paw on the fuzzy, intersperses some Hayden-esque, pauken-squeakies. These little pauses are the signal that he expects me to try to "rob" his prey, at which point the tug-to-the-panting-end begins again.
Throughout all this, Fips makes the appropriate growls as a kind of sonic war paint. For the most part these alternate between grrrrrr-uhhh-grrrrrr and grrrRRRrrruhh. But a quick ascending pitch grrrrRRRRR! is the annoyance or serious growl. At some point during the tuggies game, I provoke him into an annoyance-growl by patting him along side his body and Fips will let me know that he thinks it's unfair for me to cheat that way. Sporting doggies tug nose to nose or at least nose to fist. Further on, Fips will give another I-mean-it growl accompanied by a quick jerk and turn to the right. This indicates that he wants a squeaking break or that he wants to end the game and to be left alone with his prey.
Tonight, we tuggy for close to half an hour, at the end of which the fuzzy is left matted with saliva and Fips is left a panting but clearly happy doggie.
.
As always, Rosco quickly joined in, coming up to Fip's ear and barking enthusiastically: wauf- wauf .... wauf- wauf .... wauf -wauf. Fips really doesn't like this and the neighbours don't either. So after a few barks, I tell Rosco to be quiet now. He looks at me innocently. I pet him on the head. He comes over to give me a kiss. I hold out a rope-toy for him to tug. He half chomps it and lets it drop. I toss it. He trots over to pick it up.Rosco has never been into tuggies. On rare occasions, he will give it a go for a short while but it's not in his blood the way it is in Fip's. Rosco tugs because he knows I expect him to, but the whole concept of resisting me seems to confuse him. What he really likes is to eviscerate and eventually he turns to destroying an older toy as Fips and I continue on
tugging....
and tuuugggggggg-ing
and tu-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh gggg ing!
Needless to say, Fips has imposed a variety of rules and modalities on the Tuggies Game, just as he has on the bal game, the stick game and any other occasion for ritual. I never sought to teach Fips tricks but played with him in whatever way he responded to with most evident eagerness and pleasure. As a result, Fips let me know the way in which he wanted the game to be played; and, as a further result, there now exists a collection of doxielogies which must be followed.
Tonight, between bouts of tugging, Fips turns and steps off into a "corner" of the rink where he works at making his prey beg for mercy. Squeak-y, Squeak-y, Squeak-y, Squeak-y ... At a certain point, he lies down, and while keeping a paw on the fuzzy, intersperses some Hayden-esque, pauken-squeakies. These little pauses are the signal that he expects me to try to "rob" his prey, at which point the tug-to-the-panting-end begins again.
Throughout all this, Fips makes the appropriate growls as a kind of sonic war paint. For the most part these alternate between grrrrrr-uhhh-grrrrrr and grrrRRRrrruhh. But a quick ascending pitch grrrrRRRRR! is the annoyance or serious growl. At some point during the tuggies game, I provoke him into an annoyance-growl by patting him along side his body and Fips will let me know that he thinks it's unfair for me to cheat that way. Sporting doggies tug nose to nose or at least nose to fist. Further on, Fips will give another I-mean-it growl accompanied by a quick jerk and turn to the right. This indicates that he wants a squeaking break or that he wants to end the game and to be left alone with his prey.
Tonight, we tuggy for close to half an hour, at the end of which the fuzzy is left matted with saliva and Fips is left a panting but clearly happy doggie.
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