The Wrong Dog Blog

My woofus told me so.

I was doing some work, when suddenly Sunny ran to the window and came to a point. (He’s been doing that lately—doing the formal dog pointing at things, I mean. I think he’s having a woofy midlife crisis and regrets that he wasn’t a hunting dog.) Then he turned to me and whimpered.

“What is it, sweetie?” I asked, and then giggled. “Is Santa Claus out there?”

He immediately went into a very enthusiastic version of his “She’s got it!” dance, yipping and bouncing and otherwise giving a vehement affirmative.

We hurried to the apartment door. First I had trouble with the zipper of my coat. Then I had trouble getting his leash on.

He plunged down the stairs and, contrary to the habit he has recently formed, past our downstairs neighbor’s door, to the front door. He bounced there impatiently until I made it down the stairs.

Once I got the front door open, he plunged down the porch stairs, again contrary to his habit, which is to veer right and try to get to the cat’s food before I yell “No!” and pull him back. He ran to first one side of the house and then the other, as far as his long retractable leash will allow.

He returned less quickly than he went. Clearly we would have caught Santa if I hadn’t taken so long to get us ready, and the Spaniel was miffed about it.

Sunny shouldn’t be worried, though. He’s been a good woofus all year. I am sure Santa won’t forget him, just because Sunny’s mommy isn’t a Christian and only celebrates Christmas secularly, because it’s what she grew up with and she knows it’s really about the Winter Solstice, like all the Northern Hemisphere holidays at this time of year.

After all, I’m sure Santa loves woofi, regardless of their caretakers’ philosophical views. There will be woofus treats in the morning, in honor of Sunny’s devoted support of his mommy throughout the last year.

May whatever your Winter Solstice holiday is be filled with joy and treats of your own!

Sorry I haven’t written. I’ve been working and knitting and now my wrist is in a brace (the usual winter story for snow country: I slipped on ice), so typing is difficult. So while I plan the post on the Last, Best Hope against the Rodent Menace, I’ll write a shorter post on pomegranates.

I first heard about pomegranates from Bernard Evslin’s Heroes, Gods, and Monsters of the Greek Myths, a fabulous version of the Classic mythology that I highly recommend. Of course what I heard about pomegranates was that Persephone ate some pomegranate seeds and had to stay in Tartarus for the same number of months as she ate seeds, but I had no clue what a pomegranate looked like until I grew up and moved east. (I guess pomegranates are too exotic for the Midwest. One of the reasons I left the Midwest was the number of things too exotic for it.)

I rapidly learned a number of things about pomegranates. They’re expensive. They’re difficult to eat. They are nicely tart. The juice stains permanently. This year, however, I learned another thing about them.

If a cocker spaniel happens to eat an escapee seed, the little furry guy becomes a pip-hunting fiend! He will carry his love of the tasty juice so far as to raid the garbage for the rinds, which just might have some juice clinging to them.

Therefore, pomegranate rinds are best stored in the freezer until garbage day.