Hiya, there, world!

Hi there, all!  It's me, Ziggy.  Jamie took me on not one, but two walks today!  I have a habit, you see, of balking when she takes me on a walk.  I sit my little rump down on the cement (or grass, or dirt, or whatever) and refuse to move, at least not in the direction she wants to go.  Humans have the most boring sense of direction ever.  And then I get interested in everything else other than walking.  So much to sniff, sniff, sniff and put in my mouth.  My list of favored objects to sample:  stones, pebbles, sticks, grass, flowers... you name it, I like to eat it.

But it seems like the longer she walks me, the less interesting I find everything else, and the more interesting it becomes to, you know, walk.  Jamie, I know is delighted by my discovery of forward motion, because just last week, going around the block took twenty five minutes to half an hour.  Now we're actually able to do some decent walks.  She's crossing her fingers this behavior continues.

She's hoping one day I become a bona fide walking partner.

Well, of course I will!  I'm a Westie.  What else would I be? 

Chew Toys, Schmoo Toys

Why bother with chew toys when you have this:

Just needs a little salt and pepper, maybe some A-1 sauce...

Puppy power.

In Which Ziggy Discusses Puppy Treason Plot 101.

I think I've finally whined long and loud enough that Jamie's capitulated.  They weren't kidding when they handed out "A Puppy's Guide  to Training Your Human"--these homo sapiens are a hard bunch to obedience train.

She finally let me out of the X pen today.  Not because she thought it was a great idea for her living room carpets (although I am proud to say it hasn't been a disaster, and I haven't peed on a carpet.  Not to say I'm ruling it out, but still, she's sighed relief that she hasn't had to clean up a mess on the carpet yet),

No, it's not because she magically housetrained me in seven days, but because I think I finally broke her into submission with my mighty, mighty whining.

Behold.  The magic of puppy power.

Between the cuteness and the Power of a Well Timed Whine, I think I got her licked.  Figuratively speaking, of course.  

It's a bird, it's a plane... it's...

SUPER ZIGGY!

As evidenced by the cornucopia of things i have to play with, natch:

Startled by the  flash.

Playing ostrich.

Yummy. 

Boxing Day

Throwing in the towel...

Err... rather, hiding under it:

In which I play with my tuggr leash

What are you looking at?

Sitting pretty, no?

Attack puppy!

I tried to get cuter than this, but it's just not possible.

 

Oh wait, it totally is.

 And so forth.         

This is me grinning.  I've made my day. 

Chilly Bone

Just for kicked back Sunday giggles, here's a picture of me with my Chilly Bone (Jamie doesn't give it to me Chilly--it just kind of ends up cold and soggy):

I always make sure to look super petulant right before Jamie clicks the shutter!

Can't beat the real thing.

In which I conquer a plastic Coke bottle:

(N.B. Try not to become nauseated by Jamie's shaky-cam videography). 

Ziggy Nation

I've been here with Jamie for almost a week.  And what a week it's been! 

In a nutshell, I'm cute.  Totally and unabashedly cute.  Everybody wants to pet me.  And I love everybody.  Maybe a little too much with my sharky teeth, LOL. 

I still whine when I'm in my X pen.  Jamie seems to dislike this immensely, but I don't know why.  I'm just registering my Intense Disapproval, after all. 

But did I mention the cuteness?

Thought so ;-). 

An Impassioned Plea For Animal Rights

That's right, folks.  Don't let Jamie fool you by telling you she "loves" me and "wants us to get along better" and that's why she's got me stuck in this dreadful Xpen prison.

Love!  Would it were to do with such a noble emotion, I would have high hopes of ever getting out of this nuthouse jail.

But no, insisting "her possessions are worth something" (has Jamie seen the economic news lately, I wonder?) she has me holed up in the slammer until further notice.  The book I sampled a few nights ago all but proof for her henious crime.  Perhaps if you could procure her a subscription the World Economist then, so she could quietly but quickly divest herself of the heady bourgeois notion of "private property" and we could get a few groundrules straight.

First.  Nothing, I  repeat nothing gives her the right to stick me in one of these puppy torture chambers.  I don't care how cute and well-behaved I seem at the moment, it's because my will to survive has dropped preciptiously.  I need a serious intervention her, stat, folks.  My puppy levels of cuteness might fade away to nothing if not revived in the next few minutes.    I'm like the orchestra playing in one of those Red Cross films of the old Nazi concentration camps.  Pandering to the camera because it's all I have l left people.  No choices.  No future.  Just bleak pureed puppy gruel and a life behind bars stuffed with kong toys and the occassional toy-on-a-rope.  Would you give your freedom for this?

I rather thought not.

You should see me, flailing my tiny, pathetic puppy limbs on the cold, hard metal of the bars, yapping my fool ears off.  Humans must be extremely deaf, as any dog mother in a fifty radius could pick out my Puppy Distress-o-Meter when it goes off.

Jamie sees it as progress now that these Puppy Scream a Thons only go on for a few minutes as opposed to the hours they used to go in days before.  Yes, you read that right.  Puppy and Scream and "A-Thon" in the same phrase.  So egregiously wrong people. 

Well, it's exhausting work, being captive.  You've seen that movie, Silence of the Lambs, right?  Clarice gets pretty quiet by the end.  Or maybe not.  My slash-fic Hollywood thriller movie circa 1980-90 something isn't real great yet.

But you get my point.  I shouldn't be allowed to suffer.  I'm off to paw some letters to Camus and Merleu Ponty and see if I can get some stuff done, letters of release written, etc.

Crossing paws

I have to admit.  I was giving Jamie a run for her money there, for a few days.  And I still might.

But I seem better this afternoon.

I whined.  And whined.  And whined. And whined. And whined.

Ad infinitum.

Not just at night when she put me in the crate (every hour, on the hour, wanting to go outside.  And Jamie willingly obliged.  SUCKER.)

When I was in my X pen in the kitchen, it didn't matter if Jamie was in the next room over in plain sight, I had to tell her how upset I was.  Frequently.  Loudly.  And more or less continuously.

And then somehow this afternoon, I seem to have pulled it together.  Toned it down a little.  Given her a break.  Maybe I'm starting to realize this place isn't for the birds, and I might like it here.  Maybe I realized she's not going to send me to live with birds (whatever that means.)  But I calmed down a mite.  Had fewer all out drama king fits.  Eased up a little, if you will.

But that's not saying I will tomorrow. (Plots in puppy fashion).

Kong is King

Jamie insists that I post yet another video In Which I Play With a Toy.  Seriously, does she think I have nothing else to do with my day?  Or you, dear viewer, with yours?

I guess the answer would be:  apparently not. 

So here's another video:

Watch it!  I dare ya!

Play Ball!

This video is probably about as much fun as watching paint dry, as videos go (I can't believe Jamie made me write that.  I am Ziggy.  I am fun and interesting by my very nature.  Phewey on Jamie, says I. )  

Ah ha!  Success!  I believe I will press "publish" now. 

Better than soap on a rope?

I know what you're thinking.  What on earth is that?

Well, it's one of these tied to one of these and it happens to be My Favorite Toy (of the Hour).

Jamie is on a list called westie-l on yahoogroups, and some nice lady suggested I might like chasing a toy on the ground, and she might like keeping all of her fingers and toes intact.

So, she tied a Kong Wubba (the soft, plush version) to a braided, felted leash that doubles as a tug toy and... instant Zigginator.  I hate to say it, but even this thing wears me out after a little while.  But it's so much fun while it lasts, and so much more fun than Jamie getting up and leaving in a middle of a game of "Let's see how fast I can ignore the toy in her hand and go for her fingers instead."  That's a bummer to play, trust me, young pups.

You don't need a special leash--even a rope would do, but it's nice to have a bit of length on the toy at this point, to save those fingers and toes she says are so important (what's so bad about paws and teeth?  Obviously works for me.  Now who's the evolutionary chump, hmmm? Ziggy, 1.  Jamie 0.  That's all I'm saying.)

Ready for my close up, Mr. DeMille

I sure hope someone can find me a better, more talented paparazzi.  And soon.  Before I start losing my puppyhood charm.  Jamie just doesn't have what it takes.  I look so sad in the picture.  So... confused as to why yet another picture is being taken.  It's not even a scenic background.

But, I am cute, non?*

*See, I can even speak  a little French.  And so young!  But really, Jamie says I shouldn't get a big head about this.  She is trying to remind me about the book-eating incident.  Well, how embarrassing.  Do I make her reveal her youthful indiscretions on a public blog? I think not.   

Bark and the world barks with you.

Whine, and you whine alone.

Jamie here.  Ziggy says he's not to be held liable for the photograph-less-ness boringness of this post, nor its egregiously maudlin content.  However, I can't resist.

Well, after three solid days of puppy owning, I think I'm finally kind of getting the hang of having a puppy.

Ok, that was an outright lie.

LOL.

What I did remind myself of this morning and this afternoon and about a hundred times already today is how much joy a puppy brings not just myself, but lots of people, and even though it's in a very small way, we can all use a little happiness every day, never mind in these tough times.

Seriously.

Taking Ziggy out in the front lawn?

Strangers can't help themselves. Walking by, they ooh and ahh about the puppy.  Having a crummy day? Take a puppy for a walk. People will give two flying crabapples about your day, but they will want to pet your puppy, smile at your puppy, stop and tell you about their puppy. And it will make you feel better, somehow, no matter how rotten your day has been.)

Trust me. The beginning of the week had some very crummy non-puppy stuff in
store for me. Having a puppy, being sleep deprived because of said puppy, and
worrying about doing everything right by the puppy--it didn't make the
non-puppy stuff easier, I will admit. It would have been easier this week to be
puppy free.

But you know what did help? Ironically... having a puppy! The sheer joy and amazement the puppy holds for every single little thing humbles you. It makes you more keenly aware of things we take for granted, like sunshine (ok, so no one ever takes sunshine for granted where I live!) and clean air and a little breeze rippling through the blades of grass. Heck, even a blade of grass is SUPER AMAZING AND YOUR PUPPY WOULD TELL YOU ALL ABOUT IT IF HE COULD.  (And he does--just look at his face, alive in wonderment!)

Seriously. Take a puppy along for a spin if you can. You'll be amazed at how, "LOOK MA! IT'S THE *WORLD*! ISN"T IT GREAT?!?!?" she is.

(Ziggy even managed to make the staff's day at the vet on Monday, just by being small and precious and cute, and I imagine at a vet's office, that's a pretty tall order given all the small and precious and cute they probably see in a given day!)

Loving a puppy, doing all the housetraining making sure you do right by your puppy... it is hard work. It seems never-ending. And yet it isn't.

This time is finite, and one day your puppy won't be a puppy any more. People will nod at you and your wonderful old dog as you walk sedately (or not) down the street. But they probably won't run over and ask you to pet your puppy with an ill-supressed glimmer of childhood remembered in their eye.

Life will be comfortable with the dog, one day in the future. You'll forget what's it's like to coax a puppy down the block for twenty five minutes because he's so darn interested in the neighbor, your shoes, your ankle, the pavement, the bird, the sky, the... everything... You'll hopefully be cleaning up fewer messes. You won't make the mistake I did last night and forget to lock the kennel door, and wake up to a shredded obedience book (message, there, to momma, Ziggy?) and if you did, your stuff won't be damaged.

But you won't ever have the puppy time back again. It's a gift that way.

A gift and a joy.

Celebrate your puppies and love the dogs they become!

 

Pulp Fiction.

Hi, all.  This is Ziggy, quite possible Seattle's Cutest Puppy.

Seriously.

I get, "Awwww, cuuuuuuute puppy!" remakrs from people I don't even know.  Virtual strangers, who look like they might otherwise pass by Jamie without so much as a "have an apple," stop, lean over, and pat pat pat me on the head.  Well-mannered children even want to play with me.

And who wouldn't?

Roster of puppy activities, as documented by Jamie's somewhat lacking iphone skills.  (This would be a lot more interesting if I had command of her iphone.  Namely, I wouldn't be bothering you with pictures.  I would be telling you how much fun I had chewing half a grand worth of plastic and electronic bits.)

Any way.  I digress:  

I sleep:

I also lay in repose:

And I'm an expert in "crashing out":

Did I mention I also play?  I am a fiend?  And a human finger/toe/clothing seeking little missile.  Not that you can tell from any of my videos, as I'm having technical difficulties (hey, I am only a puppy folks; did you master web browsing, blogging and video-publishing all in the first 8 weeks of your life?  I rather thought not.)

I promise to get Jamie to rectify this fix this shortly.

Love,

Ziggy, who does more than sleep, I promise
  
P.S.  Jamie says something about having me "obedience trained."  There's that "training" thing she clearly can't disavow herself of.  Foolish woman.  If only I had opposable thumbs, I would not have left the kennel door open last night after a late night trip to the loo.  This "obedience" book, as Jamie has it, suffered said fate:

 
Book, zero.  Ziggy, one.   (And yes, Jamie woke up before I  managed to consume the whole dull cellullose lot.  Why do people keep these things around, any way?  So full of wood pulp boring.

Gotcha Day!

Today was my Gotcha Day, as they say in dog circles.  What this means for me is that I came home with Jamie. 

And just to show her what I thought of that idea, I puked in my kennel for good measure. 

I'm such a cute little chap; Jamie's poor photographic skills really don't do me justice, but here's my mug:

 I'm having rather something of a day, and doing a fair bit of Protest Whining.  This X pen thing?  For the birds.  Certainly not on-the-go pups like myself.  (Jamie begs to differ.  She says I'll have more freedom when I'm housetrained.  There's that word again). 

Me, enjoying the fresh air:

Ah, the life of a young pup.  Free and easy.  Well, not so free, and not so easy, but we can all dream. 

I am Ziggy... Hear me roar!

Jamie came to visit me today.  I think I did a good job of impressing her with the fact that I am going to give her a run for her money.  By which I mean, I am not the snuggling kind.  Nope.  I wanted to go, go, GO.

Jamie, in her infinitesimal wisdom (not really) insisted on doing what she called "handling exercises," including gently putting me on my back and rubbing my tummy.  She says most puppies love having their tummy rubbed and scratched. I beg to differ.  I just wanted to run around the living room and have a good time rough and tumbling with some of my siblings.  Belly rubs can wait, after all.  I have years in which to enjoy luxurious belly rubs and getting hand fed caviar... err... liver treats by the bucket load. 

There was another couple there visiting their puppy, and Jamie noticed that their puppy was a lot calmer.  Well, who needs calm?  I'm a Westie after all!

I go home with Jamie next Sunday, and she's just over the moon about bringing me home.  Of course she is.  I am Ziggy.  Hear me roar!  

(Jamie says she will post a picture from today's visit once she gets her iPhone synching properly to her computer.  I have no idea what this means, except sooner or later, I'll update this entry with a picture, so hold on tight, folks!)

Edited to add:  Here I am!  Dapper, aren't I?

My Little Russian Gulag.. er...Puppy Pen.

Ok, folks.  So I'm trying to be generous with Jamie, here.

Really, I am.  Ok?

Don't believe me?

Come on.  I'm a puppy.

Everybody believes a puppy.

Sheesh.  What's wrong with you people?

Any way.  Maybe it's because Jamie hasn't had a puppy since 1996.  (Yeah, that makes her ancient.  But don't tell her that.  It tends to make her a wee  bit cranky outraged.)  

But seriously.  She shoves a polyester fleece blanket, a coupla Kong toys, and a food dish in that prison of mine, and she calls it "comfy and chic"?  Lady, what do I look like?!?!?!  I am a discerning puppy with a large mammalian brain and I can definitely tell when someone is pulling the wool polyester fleece blankie over my eyes.

I'm sorry... but this?????????

This is still a puppy's version of a cell in San Quentin, lady. 

Get it together.

Signed:

Your extremely disappointed in you puppy,

Ziggy. 

P.S.  Also... your photography?  Leaves something to be desired.  Couldn't you bump up the ISO on that cheap hunk of plastic you keep calling an iphone?

My Precision Puppy Pen/ Prison, by Ziggy.

I don't care what Jamie has to say about this confinement to a puppy pen business jail; it's a prison in all but name until I say otherwise.   What dignified puppy would say any differently, I ask you, dear reader? 

Seriously!  Quick, people!  Someone call the ASPCA!  Or  PETA!  Or maybe Extreme Makeovers:  Home Edition, at the very least.  Because who in the world of caviar and happy romps on the banks of the Champs Elysee with French dilettante poodles named Georgette decided this thing monstrosity was "luxury pet living"?  Certainly not moi.  

Jamie claims this contraption, which looks like something directly modeled from the Spanish Inquisition torture chambers, will help me "housetrain."  I beg to differ.  I see nothing resembling a train here; not wheels, not a caboose, not a food car.. Nay,  nothing so refined as even steam engine in sight (*because all puppy's train references come from the 19th century, of course.  I'm mean, it's logical, yes?).  And  I certainly refuse to see what part of this chamber of doom is likened to a "house."

 Nay,  I fear it is as I expected.  It's a treacherous plot to keep me confined.  Me.  Little.  sweet. cute.  innocent. Ziggy.

Think of the children, ma'm!  THINK OF THEM NOW, I SAY. 

Well, Jamie can keep her raised flooring and removable waste tray and solid chrome bars instruments of torture.   

The war is not over, dear Jamie.  Oh no!  It has just begun, mon amie!

Vive le France chien libre! Et vive le resistance!

*Jamie's input, there.