Come here, Pola.

[BGmusic: Samson by Regina Spektor]

Quote for the day:

“It was just an innocent fart!”

– **** defending herself. I’m not saying who said this, because she’d probably kill me.

In our family, we have two dogs – one Yorkshire terrier, and one Dalmatian. Although Elvis [the dalmatian] isn’t technically ours anymore [because we gave him away to someone in Baguio - Metro Manila life doesn't suit a dog like him], I believe in ohana, and therefore he still counts. But for this post, I’m going to be talking about the Yorkie, Pola.

Recently, my sister bought my dog a chew toy. A red, squeaky, rubber ball. Pola loves chew toys. The first day she got her red ball, she didn’t even put it down to eat. Me, on the other hand… I’m not too fond of them – especially the squeaky kinds. Thank goodness she punctured the ball by the end of the first day, so I didn’t have to suffer for that long.

The thing is, Pola’s really possessive. I attribute this to the trauma she went through in the past; whenever she would get a toy, my brother and my dad would terrorize her, pulling the toy away and hiding it, or placing it in places out of her reach, just to see her in panic. [They still do it, despite my obvious disdain for such behavior. Tsk tsk tsk.]

Before she got her toy, Pola would rush up to the door whenever I came home to greet me with licks and violent tail-wagging. Then she’d roll on her back, demanding a belly rub, as if to say, “It’s the least you could do for leaving me here.” After the arrival of the red chew toy, she’d rush up to the door, wagging her tail, run under the table, then run up to me again, then run under the table, then run up to me, etc. Kind of like a clown fish swimming in and out of its anemone.