Tear

I miss you when you are not here. I am so happy when you get home. Nothing can come between you and my love for you -- not even your warm, soft, cashmere-blend leggings that now have a big tear in them from my extra-sharp claws.

Clear Mandate

Have no fear. Poppy's Blog will continue to bring you incisive political commentary even though the election is over.

Chief on my mind is the appointment of a First Pet. On election night, I was pleased to hear that the President-Elect is going to come through on one of his campaign promises and bring a puppy to the White House. In fact, there was obviously a clear mandate among the segment of the population that felt strongly about the importance of the appointment of a First Pet (that is, Malia and Sasha Obama and I); there must be a dog in the White House.

However, the election has been over for three days and no First Dog has been appointed. I hear speculation when the radio is on, and when the Humans are watching The Colbert Report, but I have yet to see action taken. It seems to me that such an appointment is an immediate need, especially given the fact that the President-Elect is now receiving intelligence briefings. A First Dog would give him solace. Unfortunately, the President-Elect has only appointed a Chief of Staff and a transition team. None of them are canine.

This state of affairs is causing me concern as I am wondering if we can expect such slow moving from an Obama administration. When Poppy barks, she expects people to listen.

Barking at the Place Where Something Recently Was But is No Longer

This post is a response to TeacherRefPoet, who requested an IRRAC analysis of a common and necessary dog behavior.

I (issue): Whether something that has been in one spot will require me barking at the spot that even after that something has left the original spot.

R (rule): A dog's territory is everything within her line of vision, smell, hearing, reasonable jumping ability, and the extent of her imagination.

R (rationale): Because a dog moves, so does a dog's territory. For example, when I ride in the car, I must bark at people and things on the side of the road, as they have wandered into my territory. Sometimes there is food in my mommy's brief case. Sometimes there isn't, but I dig in there to try to find some. I am imagining that the food is in the brief case, so it becomes mine to dig through. The top of the sofa is mine. I'm going to sit there, even if you are sitting just below.

A (analysis): First, squirrels are of no interest to me. They do not have treats, nor can I catch them and shake them. Often, I pretend they are not there. Therefore, they are not in my territory. Second, children are a strange animal. They scream a lot. I must bark at them for such a time as I imagine they are out of my territory, or I have forgotten them, whichever comes first. Finally, I never bark as the postal carrier leaves. That is because she brings treats. I bark and then sit to command her to give me a treat. She passes it through the bars on the security door. Treats are her ticket into my territory.

C (conclusion): By barking loudly and consistently at what human beings think is nothing, I am able to control my surroundings.

All Together

My mommy is home from far away. I follow her around all the time now. The pack is back together.

Versailles

I, Poppy, have determined that being a dog is much like being at the court of Louis VI, or any of the Louis, really. Really, probably all courts everywhere.

Dogs have been described by sociologists as, ahem, "social parasites."* The definition of a -- and this is offensive, we're dealing with some very disturbing stuff here on Poppy's Blog today -- "social parasite" is something like this one from Wikipedia**: "a derogatory term denoting a member of society who is considered to be detrimental to others, by taking advantage of them in some way." These "scientists" have suggested that because dogs live with humans in their houses and eat their food and in return give only intangible and unmeasurable favors like love, companionship, loyalty, and protection, we take advantage of them in some way. How can I, Poppy, be accused of taking advantage of any one? Dogs are courtiers. It is our duty to "take advantage," otherwise, who else would give our masters and mistresses unconditional love, loyalty, and companionship? Their human friends? To that I ask you, how many friends have abandoned you? How many dogs have abandoned you?

We are like courtiers because every day we are teased, made fun of, eat off the floor, yet we never fail you. Our entire routines are based on those of our masters and mistresses. You are never our of our sight. We take the keenest interest in your every movement. And if we demand rights to the lever and the coucher of our masters and mistresses, how is this any different from Versailles?

The picture here is of the dog who played the much put upon Mops in Sophia Coppola's film, Marie Antoinette.*** As you will remember from history, Mops was most cruelly separated from his mistress, the young Dauphine of France when she crossed the border into France. You will also remember that Mops and his mistress remained loyal to one another through this alarming breakup of the pack. In fact, Mops managed to get returned to his mistress through the skillful use of international diplomacy.

*I, Poppy, have a bone or two to pick with sociologists. The science is so soft.
**I, Poppy, am all for the creation of reality. For examples of times when my sense of reality clashes with everybody else's, please refer to my blog archives.
***The film, Marie Antoinette, has won a Palm Dog award for its treatment of dogs as characters. When bestowing the award, the committee noted that the film shows dogs getting to eat cake. I petition my mistress daily for cake. She does not let me eat cake.

A View to the World

Now that the weather's warm, the front door is open often. I like to lie on the floor in front of the security door, looking out at the world through the bars. My posture is such that I am on my tummy with my forelegs propping me up and my hind legs spread out behind me. Less than gracious people may call this posture unladylike, but I prefer to think of myself as mimicking a sphinx, if the sphinx has two, little, pork chop-shaped, back legs.

I lie looking at the world in front of me. The porch wall blocks my view on two sides and most of the third. In front of me I see the school playing field and the people and dogs that are on it. I have a feeling that they should not be there in my field of vision. I scold them for their impertinent being there.

Birds hop into my view. I watch bugs fly by. I am alert, watching. My ears are perky, and I respond loudly to some far away noise. I have better hearing than the humans. They need me to listen for them.

When the sun goes down and the visibility is low, I lie there and bark out into the night, softly and with no purpose at all other than to announce my presence to the darkness.

Doing My Job

Occasionally, it becomes necessary for me to offer assistance that only I can provide. For example, who else around here has a bark like a siren? So when my mommy gets up from her desk to run an errand in another part of the house, I go along to provide an escort, alerting everybody that she's coming and to get out of the way, much like the police in a presidential motorcade. It works. No one can fail to notice her sudden appearance in say, the kitchen or the living room when I announce her arrival.