Makin’ My Way Back

Whew!  It’s been a LONG TIME since I posted.  I’m very sorry about that.  Sometimes that thing called “Life” just gets in the way.  Now, understand, I have all the time in the world to post.  Mom, who is my webmaster, not always so much.  It took little cajoling, a lot of really sad puppy dog eyes, and a major amount of guilting (That’s now a new word- add it to your vocabulary and use it frequently.) to get her to help me out.  How I did this is of note, but the really important part is the RESULTS. 

We are back to blogging.  And, believe you me, I have done lots and seen more in the many, many months we haven’t talked to each other. 

We have a new lady at our house.  “The Lovely Francine” is now in residence.  She is also in heat!!!  And being the little stud that I am, things are bit tense at our house.  Mom says I do not want the responsibility of puppies.  I am too carefree and irresponsible. 

Say what???  Irresponsible always, but I am not totally carefree.  Sometimes I worry about why I haven’t eaten for fifty minutes.  Or what about this winter when I lay about the house concerned that I might have to go outside for bathroom duties when it was minus five degrees?
It’s all okay.
I’m back and that is what really matters.
Be talking to you soon!      

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Viva L’Tivo

The Tour De’France is truly a lovely thing.  Mom and I watch it.  OK, we TiVo it, then we watch it.  As of today, we are five stages behind.  And that’s only because DirecTV got a hitch in it’s get along and lost one stage and a rest day.  Mom was in a very high state of agitation the day THAT happened!  Whooee! Do not mess with her bicycle race!  But I guess if that hadn’t happened, we’d be seven days behind.

Mom waits for the TDF all year.  She’s a bit batty over it.  She’s into backgound, who’s who, strategy, new technology.  She even takes those tidbits of information the commentators give out (I like Phil Ligget and Paul Sherwin- they have cool accents, and Bob Roll is just a bit off center so you have like the guy.) and applies them to her cycling.

And, yes, I realize she is a week behind.  So if she likes it so much, why is she a week behind, you ask?  It’s like a tradition with her.  She says no one has time to sit in front of the television for four to five hours a day, regardless of what’s on.  Her behind would get sore, nothing will get done, life will pass her by, blah, blah, blah.  And TiVo is a wonderful thing.

I can state unequivocally that I, personally, could sit for hours on end watching the tour (or anything else for that matter).


You can see this here, where Dad got a shot of me devouring the fast paced, exciting sport of pro cycling in it’s highest form.  To be honest, I’ve got pretty good form here, too.  I’m actually a darned good-looking Griffon.  Totally relaxed and comfortable in my environment.  Not the least bit disturbed by the chaos and carnage happening at the Tour.

And to think that everyone else is done watching, up and going about their day, back to the old grind.  History has been rewritten in the cycling books.  Everyone is done with the 2012 Tour De’France.  Not me. Oh, no.  I have at least five days left..  And if history repeats itself, I can easily squeeze seven more days of heaven out of this bike race.

Trivia Time!!!  There are 21 days in the Tour De’France.  I bet not one of you can guess which day is my favorite.  Hmm?  Three guesses and the first two don’t count against you.  Think, think, think.

Why, obviously it would be….


Hahaha!  See you in the Pyre’ne’es!

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Definitely going buggie!!!

I am not frightened by any living thing, large or small (with the exception of Pearle).  I’ve found that if you have a large enough personality, physical size plays no part in intimidation.  The attitude is where my strength lies.  The peeps do not call me “The Bamm!”, or “OneCoolGriff”, or the “Bamminator” because of my pretty face.  (I think the face is where “Honey Baby”, “Punky Poo”, and “Mamma loves her Rammie.” come in. Oh puh-lease!)

There is the outside chance that they are poking fun at me with the tough guy names they give me.  I’ll explore that possibility with my therapist on Tuesday.

Patrolling the premises wherein I live, I located an intruder. He was a bit of a creepy fellow.                                                                                  Long of limb, really long ears (Those are ears, right??), and the toes- he was a one-toed, bizarre bug thing. I tried to alert Mom without letting the trespasser know I was on his trail.  Stealthy as I am, you know he was picking up every tiny sound with those ear whatchajiggies.

Realizing the best way to protect my family was to crawl out of there on my belly and get word to the front, I prepared to drop.  Another problem presents itself at this point.  That little bug has ground clearance!  Look at him stand up on his four singular toes!

What if he crawls right over me and, well, does what ever it is that bugs do to gutsy Griffs once they have them right where they want them?

This was not the first dilemma I had faced (pretty sure it won’t be my last, either).  I just had to stop and think.  OK, the thinking part would be easy if I could just stop my nose, ears and eyes from going, going, going.

Cripes!!  He’s got a bead on me (bead, beady eye, what’s the dif?)

He’s turning around and wonder of wonders, so am I!!  I am so out of here.

Actually, ho-hum, I was getting a little tired of this game.  This plucky bug and his feeble attempts at intimidation were beginning to wear thin.

I chose to leave before he could see he was bugging me.

I’m pretty sure this is still a victory for me.

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How Hummingbird Wars Affect Attitude

Michigan summers are a beautiful thing.  The sun shines brightly in the sky, melting down just in time let millions of stars sparkle in  the deep dark night.  Living in a farming community, I get to watch the crops grow.  I know that there will indeed be enough potatoes this year for Lays to produce lots of chips (I’m sure this is a relief to millions of humans and dogs everywhere.). Gerber will have peas to feed the babies of the world.  The corn is getting tall enough that Atticus is lost in his own private world every time we walk.  And there is wheat, oats, beans; my goodness, we have it all. 

Nestled in this idyllic setting, is my little farm.  I lazily watch the world drift by, sometimes rousing myself to bark at a tractor or other large equipment.  The bees buzz happily in Mom’s flowers and the little fledglings are followed around by moms and dads (sometimes entire bird communities) and encourage to take a short flight or two.

Jeez Louise!!!  It must be 4:00!!!

The hummingbirds are at the feeders.  And so the excitement begins!   They are truly gorgeous little birds.  Gray, green black and red in color.  So very graceful in flight.  Lively and lovely. 

But they are meaner than a momma grizzly with cubs.  Vicious does not come close to describing the behavior of these itty bitty cuties.  One hummingbird and his mate control the feeders.  And even though Mom made sure the feeders are out of sight of each other, that little guy patrols all the feeders with military precision and aggression. 

If another bird dares a sip at any feeder, he dives fast, swooping out of the sky with one thing on his mind.  Ram the intruder and knock him off the feeder.  He is determined to strike fear in the hearts of all lesser hummingbirds.  They cower, each and every one; peeking around corners (ah, so humiliating), hiding in bushes and trees.  Their tiny hearts beat wildly in their frightened little breasts.  Just a quick drink of sweet nectar to boost their energy, please.  What wimpy little birds.  Stand up and fight for your rights!  You are an embarrassment to your mates and children.  Ugh! 

Honestly, I’d like to be able to relate to these scaredy cat birds.  But I am, of course, The Bamm, aka One Cool Griff.  strike fear into the hearts of others, dogs, cats, and stuffed toys alike.  The Bamm demands subservience.  I heartily recommend that each animal on the farm show me my due respect at each meeting – for their own good.  Be terrified and wimpy if you like, all you lesser humming birds.  I personally wouldn’t know, but I believe acknowledging another’s superiority is good for your character.

Oh, uh, Hi Pearle! I was just blogging about you.  You know, um, how you got the lions share of the brains and beauty.  How you are leader of the pack and no one, least of all me, would consider messing with you.  I was telling the world that I must bow low in your presence, allow you to drink first of the fresh water, and choose your place of rest for the day while we all stand obediently at  your beck and call.  

There she goes-the haughty and hefty Pearlie Blue.  WHEW!  Am I glad she can’t read a lick!  Saved by her illiteracy!  Deep inside, I’m beginning to relate to the underdog, be it bird, cat, or canine.  I guess it’s easy to use words to convey what I wish my place was in the big picture, but that Pearle is downright scary!

I’ve broken out in a cold sweat-  I must go lay low for a bit and regroup.  Ah, Pearle’s glare says I must choose a spot not of my liking.  I’ll just slink over here and peek at her from around the corner…

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The Eyes Have It

Yeah, so, I kill vacuums.  In more ways than one.  Not only do I fill an empty space with my bigger than life dog personality, I also kill vacuum sweepers.  The kind that clean stuff up.  This is one of my greatest passions in life.  I seek them out no matter where they hide.  Once I find one, I jump it, bring it down and utterly destroy it.  My peeps have to physically pull me off the monster.  I bark and yip all of the way out of the room while giving it the death stare.

The result of this obsession of mine is that I get to go for a ride in the car every time someone needs to use the vacuum.  Not such a bad trade off for me, I guess.  Lots of extra rides in the car!!

Last night it was late when Mom wanted to sweep.  Dad said if she took all of the “little rascals” (Uh????) in the car, he’d do it.  So Pearle and I (I guess now we know who the “little rascals” are.) loaded up and off we went.  And this was no typical ride.  We were about to take a ride on the wildside.

We were not in the car two minutes when we had to stop for deer.  A mamma deer and her two baby fawns went tiptoeing across the road.  The next time  Mom stopped the car, I had to get on my front paws on the steering wheel to see what the fuss was about.  Now it was a racoon and with three tiny tykes waddling across the road.  Go ahead, take your time.  Nothing on my calendar right now.

Still tensed up from the racoons, I was on high alert when the opossum stepped out of the weeds right next to the car and began sashaying down the side of the road.  Pearle and I were going bonkers!  We were in real need of an up close encounter.  If we could just check them out nose to nose, nose to butt, nose to anything- just more than an inside looking out view.

Not being nocturnal, most of you don’t realize that in the deep, dark night these sweet animals take on a whole new persona. They may look innocent by day, but the creep factor goes way up once the sun goes down. Oh, the green, yellow and orange glowing eyes.    The eyes always show up first, totally disembodied.  Just little spots of light floating across a field or bopping a cross the road.  Or blinking! Yikes!!

By the time we got home, I did search out and attack the vacuum, but only because it was expected of me.  My heart wasn’t really in it.  I was still having an out-of-body experience; a block from home, out there in the wilds of Michigan.

Sylvester Stallone would be so ashamed of the way I did not live up to our name, Rambo.  Sorry Sly… maybe we could meet somewhere and talk about it.  Say, maybe at high noon…

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Rotten Little Ingrates!

We had a whopper of a storm here yesterday.  I always find it strange that the wind dies down just before it kicks up to about 60mph.  But I’m no meet-rologist, or what ever that guy Matt is in the TV.  And it’s not like he really knows his subject.  Many times he’s pretty vague, saying, “Possible this and chance of that.”  And it seems that he is wrong a LOT.  If I were wrong that many times in a week, I’d be in the dog house.  But, yet again, I digress.  It was the storm I was talking about, not our somewhat incompetent weather people.

I know the corn field was begging for a big sloppy drink, and it got what it wanted.  Sideways sheets of rain.  We had a real downpour.  The ground went from dry as a bone (Oooh, I like bones…) to this:Image

By the way, there is usually no water here.  So that’s a lot!!

I stayed inside during the storm.  Being a little guy, I do not mess with high winds and landscape-changing rains.  Or lightening, thunder, hail…, need I go on???  I’m more the comfort-of-the-couch kind of dog.  Peeking out from behind my peeps at the storm is close enough for this Griff.

There are others that do not have these fears.  I must say some creatures actually seem to welcome a dose of precipitation.  Here is who we found in a mud puddle after the storm:


We can all see this is a MUD puddle, but this guy seems to be enjoying it totally.  I’m not sure where he came from- I don’t usually see turtles at my house, and no water for a quarter mile or so, but, well, there he is!  And a bit later, when we went out, he was gone!  Swam around in my puddle and left without so much as a “Thanks, see you later.”  The little bugger!  The audacity!  The arrogance!

I’m feeling a bit used and abused over this flagrant display of inconsideration.  But I’m sure I can work my way out of it with an extra treat, some fun squeaky toy play and lots of extra Mom hugs.

I’ve go to go find my mom…

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You Can’t Call Me S%#@ -Faced

Walking the dogs is just, well, walking the dogs, right?  Not at our house.  Here we have the Dog Walk, Walking the Dogs, and the Pearle-Is-Going Walk.  These are very different things.  Let me explain.

The Dog Walk is when one of two things happens.  Either Atticus goes with Mom or Atti and I go with Mom.  This is a real dog walk.  Over hill and dale, through thick and thin, weather be damned.  We are tough cookies, Atti and I.  This is the walk for the guys, and of course, Mom.  She’s kind of one of the guys, I guess. 

“Walking the dogs” is when both the peeps go with Atti and I (and sometimes Pearle-the-Puglike-Griff).  For some reason, these are usually shorter than the Dog Walk.  I think the energy of one peep must cancel out the energy of the other.  I’m not good at math, so maybe this isn’t what’s happening.  Maybe it’s Physics, Biochemistry, or Neuroscience?  Anyway, it happens. And it affects distance.

Now the last (and least) walk is the “Pearle-Is-Going” walk.  These are very trying times for the peeps.  See, Pearle is a poop eater.  And since she’s still working off the weight, she goes on a short walk around the horse pasture.  Put two and two together and you’ll get Pearle spending her entire walk snuffling out road apples like a pig going after truffles.  And she thinks they are as delicious as truffles.  A real delicacy.  Mom and Dad use every minute of the walk trying to keep her directed away from any stray horse poops.  But she’s GOOD!  With a nose worthy of a Bloodhound, Pearle always manages to find at least one.  

In the time it takes a peep to scoop it out of her mouth (she puts up quite a fight over horse poop), she has it all over her face. Being a fastidious guy by nature, I find this a bit repulsive.  Thus, I consider her to be s%#@-faced.  No strong drink involved, just fermented horse-dookie.

Pearle, I love you just how you are.  I love you even better without poop on your face!

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