Five Knife Puppy Prison

"Here now...we don't play with the knife."

That pretty much sums up my evening. The Veteran and his
older brother came out to the Mansion for Christmas festivities.
Older Brother brought his two girls, and his girlfriend and her
three kids. Thats FIVE kids, people. FIVE! I am not such a
fan of children who are not my own, or even my students.
That's because everything is all about me, and I relish peace
and quiet. They were not bad kids. But they were a lot of
kids. A lot of kids under the age of seven. A lot of kids
under the age of seven who viewed the Mansion as an
arcade.

So by the time #1 son took the sharp cake-cutting knife out
of the hand of the 4-year-old boy and told him patiently,
"Here now...we don't play with the knife", I was ready for
them to go home. Really, they weren't bad kids. Just a lot
of them.

We played with the new puppy today. HH bought him a
chain-link prison to stay in until he knows this is home. I took
#2 son to the Dollar Store, where we bought Tank a royal
blue cat collar, a squeaky rubber bone, a burlap squeaky bone,
and a three-pack of rawhide chew sticks. The cat collar was
all that would fit him. Hey! The Veteran removed the bell from
it before strapping it on little Tank's neck.

Ann took an interest in the little feller today. She sniffed his
butt, and followed him around trying to herd him. Duh. I
suppose this is because she is part German Shepherd. She
also flopped down on her doggy elbows and tried to engage
him in a game of chase, but Tank did not get the hint. He was
too busy trotting hither and yon to chew on the Christmas
light wires, sticks, leaves, and his own rear left foot. He sat
down ever 10 seconds to scratch at the demon collar. The
Veteran says he is due for some more shots, so I will take
him next week while we are off. We are thinking about
having a chip installed in him in case he gets lost or stolen.

I told HH that little Tank might try to dig under the fence.
HH does not think so. Later in the afternoon, HH caught Ann
nosing around the pen. He says if anything is going to happen,
it will be Ann digging a tunnel to get him out to play with. That
little guy sure has a LOUD bark. He has made it clear that he
doesn not enjoy being put in THE PEN. Once he is in there
a while, he goes into his little wooden house and puts his feet
up in the recliner, I suppose, with a cold brew and the remote
control, because he will not come out if he hears us talking,
or even when one of the kids goes into the pen and calls him.
"He's chewing on a cedar chip," the boy will say, "and it
doesn't look like he wants to come out."

If only I could have done that tonight.