At happy hour last weekend, Big Brother asked to try Mom's spicy margarita. "Not for kids," Mom said. I've heard that quite a lot as Big Brother and I have grown up together these last 18 months. Having seen Mom after a few of those cocktails, I concur with her assessment. But now that I'm maturing into a not-so-puppyish dog and spending a lot more real time with my family, I've noticed a new catch phrase - not for dogs.
Like what, you ask? Well, let's go back to happy hour. Apparently guacamole is not for dogs, although when Dad is not looking, a tortilla chip from Mom's sneaky hand might be ok. Dad says guacamole isn't even for Hispanic dogs!
As long as we're on the food kick, it turns out real ice cream is not for dogs. I'm not going to complain too much about the fake ice cream Mom makes for me from Greek yogurt and peanut butter, because it's better than me getting a dog cookie while my family slurps down some Turkey Hill peanut butter swirl. Speaking of cookies, how could something that smells as heavenly as a chocolate chip cookie not be for dogs?
"It could kill you," Mom said.
"Um, just to be clear," I said, "downing spoonfuls of that raw dough is ok for you, but eating it cooked is actually going to kill me?"
"Yep, because it's not for dogs. You can have one of your cookies."
My cookies. Ha! Made from lamb or made from peanut butter, they certainly don't smell like Mom's cookies, and let's be real - in comparison, they're crap. If they weren't, humans would eat them, and then guess what? You've got it - not for dogs.
Our family is big into games. You know those little square things humans toss around when they play board games? Dice, I think they call them? Not for dogs. Just get one of them in your mouth, if you want to set off some board game bedlam. The same goes for play money, playing cards, and these circle things called checkers.
But board games aren't the only kind of games we play. Last summer, to celebrate the games of the XXXII Olympiad and Mom's birthday, we hosted the Birthday Olympics. There was a lot of build-up the week prior, but sadly, foosball, ping pong, and Nerf gun shooting were not for dogs. However, ingesting a Nerf dart will net you the same reaction as scooping up the dice.
And apparently, it's not just during the Birthday Olympics that family sports are not for dogs. Foosball and ping pong happen frequently, and I am always shut out. Air hockey and basketball? Guess what? Not for dogs. If you want to break up an air hockey game, though, eating the puck is a sure fire way to disrupt play, as is taking a poo just off the patio that serves as the basketball court. One wrong bounce and they'll be wishing they let you play!
Christmas time abounds with things that aren't for dogs. Wrapping paper (why the heck did they put my gift in the stuff then?), Christmas stockings (why must they dangle so temptingly from the mantle?), and Christmas ornaments (also hanging in my face) all fall on the wrong side of the line. Even ornaments with dogs on them aren't for dogs - not even the ornament I made at camp is for me! WTH??
My humans might not look it, but they sure do try to stay committed to working out. I'm thinking about getting buff myself, but - and this won't surprise you - the exercise stuff is not for dogs. The elliptical machine, which is fine by me cause it's dangerous; the stretchy bands; the little dumbbells; and the exercise ball are all off limits. Here again, though, why put a giant, bouncy ball on the floor in my face and then say, "Not for dogs"? Not for dogs, huh? That's what you think. Dogs and bouncy rubber balls are like peanut butter and Fluff or Ross and Rachel - they just go together. And if you don't want me to chew on the dumbbells, don't leave 'em on the floor! Will these humans never learn?
We've talked about Mom's gardening before (What's in Your Weeds), and I'll be honest, I think I could help her out. I mean, at least my keen sense of smell could help her identify what's what in her weed patch - I mean, "flower garden." But plants are also on the "not for dogs" list. I can see where my humans have some bias against grasses and leaves, considering my history with intestinal blockage, but house plants or bee balm? Come on! That bee balm smells dreamy, like an invigorating citrus party tangoing across the lawn. But it's not even for dogs to sniff!
The one that hurts me the most, though? The bed. Human beds are divine! All those fluffy covers and all that room to stretch out - not to mention they are up off the floor. Sometimes, when it's night-night time, I like to sit next to Mom's side of the bed, between my bed and theirs, and grumble a bit.
"Quit playing that oboe!" Dad grumbles back. I don't even know what the heck that is, but Big Brother once explained that Dad thinks my whining sounds like I'm playing a refined, double-reed, woodwind instrument.
"Get in your bed," Mom will whisper, while gently giving me a little push in the right direction. "This bed is not for dogs."
"But why," I whine, as the oboe plays a little louder.
"Gus, I love you," Mom says above the din of Dad's threats. "But you wrestle around with other dogs all day and do things like roll around in the yard. We humans don't do things like that. So, sorry, I don't want all that dog dander and yard yuck where I'm sleeping. Sitting on the couch for a little bit, ok; but taking over the bed all night, well, that's a no-go."
I slink off to my little bed on the floor, begrudgingly happy to have a soft bed to snooze in. I dream about the day that Birthday Olympics and board games and big beds and guacamole will all be for dogs. Until then, I'll relish in Mom's news that there are some things I do that aren't for humans. Guess I might as well enjoy the privileges of living a dog's life!
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