Thoughts from Mischief as Camp WalkaWalkaMo-Walka?Walka is Winding Down

It's a beautiful, beautiful morning in Saint Plotniko, but that's to be expected since Plot and Duck are bringing Mischief home this weekend. They've got every minute planned down there -- her name is Isabella. Oh, and Mummy P, PD and 5H too. Of course.

(Apparently, according to Mummy Plotnik, last week Isabella held her glass up to signal her father that she wanted more apple juice. When he said 'that's enough for now, Isabella,' she took her glass, walked into the kitchen, stood in front of the refrigerator and blammed her glass into it, over and over and over until they got the idea. Can you believe that cutesy slurpy drooly brilliant little woopsy poopsydoopsy

(GPS 5000 Baby Talk Filter Engaged.)

Now, Mischief would never do anything so unsubtle. He is not only handsome but smart. OK, not 'smart,' as in 'smart,' but 'smart' as in "I Do it My Way." He will never approach the dinner table when you sit down to eat, but the second he hears forks slowing down, or the shuffle of a foot, he'll get up and amble slowly by -- "...perhaps they're finished? Perhaps there is a morsel that could come my way? Lord, Bless this food I am about to receive."

His nose is just high enough to reach above the table, from which vantage point he can sniff out anything he would eat. The answer always is: anything you got. His tail wags. He, well, it's a cross between a smile and a drool. It's cute. If he's yours.

But no, here at Camp WalkaWalkaMo-Walka?Walka animals are not permitted to eat from the table. Mischief understands. So he sits down under the map, properly reprimanded, lays his big brown eyes on Plotnik and stares at him with an expression that says: "You don't have to give me a thing. I am happy simply revering you from this distance. In fact, my love is so all-encompassing that I probably could not even swallow that deLISH piece of, what is it, steak? you've still got on your plate, yes that one over there, uh huh, that one."

And "Are you going to eat those, are they fingerling potatoes? with, what is that, butter?"

And "You know, that platter that had the steak pieces on it, I know the steak is gone, except for that one piece, yes, right there, that's the one, but look, neither of you would be all that interested in licking the platter, would you, because, it's a funny thing, but I'd do it."

This is the same dog who will sniff up a two day old dead rat on Kite Hill, so Plotnik does not think his stay in Northern Shmalifornia has turned Mischief into any more of a gourmet. But he has refined his methods.

Perhaps what he wants in the morning is nothing more than yet another walk, and yet...Plot and Duck both wake up when they hear him get up from his little bed upstairs and start down the stairs. They are already smiling when his curly black tail appears over the end of the bed, moving towards one side of the bed or the other, a few seconds before his muzzle slips into a waiting hand, and he finds himself being scratched and his fur smoothed, and his GrandHumans saying things like: "Good Morning, Mischief Puppy Wuppy! How's the best doggie in the whole wide world? Are you ready for another, you know, the W-word?"

Of course he is. But he knows there is an order to the Universe. First, they have to go get the paper and get back in bed to read it. Then they have to get dressed. Then they have to squeeze some oranges for juice. Then, Plotnik will put on his shoes, grab the Morning Bag's bag, pick up the leash and his keys...and yes! Yes! That's when the fun begins. Ai, chihuahua, it's been nice.