Oooh, Dad, update more often!!
I am losing people who come read me, because Bad Dad is not updating as often. *wags fing-- er... paw?*
Bad Dad!!
Last night, I gave Pa a kind of crying-sound that he is starting to know means 'I know I am in my 'it is bedtime' crate, but I need top get to Dad!'... so he let me out.
I jumped on the bed gently and sniffed Dad, and then I ran to his desk.
I knocked his pill bottles around a little, and then Pa gave me one. "This?" he asked...
I ran to Dad!
Wake up Dad! Wake up!! You need your pain pills!
Dad grumbled something about not wanting to take them because he was already asleep... just let him sleep...
I was a little dejected, but smart Pa rewarded me... and waited...
Within 20-30 minutes, Dad woke up from the HURT. He was hurting enough he was half asleep going 'where are the pain pills... oh gods...' in his sleepy mumbly voice.
I watched him get them with an expression he will not soon forget. I TRIED, Dad. You are not a good Service Dog owner tonight.
Dad took them, and then rewarded me.... and I sniffed his butt and gave him my 'disgusted' look... so he went to the bathroom.
His poor backside, and that fistula had made a mess!
It is my rule. NO POOPYBUTT!!
He did something called a 'sitz bath' whatever that is, and applied this special cream that Pa calls a "skin barrier" but the housemake calls "Crack Spackle" (haw haw!) and then he came back to bed.
I laid down.
I stretched out.
I SIGHED contentedly.
I am learning that I can be RIGHT... when Dad is WRONG.
Maybe there is something to this 'job' thing, after all.
Bad Dad!!
Last night, I gave Pa a kind of crying-sound that he is starting to know means 'I know I am in my 'it is bedtime' crate, but I need top get to Dad!'... so he let me out.
I jumped on the bed gently and sniffed Dad, and then I ran to his desk.
I knocked his pill bottles around a little, and then Pa gave me one. "This?" he asked...
I ran to Dad!
Wake up Dad! Wake up!! You need your pain pills!
Dad grumbled something about not wanting to take them because he was already asleep... just let him sleep...
I was a little dejected, but smart Pa rewarded me... and waited...
Within 20-30 minutes, Dad woke up from the HURT. He was hurting enough he was half asleep going 'where are the pain pills... oh gods...' in his sleepy mumbly voice.
I watched him get them with an expression he will not soon forget. I TRIED, Dad. You are not a good Service Dog owner tonight.
Dad took them, and then rewarded me.... and I sniffed his butt and gave him my 'disgusted' look... so he went to the bathroom.
His poor backside, and that fistula had made a mess!
It is my rule. NO POOPYBUTT!!
He did something called a 'sitz bath' whatever that is, and applied this special cream that Pa calls a "skin barrier" but the housemake calls "Crack Spackle" (haw haw!) and then he came back to bed.
I laid down.
I stretched out.
I SIGHED contentedly.
I am learning that I can be RIGHT... when Dad is WRONG.
Maybe there is something to this 'job' thing, after all.