Jam's New Nickname: Bonehead

We've noticed that Jam has a problem.  It's a bit of a cloth addiction.  He wants to have something soft in his mouth when he gets up in the morning or at night going up and down the stairs.  This compulsion of his usually results in his grabbing a sock, which we make him drop.

He's gotten wise to that.  He now runs into the bedroom, grabs any piece of clothing he can reach, and then runs out of the bedroom as fast as he can.  He's not quite a greased pig, but almost as hard to get a hold of. So things, generally go like this:

Jam runs into the bedroom and spies one of Fred's shirt's on the dresser.  He grabs it and whirls around.  I'm three feet away and scream, "NO! Drop it!"

Jam, sensing that NO is really just a small speedbump on the way to YES, fakes right and manages to get by me.  He races to the bathroom door and then turns at the head of the stairs and clenches the shirt in his mouth.

"Jam.  I am serious."  I say, completely ignoring the fact that trainer Jennifer has told us many times that talking like this is of no use to the dog. "Drop it."  I'm also too far away to make good on my Drop it command, which is bad thing number 2.  Jam, of course, being the stubborn bonehead that he is, ignores me, waits until I am two steps away and then gallops down the stairs.

"ARGHHHHHH!"  I stare at Jam.  Jam has his butt in the air doing a down dog position daring me to come and get the shirt.  Again, I forget about talking to him and talk to him. "Seriously, dude?  I am NOT coming down there."

I think he is laughing.

Another Morning


5:18 am

I wake up to the dulcet sounds of Jam yakking up something in his crate.  I turn on the lights and open the crate door.  He gives me a pained look and walks over to the white rug and promptly yaks up again on it.

Bile.  I look in the crate.  It looks like mostly bile, but there seems to be a pile of something.  I shut the crate door and go to get the toilet paper.  As I am cleaning, I notice that his pile of vomit seems to have writing on it.  What does it say? I can barely make it out.

Adidas!

He ate an entire golf sock.  ARGH!  I clean it all up and throw it away in the bathroom trash can.  Then as I am totally awake now (reading vomit will do that to a person), I take Jam and Willow downstairs for their breakfast.  I have no appetite.

Jam, as usual, scarfs his breakfast down and then as I am fixing myself a restorative cup of coffee, he disappears.  "Fred, have you seen Jam.  Is he in there with you?"

"No."

"Crap.  I have a bad feeling about this."  Bad feeling as in birth of a blockhead.  I run back upstairs and Jam meets me at the head of the stairs licking his lips.  Another bad sign.  "Jam.  What have you done?"  I run into the bathroom and look around.  Nothing looks amiss.  I look in the bedroom.  Same there.  I go back into the bathroom.  Then it hits me.

Vomit sock.  Oh no!

I walk over to the trash can.

I look in.

No vomit sock.

Jam in his Santa outfit looking handsome and not like he would eat a vomit sock.

He ate it.  Again.  You wouldn't think this handsome boy would eat a vomit sock would you?  But he would.  In a heartbeat.  He's a blockhead.  A stubborn, stubborn boy.  He's the puppy that tried for 55 minutes to get up on the front seat on the way home from Southeastern Guide Dogs.  Why are we surprised?

So what did we do? We got out the hydrogen peroxide and we made him throw it up.  With his breakfast.

Lesson: Get a new trashcan with a lid! AND make sure all socks make it into the laundry basket!