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Destinations, Dreams and Dogs - International adventure with a fast-track family (& dogs) of Old World values, adopting the Russian-Italian-American good life on the go…!

Pups Who Love to Play

I’m working, I’m always working, but Misha doesn’t really care.  He comes trotting over, and tosses his kong at my feet.

The black Scottie wants to play.  He always wants to play.

I get up, so I can get down.  On my hands and knees, Misha’s got me where he wants me.  We play-wrestle as I twist and turn the hard rubber toy in his jaws.

For those who don’t know, a kong is an indestructible dog toy, made from hard rubber.  Its shape is a cross between an ice cream cone and a volcano, hollow in the core, all the better to hold peanut butter or doggie treats.  The thinking behind this is more than “stick in your thumb and pull out a plum”, it’s more along the lines of “give them something to work on so they’ll be occupied and stop bugging you when you’re trying to work”.

Never seems to work, except when we have to go out and we put them in their big crates with blankets, kong-stuffed-with-peanut-butter, and bigscreen TV.  Misha and Grisha will lick and lick to get to the kong’s center and remove every last smidgen of the p.b. elixir placed within.  But for now, he wants to play.

He throws the kong down in front of me.  C’mon, toss it my way, he nods.  About that time, Grisha the little Scottie comes rushing in, stealing the kong from between us.

Hey!  The two of us jump up and chase him in hot pursuit.  Somehow, someway, while running, Grisha grabs another kong and is now running with one sticking out of his left jaw, and one sticking out of his right jaw.  We must look like the Three Stooges running in a big circle from the living room, to the dining room, through the kitchen, and back again.

This will never end.

I change tactics.  Plunking down on the living room carpet, I drum my hands on the floor and the two come over, curious.  Grisha chews on one kong while placing the other under his front paws.

Kong hog.

I tickle Misha who’s presently toy-less.  Who said you needed “stuff” to have fun?  He stretches and I scratch his back.  He rolls over and I scratch his armpits.  He pushes me with his front paws just so that I’ll gather him up like a little baby and hold him in my arms.

Putting him back down, I explain, “Misha, I have to go back to work,” upon which, he pounces on Grisha and grabs the kong, running the circuit again.

What a life.

 

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