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Shady TravellerSeptember 27, 2008 Travvy is seven months old today. What he would like for his monthday is to get the lamp shade off his head. It makes him look like the scruffy truant who got drafted to play an angel in the Christmas pageant. On his tie-out at the barn, when he starts woo-and-wailing he looks like a Vienna choirboy singing protest songs of the Phil Ochs variety; vocally he's got Dylan beat but lyrically he's got a ways to go. At the barn the thing gets so filthy that only a hose will clean it. The pouring-down rain we've been having since Thursday night doesn't help. He bangs into the door. He bangs into me. When he's sniffing along the ground, the shade kicks up muck like a plow kicks up snow. Coming up the stairs he sounds like Marley's Ghost. He manages to squeeze into his crate with the lampshade on but can barely turn around, and forget about eating. I've been feeding him outside the crate. A few times he's upended his inside water dish. ("I didn't do it -- the lampshade did.") Since he added the lamp shade to his wardrobe he hasn't wanted to sleep outside. Maybe he's embarrassed to be seen by the local nightlife? The shade obscures his peripheral vision, so maybe he feels vulnerable. Or maybe it's mostly that it's been pouring down rain since Thursday night and sleeping in the shower isn't his style. When he sleeps inside, around first light he wants to get on the bed, so I rise and lift him up. A very large puppy nuzzling you with a lamp shade on his head could be hazardous to your face but so far we've managed. Come to think of it, if anyone's auditioning actors for "Little Red Riding Hood," give me a call: I've got your wolf. He looks just like Grandmother lying in bed; all he needs is a picnic basket. Don't look too closely, though: Grandmother's night cap has teeth marks all around the edge.
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