Chapter 5
(20th May 2000):

Turning on the Fireworks


Dear Friends and family,

It's GrŠinne again, writing to tell you what a big girl I've become. Those stupid baby pictures make me look so dumb. Dumb? Sometimes I'm deaf when they call me, but I'm never dumb. I get my point across very well, thank you. "Play with me NOW", "Give me some of THAT", "You'd BETTER believe I have to go out" and "It's time for our afternoon walk, ISNíT IT?" are among my best.

Of course my passive vocabulary is growing as well: come, come here, sit, no biting, no pulling, heel, OK, down, and the best ones: Wanna go bye-bye? Get your sock and bring it here! Look in your dish, cookie. That "good girl" stuff is pretty wimpy, but I get the point.

Likewise, my legs are growing. I can put them on Mummy's tummy now and reach Daddy's behind when he's cooking. You wouldn't believe how much better I can bounce on my springs now when I run after the ball they throw. Boing, boing, boing. The baby black hairs are almost grown out and I'm working on a ladylike coat of wheat. Not that I plan to ever be a lady. "Wheaten terrors", to quote Pete Schmid, arenít ladies.

My folks are looking forward to the Irish Terrier Festival show in Hannover next week. "Fifty Wheatens at one blow", said the chairlady when they called, including my biological mother Peggy Sue, grandmother Ibiza and maybe great-grandfather Man About Town, all of them champions.

I really did a good job on the Schroeders, who had looked forward to my visit with them while Mum and Dad went to Paris over Easter. Of course I was an angel at first, until I knew that the folks were far enough away not to come back. Then I turned on the fireworks. When they tried to go to a party without me, I had the whole neighborhood standing in front of the house listening to my wild cries and watching the curtains move back and forth. I constantly licked the foot of their coffee table and gave them no peace. Finally I had Anne near tears. The next time they left me with a professional kennel owner, his verdict, "She's sweet but strenuous". Wait till summer vacation; in four weeks Iíll teach him what strenuous really means!

Meanwhile I have realized which side of the bread is buttered at home. I've given up destroying shoes, since they kept taking it out of my pocket money. However, we donít want them to get too complacent, do we, Kysha? I still discipline them when they leave clothes within my reach: a pullover here or underwear there to drag out into my lair in the yard. Speaking of gardens ... forget the veggies this summer, Old Man. He tried every trick in the book: fence, bamboo poles, a net. But Wheatens are smarter than humans and know how to assert themselves. I always leave a hole big enough to bury the sofa in. GrŠinne will find a way to get to the radishes. Then Daddy plays my favorite new game: The hose. Last time when I was filthy enough to give Pigpen a run for his money and ran into the house to show Mummy, she nearly had a nervous breakdown and tossed me into the shower, where I challenged the drain with the part of the garden I brought in. (I had already stolen the drain insert and killed it in my outdoor lair. They took it out of my pocket money.)

I still had enough pocket money for a smoked bone - too heavy to run off with - and a squeaky newspaper ("The Good Boy News") from Harrod's when Mum went to London last week. I got insulted about the "Good Boy" bit and ... right! I bit. I bit a hole in it and pushed the squeaker in. That's what they're for, arenít they, Morag? It took me a week, but after all, I'm only six months old. Next Monday.

You'll hear from me again. That's a promise and a threat.
Love and kisses,
GrŠinne, the less than holy terror - uh, terrier

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