Living the Goode Life

My life with the old Buzzard and his mama bird is everything I had hoped for. (By the way, the way I am not supposed to be on the furniture*)

They took me into their home, introduced me to my new brothers and sister, and bought me a special room with a bed, so I could sleep inside the house at night. I especially liked that part, I had never stayed inside before.

Mama bird insisted that I be taken to the vet right away, to get an examination and shots I would need. Mom was sure right, because they found some nasty old worms in my body, and I had to take special medicine to get rid of them. The nice ladies at the vet's office gave me a tag indicating I was now vaccinated, and mom bought me a great collar, so I could wear the tag around my neck, along with the very special tag she had made for me with my name on it. My mom loves me, and sees to it, that I am protected!

Dad said it was going to get cold soon, and I needed to become house trained. Of course this involved special training, and after about a month of practicing going to the bathroom etiquette principles, I was allowed to stay in the house as much as I wanted, as long as I behaved. (I am still working very hard on this behavior thing.)  Mom got me into a special school, so that I could learn my doggie manners as she puts it. I'm not sure exactly how that's going, but mom and dad say I have a long way to go yet. Mom and dad say that I am smart, maybe too smart for my own good; whatever that means.

I get fed twice a day, and of course with only the right foods, and I have bones to chew on, and get treats when I am good or do something correctly. My very favorite thing is chewing on bones. Sometimes I go out and bury them, so I can chew on them later if my brothers and sister don't find them first. They are Dachshunds, and my parents say they have special skills at finding and digging up things that I bury. I personally believe they went to a different school than I did, because you're not supposed to take another persons stuff or have the wrong stuff. At least that's what the police dogs are being trained to understand at the school I attend.

Mom is the one that gave me the name Tucker. She also calls me a knucklehead, bonehead, and clumsy sometimes. Dad, on the other hand, calls me all sorts of things, including things that mom seems a little upset about at times. Mostly, he calls me Tucker or Brother Tucker. Dad's the one who wakes me up in the morning, and takes me outside. Mom brushes my coat everyday, and gives me treats when I listen and do as she says. I especially like when she tucks me into bed at night, giving me a bedtime treat for being such a good dog. I try, I really do!

So for the last three months I have been living the Goode life so to speak. I eat well, chew on bones, play with and tear up my toys, pester my brothers and sister, nibble on anything I can get away with, dig holes, bury bones, go on hikes, play in any water I find, explore the great outdoors, bring home sticks of all kinds, and use my big boy bark to let everyone know when someone is here. Most certainly I know I have a home, so when my dad or mom whistles; I come running.