We purchased a small wicker basket to serve as a bed for our Italian Greyhound. IGGYs "burrow" naturally, seeking the warm confines of blanket caves. Surely one would not even be aware that there is an IGGY in the house, were it not for the piercing pain one feels as the little bastard hurls itself at your body (often "clocking nads" with incredible precision) as it dances about on its hind legs at feeding time.
Our IGGY, Zephyr, lays claim to all things soft and blankety, to include cast off clothing left on chairs or smelly towels heaped for laundry day. The wicker basket would get him out of my hair while I work in my office ~ and Better Half could enjoy spending time with me without having to tend to the damn dog's needs.
I should add at this point that Zephyr is known as "pretty princess pegasus pony" or The Queen. My dog is a queen? Nay, my dog is a drag queen. Were he a human child, he would mantle himself with Barbie dolls, pink and purple feather boas and sequined gowns, and would surely host wee tea parties for all his wee friends. He is extremely sensitive, extraordinarily elegant, and 100% attitude. He will bark an 80-pound dog off a bed (three snaps up) simply to have his way. He is especially gender confused, and would be content to hump our male Greyhound if given the chance. Of course, his attraction to the Greyhound is easy to explain away: PB Drives On By (aka Sammy) is a retired athlete and once Class A Track Racer. No gay man in his right mind would turn down a straight studmuffin.
Any queen deserves luxury! I refuse to compromise my decor in favor of his penchant for paisley; handsome wicker will suffice. The basket fits well with my office decor and His Majesty (the IGGY formerly known as Prince) promptly laid claim to his new throne.
Enter Geriatric Dog (aka Gennaker the Shepherd Mix):
Geriatric Dog is a tad senile and nearly deaf. At thirteen years of age, this gentle little creature deserves a bit of respect, as Geriatric Dog is a Lady and Love On Four Legs. Geriatric Dog discovered The Queen's Throne and promptly usurped it. No amount of prissy barking will remove Geriatric Dog once she has curled into a tight donut and laid her gray head down for a nap. Naturally, the Queen pitches a royal hissy fit to no end ~ it falls on (literally) deaf ears. The Queen hangs his head in defeat and seeks out a laundry pile or my own bed.
Things would be peaceful at this point, if not for the Village Idiot:
There are many words one could utilize while describing the Village Idiot: obnoxious, dumber than a box of rocks, useless, To Big To Be Allowed, spaz or thunderous all come to mind. The Village Idiot is a 70-pound shepherd that only follows orders when one brandishes a bamboo kitchen spoon or spray bottle. She is not a bad dog (we will not hold urinating on my floor out of spite against her) but she does not use any canine reasoning skills. Omega of the pack, she lives to play. Her call name is Nutmeg; I wonder if she assumes her name is, for all intents and purposes, "No! Stop it! Damn you!"
The Village Idiot does not care if the Queen is under the covers; she will vault onto the bed and trample him for shits and grins. She doesn't notice if Geriatric Dog is sleeping; she will pounce on her with abandon. She is inconsiderate of The Studmuffin if he is trying to void his bladder; she will hurtle into him. She recently discovered the Throne and it does not matter that she is too big to fit in it. She usurps via harassment, plops her huge body down, learns that she does not fit, and then leaves it. Ten minutes later she has already forgotten that she does not fit it, and the cycle begins anew.
The Village Idiot would rule dogdom in this home, were it not for The Bitch, Matty:
Matilda May (Waltzing Matilda, or Red Dog the Lab/Dobi mix) is a militant thing who will patrol the yard with the drive of a seasoned and grizzled Marine Master Sergeant. She is balls to the wall. She shows little sign of aging and Better Half and I firmly believe that she sold her soul to the devil to obtain eternal youth. Roughly six months younger than Geriatric Dog, The Bitch maintains her burly physcial stamina.
The Bitch and the Village Idiot do not get along. The Bitch gets along with no one, although she tolerates Geriatric Dog's tender washing of her face and ears. The Bitch does not lose dogfights and will rip out the throat of any who push her too far. Village Idiot has learned not to mess with The Bitch ~ such transgressions once involved my holding the Bitch by collar and handfuls of flesh whilst Better Half picked up The Village Idiot to remove her from The Bitch's line of sight. The Bitch wears comfortable shoes, despises males, and has a chip on her shoulder. This dog has no desire to take control of the throne, as she knows that she is too hefty to fit in it. She is content to sleep in the hallway where she can keep an eye on every upstairs room and the stairway itself, and snarl at anything that comes within ten feet of her. She also enjoys laying next to the Throne in wait of some foolish animal's attempt to use it. It is a vicious game for her. The Bitch fears only one thing: my wrath.
Sammy the Greyhound would never fit in the Throne, nor has he any desire to have anything to do with it. He waits until the battle of wills begins before using his canine smarts to take over the large bed in my room. "Let the womenfolk fight it out."
And so, four dogs squabble over one wicker basket. The Queen "snaps", the Geriatric usurps, the Idiot vanquishes, the Bitch threatens ~ and all admit defeat when the one creature that truly rules this house turns up: the Cat.
No one dares mess with the Cat. The Cat is a god.