Daisy's Tips: Daisy is 4 years old today!!
Hi L'ers, I would like to wish my Daisy and her littermates the happiest and healthiest of birthdays -- most especially to sweet Sierra who is now shining brightly at the Rainbow Bridge. We miss you so much! Daisy is my first Berner and the one who changed my life. She is my soul-mate, my super-duper cuddler, my mischievous, devious, crafty girl who is now the model of obedience. My slow-motion agility girl. As I have said many times before, she is the other half of my smile. Birthdays are times when I sit and remember all the special memories. One memory, however, stands out: the tomato fiasco. This was Daisy at the height of her devious powers: HAPPY 4th BIRTHDAY DAISY!! Daisy's Tips: Charge of the Daisy Brigade - Thursday, September 28, 2000 1:42 PM Hi ho fellow puppies, Today I just could not leave the kitchen area. On the counter in a huge basket were hundreds of tomatoes, and they smelled wonderful! Humans, however, are strange because when my Mom entered the kitchen, her eyes filled up, and she started to gag. With hand over nose, she dashed to the basement. All manner of noises erupted: the slamming of cabinet doors, boxes falling over and a howl of pain. Mom reappeared lugging huge pots, boxes of jars and muttering something about my Dad and his ... um ... doggone ant piles of junk (my Dad is a packrat). She practically threw the supplies on the counter, slapped her hand to her nose, gagged in the most wretched manner, grabbed the basket of tomatoes and fled. That is, she tried to flee. The basket must have weighed far more than she realized. Another howl of pain. She dragged the basket outside, and, to my horror, locked me in the house and headed towards my fragrant Shangri-La: the compost pile! Once there, she sorted through the tomatoes, gagging, retching and growing more and more pale. By the time she returned to the kitchen with the basket of remaining tomatoes, she was on all fours, so to speak. Play time!! As she crawled in the direction of the bathroom, I play bowed and patted her head vigorously. She collapsed to the floor. Daisy, her voice reed thin. I'm dying. Go' way. Perhaps the time to can tomatoes is not when you have a stomach virus. The tomatoes and the fascinating aroma of those spoiling, however, were calling to my Mom, and she is nothing if not conscientious. She knows how special my Dad's garden is to him. Canning tomatoes, though, is a lot of work: skinning them, then quartering, seeding, simmering, sterilizing jars, lids. Mercy mutts! You humans really should develop a taste for the compost pile... much easier!! I stayed as close to my poor Mom as possible, trying to be a reassuring presence while catching any floor-born tomato bits. Be assured, tomatoes are deeelicious, and Mom was dropping lots of bits. Plus, since she kept leaving the kitchen to visit the bathroom, I had only to helpfully clear some of the debris from the counter into my carefully positioned mouth. Fellow puppies, do remember. Wipe down the front of the cabinets when you do this so that... DAISY!!! FF Mom was back. I dropped to a semi-down, my body coiled for any possibility. When all the tomatoes had been peeled, quartered and seeded, my Mom ran again to visit the bathroom. I rose slowly from the floor like a phoenix from the ashes. I loomed over the counter. There were three big stainless steel bowls of tomatoes. Three. Poised on my powerful hind legs, paws on the counter, I carefully compared the contents of each bowl. THE WINNER IS BOWL NUMBER TWOO. I tried to reach into the bowl but the sides were too high. I delicately nudged the bowl to the edge of the counter and watched avidly as it followed my drool to the floor. The bowl hit with a dull clunk as tomato quarters and juice spewed in all directions like liquid fireworks. Into the valley of death (my mouth) road the plump six hundred. Molars to the right of them. Molars to the left of them. Theirs not to reason why. Theirs but to be eaten and darn quickly! I could hear bagpipes in the distance (the bathroom), and knew my time was short. Heroically I jumped into the fray and attacked the red stew surging across the kitchen floor. Immediately I found myself hydroplaning the entire length of the kitchen. Ever clever, I simply opened my mouth and shoveled in as much as I could -- and it wasn't much. What a challenge! As I gleefully turned for my next run, I saw her. She stood pale and still at the entrance to the kitchen, her mouth working to emit some sort of sound. She looked like a guppy. I froze, tomato juice and fragments dripping from my muzzle, my legs, and, to be truthful, from my entire body. Juice and tomato bits coated the counter, the cabinets, the walls, not to mention the floor, and I had been caught deep in it. I will never forget the sound my Mom managed to produce -- rather like her bagpipes had sprung a leak. Before I could say tomah-to, I was dragged
Re: Daisy's Tips: Daisy is 4 years old today!!
Yutzi sends Daisy birthday greetings. He would like to give her a big wet kiss. sara steele Hi L'ers, I would like to wish my Daisy and her littermates the happiest and healthiest of birthdays -- most especially to sweet Sierra who is now shining brightly at the Rainbow Bridge. We miss you so much! Daisy is my first Berner and the one who changed my life. She is my soul-mate, my super-duper cuddler, my mischievous, devious, crafty girl who is now the model of obedience. My slow-motion agility girl. As I have said many times before, she is the other half of my smile. Birthdays are times when I sit and remember all the special memories. One memory, however, stands out: the tomato fiasco. This was Daisy at the height of her devious powers: HAPPY 4th BIRTHDAY DAISY!! Daisy's Tips: Charge of the Daisy Brigade © - Thursday, September 28, 2000 1:42 PM Hi ho fellow puppies, Today I just could not leave the kitchen area. On the counter in a huge basket were hundreds of tomatoes, and they smelled wonderful! Humans, however, are strange because when my Mom entered the kitchen, her eyes filled up, and she started to gag. With hand over nose, she dashed to the basement. All manner of noises erupted: the slamming of cabinet doors, boxes falling over and a howl of pain. Mom reappeared lugging huge pots, boxes of jars and muttering something about my Dad and his ... um ... doggone ant piles of junk (my Dad is a packrat). She practically threw the supplies on the counter, slapped her hand to her nose, gagged in the most wretched manner, grabbed the basket of tomatoes and fled. That is, she tried to flee. The basket must have weighed far more than she realized. Another howl of pain. She dragged the basket outside, and, to my horror, locked me in the house and headed towards my fragrant Shangri-La: the compost pile! Once there, she sorted through the tomatoes, gagging, retching and growing more and more pale. By the time she returned to the kitchen with the basket of remaining tomatoes, she was on all fours, so to speak. Play time!! As she crawled in the direction of the bathroom, I play bowed and patted her head vigorously. She collapsed to the floor. Daisy, her voice reed thin. I'm dying. Go' way. Perhaps the time to can tomatoes is not when you have a stomach virus. The tomatoes and the fascinating aroma of those spoiling, however, were calling to my Mom, and she is nothing if not conscientious. She knows how special my Dad's garden is to him. Canning tomatoes, though, is a lot of work: skinning them, then quartering, seeding, simmering, sterilizing jars, lids. Mercy mutts! You humans really should develop a taste for the compost pile... much easier!! I stayed as close to my poor Mom as possible, trying to be a reassuring presence while catching any floor-born tomato bits. Be assured, tomatoes are deeelicious, and Mom was dropping lots of bits. Plus, since she kept leaving the kitchen to visit the bathroom, I had only to helpfully clear some of the debris from the counter into my carefully positioned mouth. Fellow puppies, do remember. Wipe down the front of the cabinets when you do this so that... DAISY!!! FF Mom was back. I dropped to a semi-down, my body coiled for any possibility. When all the tomatoes had been peeled, quartered and seeded, my Mom ran again to visit the bathroom. I rose slowly from the floor like a phoenix from the ashes. I loomed over the counter. There were three big stainless steel bowls of tomatoes. Three. Poised on my powerful hind legs, paws on the counter, I carefully compared the contents of each bowl. THE WINNER IS BOWL NUMBER TWOO. I tried to reach into the bowl but the sides were too high. I delicately nudged the bowl to the edge of the counter and watched avidly as it followed my drool to the floor. The bowl hit with a dull clunk as tomato quarters and juice spewed in all directions like liquid fireworks. Into the valley of death (my mouth) road the plump six hundred. Molars to the right of them. Molars to the left of them. Theirs not to reason why. Theirs but to be eaten and darn quickly! I could hear bagpipes in the distance (the bathroom), and knew my time was short. Heroically I jumped into the fray and attacked the red stew surging across the kitchen floor. Immediately I found myself hydroplaning the entire length of the kitchen. Ever clever, I simply opened my mouth and shoveled in as much as I could -- and it wasn't much. What a challenge! As I gleefully turned for my next run, I saw her. She stood pale and still at the entrance to the kitchen, her mouth working to emit some sort of sound. She looked like a guppy. I froze, tomato juice and fragments dripping from my muzzle, my legs, and, to be truthful, from my entire body. Juice and tomato bits coated the counter, the cabinets, the walls, not to mention the floor, and I had been caught deep in it. I will never forget the
