Der Brucer is now referring to Fletcher as his "Irish puppy."
This may seem odd, as Fletcher is a Dalmatian, and they are not an Irish breed. However, the designation is earned.
Fletcher has discovered potatoes.
I had a few sitting on the kitchen counter, some red rose taters and a couple of bakers. We left to run some errands, and when we returned we found that Fletcher had been counter-surfing again, and had pulled them down.
Scolding doesn't seem to sink in with Fletcher. He knows that our fingers wagging in front of his face means that we are not happy with his behavior, but he can't pick up the tone of our voices. If anything, he loves the attention.
I thought I had gathered up the potatoes, and put them back on the counter, but I must have missed one or two of them because he shortly reappeared with a red rose potato in his mouth, happy as if it were a ball. Well, we figured it couldn't do him any harm to chomp on the potato, so we let him keep it.
This would be the end of it, except that Mikey, the little terrier, has decided that HE TOO likes potatoes. In fact, he and Fletcher have quarreled more than once over who owns the potato, with Mikey grabbing the spud and running away with it in his mouth. The spud is, of course, almost as large as his head. (This may be, for him, a substitute for the avocados he used to harvest from the tree in our West Coast back yard digs.)
Well, what the heck, potatoes are cheap.
I'm a little concerned, however. What's going to happen if I leave a head of garlic on the counter?