Weekend regurgitation: A James Bond, Mission Impossible and Snoopy combo

Every day I become the human personification of Einstein’s definition of insanity by trying to play the game of fetch with Oliver. It goes something like this:

• I throw the ball and excitedly call out Get it, Ollie! Go get it!
• Oliver chases after the ball.
• Oliver retrieves the ball.
• Oliver runs back to me with the ball in his mouth.
• I declare enthusiastically Good boy, Ollie! Give me the ball!
• Oliver collapses onto his stomach and shimmies to the couch with the ball in his mouth.
• I firmly demand  Ollie, give me the ball! Give me the ball!
• Oliver plays dead.
• I plead Drop the ball, Ollie! Drop it! C’mon! Drop it!
• Oliver plays dead.
• I yell FINE! I’M NOT PLAYING!
• Oliver plays dead.
• I stomp off.
• Oliver spits out the ball and contemplates it.
• I begin to praise him with Good boy, Ollie! Now, give me …
• Oliver immediately pushes the ball under the couch with his nose.
• I yell BRILLIANT, GENIUS! NOW WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO FOR THE REST OF THE DAY?
• For the rest of the day, Oliver follows me all around the house, whining and whining and whining some more because his ball is under the couch.
• Lather, rinse, repeat.

I leave you with the post I wrote last year when Oliver was a four-pound, pliable ball of fur who could squish under couches and retrieve all wayward balls. Unlike today, when Oliver is a seven pound, less-pliable ball of stubbornness and ball retrieval is now performed by a none-of-your-business pound, rigid, misshapen rhombus of middle-aged, frustrated estrogen.

Happy Sunday, everyone!

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The name’s Chamberlain. Oliver Chamberlain.

(originally published April 2010)

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