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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Creative Junkie

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