Oliver

My dear, sweet, energetic, easily distracted boy.

I love him.

Even when he licks my face while I am sleeping.  After eating a bowl of his food.

Or when he pees all over me the second I walk in the door.

I still love him.

We've noticed throughout the years he has the attention span of a goldfish (get's that from his mom) and the energy level of a terrier (his dad).  But he's smart as...well, a Golden Retriever.

"Oliver, go get your ball."

He knows what this means.

"Go get it!"

He runs out of the room.  A man on a mission.

Chomp, chomp, chomp.

He wanders back in.  Says hello.  Burps.

"Oliver.  Go.  Get.  Your.  Ball."

Oh yeah.  Runs out.  Slides on the hardwood.

Shlurp, shlurp, shlurp, shlurp.

All that thinkin' made him thirsty.  He trots in.

"Hey.  I said I need that ball.  GO GET THAT BALL!  I mean your ball, go get YOUR ball."

He runs around the apartment, up and down the stairs, and back into the room.

He forgot.

"Ball."

Oh, yeah.  Runs out.  Brings Christmas Bear held oh-so-gingerly by the bear's pom-pom nose.

"That is not your BALL."

huh?

"BAAAAALLLL."

huh?

"Ball!  Ball!  Ball!  Go get your BAAAALLLLL!!!"  (not crazy.  encouraging.  there's a difference)

Finally!  He finds the ball in his toy basket.  I pat myself on the back.  Sometimes it just takes a little craz....uh, encouragement.