Chet Baker is Five!

Today, December 12, Chet Baker turns five. I can hardly believe the Eternal Puppy is five years old! But I have a hard time believing Phoebe is 13 and Liam is 10, too. As I write, Liam and I are deciding what Baker's birthday meal should be, and The Bacon is happily chewing an ear of Nylabone corn in a pile of Polarfleece blankets. The cake needs to be something other than chocolate. Rest assured that he will be getting even more hugs and kisses than usual, and a variety of wrapped presents to rip open. Susan, yours arrived just in time!

Not long ago, we took a ramble with Chet's friend Cooper, a cattle dog/blue heeler cross.

Cooper is a very, very nice dog. He defers to Chet, having figured out immediately that that was the only way they were going to get along.

I have to play nicely with Chet Baker? He's not very polite, you know. Well, maybe you don't know. But trust me on that. It's a dog thing. You might not understand.

I do understand, sweet Cooper, and I hear you loud and clear. And you are a good good boy for putting up with him.

Boston terriers think Keepaway is the best game ever, and that's because they're fast, agile, and extremely snotty animals. At first, Chet got the stick from Cooper every time, but now Coop has learned to hold it in reach, then whip his head to the side at just the moment Chet's jaws are about to clop on it. A snapshot of that exact moment:

When they tie onto a big stick, GAME is ON.
Chet starts out at the lower end.

He works his way closer and closer to Cooper.


And the snarling starts.

You can see Cooper's expression change the closer Chet gets. Gaah, Baker is such a hobgoblin.


I wish I had a soundtrack. It is quite impressive, with continuous raspy snarling--a hailstorm of snarls--from Chet Baker, and the occasional low rumble from Cooper.

But Cooper doesn't give in.

Though he takes a terrible tongue-lashing from Chet.

GIVE ME THE STICK. GIVE ME THE STICK. GIVE ME THE STICK, COOPER YOU PITIFUL GIRLYDOG!! GIVE ME THE STICK OR I WILL LITERALLY KICK YOUR SPECKLY BLUE A--!

Note position of Tennessee turd-tail. Danger! Danger! But Cooper's tail is up, too. He ain't givin' in. Gee, Chet, can you stand any taller? You need Tom Cruise's platform shoes, buddy.

Mighty tugs, and lots more snarling. The bulldog in Chet comes roaring out.

Cooper is the ideal companion for such a Napoleonic beastie.

Any friend of Chet's has to be able to say, "You win!"


Happy birthday Chet Baker! Known as an inveterate bully among his few dog friends. The American Gentleman, around people. But we have abundant forgiveness for your transgressions, few as they are. In fact, there are only three: Canine Napoleon complex, a tendency toward suddenly boinging up four feet into the air and French-kissing unsuspecting guests, and your well-documented gaseous emanations. Forget 'em all. Chet Baker you are all spirit, all heart, and one of the bright lights of my life. Happy five, sugardog lovepuppeh!!

The Well-tempered Dog

Phoebe manages to grab Mr. Smiley and again holds it over her head. There is a pattern to The Games.


He is a thing of beauty in flight.

On his last leap, he snags the toy. Victory!



You have to let me rip it up now, Phoebe. I have earned this toy.


If it belongs to anybody, it belongs to me, Chet Baker. I have worked for it. And I know you are going to take it away from me again. You are a rotten person, Phoebe, even if you are my sister.


Mether is a rotten person too, for laughing at my distress. Besides, I am not ripping Mr. Smiley up right now. I am keeping him safe.


Well, Chet Baker, I am afraid the game is over. You could choke on bits of Mr. Smiley, and it is time for you to chew a Nylabone. No matter how much you roo or how cute you are, you won't get Mr. Smiley to destroy.
What makes you think that I want that old bone?

I think you will play with it, Chet Baker, because we love you and want you to be safe.

Well, when you put it that way, I can see your point. I am too old to choke on things, but I will accept your chicken-flavored Nylabone. That was a very good game. And I love you, too.

Killing Mr. Smiley

At some point in the game, Chet had to get hold of Mr. Smiley.

Although his first instinct is to rip a much-desired toy to shreds, Chet knows he mustn't do that. So he mouths it and chews very carefully, waiting for the shoe to drop and for somebody to yell at him. And he's not above a little taunting of his own:


All right, Phoebe. It's business time.


Chet Baker, if you chew that all up, we won't be able to play with Mr. Smiley any more. Give it to me.


I am sorry, Miss Phoebe. I cannot give it to you. Because it is mine now.


I'm sorry, Chet Baker, but you MUST give it to me.


And I am going to hide it in the closet so you can't get it.

Well, that is a rotten dirty trick. Why aren't you helping me open the door?

Roo roo roo rooooo!


Perhaps I can get it myself.


And here we have the definitive photo of the Boston terrier's Catpaw maneuver, rarely employed, but quite effective. Chet Baker is right handed, like his Mether.


He succeeds in opening the door, and grabbing Mr. Smiley. The Games Go On.

The Fabulous Flying Baker Brother

Brief technical note: I mentioned that I'm migrating to another server. My blog URL will stay the same, and with my fabulous Web Witch working on it, the transition should be seamless. But sometimes things go awry. Should you have any trouble accessing my blog in the next few days (let's say that you don't get a fresh post Sunday night; you just keep getting this same post into Monday), try clearing your browser cache, then delete and recreate the bookmark for my blog. I don't think there will be a problem, but it pays to be prepared. Back to The Bacon:

On a particularly rough day at school,  Phoebe came home and kind of crumpled up.

Nurse Baker has radar for crumpled people. I peeked in the living room to find him curled up with her, a protective paw on her leg.
The camera shutter (why can't they be silent?) brought Phoebe around, and Baker fixed me with a glare. Some things should be sacred, Mether. Nurse Baker is working here. Would you please?

Phoebe and Chet play like sister and brother. Even though he is a dog, the tenor of their games are very similar to those she plays with her human brother Liam. The root of most of them is: I have this, and you don't. Neener neener!

One such thing that Chet Baker set his sights upon was Mr. Smiley, a dopey inflatable, the kind of thing that can transform a kid's room from serene to junky just by its presence. Chet wanted it, bad. I would have been fine with his reducing it to smithereens, but Phoebe was sort of loosely attached to Mr. Smiley. If only to use it to tease Chet Baker.

Let the games begin!I want that thing, Miss Phoebe. I want it bad. I want to pop it with my teeth.



Well, then jump for it, Chet.


You will note that, in a concession to Chet's weak anterior cruciate ligament on his left hind leg, a leftover from having jumped off a hay roll as a puppy, we have padded the floor with a squishy bed. The dog is irrepressible. Boston terriers must boing, and boing again.


Roo roo rooo rooooo! This may be the definitive Boston terrier roo shot. He even makes his lips into an O.


This is one of those shots that you get, that when it pops up on the playback screen, makes you let out a startled squawk. Let's have a closeup.


Yes, that is his real, unShopped eye, and yes, he looks just like Steamboat Willie, the first incarnation of Mickey Mouse. Selective breeding is an amazing thing. We make dogs that look like blinkin' cartoon characters.



Obviously, Chet's been reading the same manual as Willie.

Because there are just too many fabboo Chet Baker shots to share here, I'm going to split it up. You can only take too much cuteness before there's overload, insulin shock and all that. Down, Chetfans, down. More Fabulous Flying Baker Brother on Sunday evening. That is, if the blog gremlins behave.