Little Red Apples

This week Bandit returns to guest post for the first time in two years. He wasn’t too happy that The Bean got to go first but I think he’s over it.

Age before beauty isn’t it? Boy, I’ve been waiting awhile to tell this one so I’ll get to it. 

I was minding my own puppy business when I heard mom shrieking, “Flies! Oh my God, flies! They’re everywhere!”

They were, in fact, everywhere. Oh my God all right! I don’t know who invited the flies in for Fly-Con I, but I sure was happy. They are quite the delicacy you know.

I used my best fly catching skills to capture each winged morsel, tickling my palate on their way to a better place. There were so many of them it was almost too easy. It’s all in the snap. Just sayin’.

Dad walked in with a look of disgust on his face that told me he and I were not on the same page when it came to hosting the first annual Fly-Con in our home.

“I just went out to get the mail. How could so many flies get in the house in such a short period of time? What are they looking for?!!”, Dad asked.

It was just about then that Dad noticed the store of little apples I’d brought in earlier.

“Bandit brought in half-eaten rotten apples and left them on the rug in the kitchen!”, shrieked mom yet again. She picked them up and threw them in the garbage. Mom sure was testy that day.

In the immortal words of my hero, Scooby, Ruh Roh! Exit stage whatever direction was going to get me out of this mess. The parents were just as excited about Fly-Con I as I was, but somehow it took on a different meaning for them.

I ran as fast as I could and hid behind my personal favorite hiding spot, the big white porcelain watering bowl that Queenie can reach but I can’t. The fairness of that unfortunate situation is tale that I won’t go into at this time.

To me, the commotion the parents were raising over our guests seemed to be out of proportion to their wee size. Sure there were thousands of them, but our house is big enough. Besides, the parents don’t get so worked up when they see the little winged devils in the backyard. Not only that, they tell me I’m a Good Boy when I capture a winged snack. Go figure.

“Quick, get the Shark!”, Dad says to mom. The Shark is a contraption the parents use when they want me to move from the spot I’ve picked to take my siesta. It’s loud, it vibrates, and it rolls down the halls back and forth about once a week. Fun times.

You should have seen Dad, the Shark, and our wee guests. Dad took it apart and waved the magic wand, catching one Fly-Con I participant after another, relocating them to a sealed, see through chamber along with dust and remnants brought in from the parents shoes. They were buzzing around in their new confined quarters. Those darned flies probably thought their Fly-Con I tickets were upgraded.

Mom was impressed, Dad got over his disgust, and I think he was actually having fun. “Got another one!” This went on for the better part of an hour. I kid you not.

I could tell the atmosphere had changed in our home, so I came out and helped Dad. Snap! Dad smiled and congratulated me on my fine catch. “Good Boy, Bandit!”

When the melee was over, Dad settled into his recliner to relax and I promptly jumped into his lap to take a celebratory siesta. Mom smiled and laughed. All was right in my puppy world.


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