monsoonmartin

In honor of the 40th anniversary of the Apollo Moon Landing hoax, I thought I'd give you all an update on The Bunk.  (There is no connection aside from the post's title; just go with it.)  It’s been more than two months since I last posted an entry about The Bunk, our charming fluffball of a standard poodle—and that entry detailed my dismay at the radical shearing our boy underwent back in May to remedy the “mats” in his fur.

But contrary to my worst fears, Bunk’s powers of sweetness and devotion were not contained, Samson-like, in his hair; he’s been the lovingest, cuddlingest little four-legged companion a guy could ask for. And his hair is growing back in, so he’s got far more “poof” going on.

As the months go by—we’ve had Bunk now for eight months, and this coming Friday is his 11-month birthday—more and more of his enchanting personality emerges. When one of us opens the door to the pantry, for instance, he will daintily take a treat out of the bag on the floor and carry it out to the living room, where he happily (but systematically) devours it. He never takes more than one at a time—though he’s been known to return for seconds when the pantry door is left ajar.

Bunk’s new favorite spot to lounge is in the chair by the window whose color has been the subject of ongoing and vociferous disagreements in the Monsoon household. (Mrs. Monsoon insists it’s green; I say it’s tan. What say you, dear reader? See pictures below.)

Though he has his moments of vigor and verve, and he surely enjoys a bit of roughhousing or a long walk through town, Bunk seems to love nothing more than to join one of us in a nap, or to fall asleep at our side while being petted. We’re still trying to work on “down” (as in, “Bunk, please don’t signal your enthusiasm for our guest by engaging her in an involuntary chest-bump”), and the oddest things set him off to barking (“No bark!” doesn’t seem to have any effect on him; nor do “Bunk, Jesus!” or “Give it a rest!”).

Back on Memorial Day weekend, Bunk had his first exposure to fireworks during the Adamstown Community Days celebration. In short, he hates them. He spent the whole time cowering and trembling next to Mrs. Monsoon, and he still gets spooked when he hears thunder or gunfire; the Adamstown Rod & Gun Club is across the valley, so when they’re open, Bunk is pressed up against me, tail tucked between his legs. (I thought about taking this opportunity to insult the folks who patronize the above-mentioned gun range, but then I remember that they have guns, and I don’t.)

Here are the pictures...

The Bunk lies surrounded by his toys, as is his wont; here he has actually fallen asleep while chewing on his bone  The Bunk in the chair by the window with head propped adorably on armrest The Bunk's favored deep-sleeping position: on his back with top half of his body torqued 90 degrees--and of course, toys arrayed about him The Bunk at the ready, eager as always to please

Monsoon