As I discussed in yesterday’s post, we had a little birthday party for my grandma this Sunday. I was in charge of cupcakes and balloons. At my local balloon store, where I walked away from a stuffed squirrel I desperately wanted to buy for The Electrician, the helium lady had a sweet purple heart-shaped balloon that said “Happy Birthday Grandma” with butterflies and flowers and other pretty girly details. On the next spinner over, she had a balloon shaped like a cupcake with chocolate icing. Knowing a cupcake with chocolate icing is one of my grandma’s favourite things, the cupcake balloon came home with me too.
As soon as the balloons were in the front door, Leroy decided they would be excellent prey to stalk and kill, so the balloons had to be relocated to my bedroom. Sherman sleeps in my bedroom too, in a comfy bed on the floor. We didn’t anticipate any issues with a big, “tough” dog like Sherm: after all, he’s 65 pounds of serious dog. Unfortunately, the speckled pup was terrified of the balloons. He would not go in the bedroom while the balloons where in there, bobbing cheerfully beside my jewelry board.
Once Sherman managed to escape the bedroom and balloons once, he would not go in. Usually, he dashes gleefully for his crate when I tell him it’s “kennel time.” There may be a cookie involved in that process, but he likes his bed to curl up on at night, and he happily puts himself into his kennel if I’m leaving the house and he needs to be secured. This weekend, though, the balloons of doom had him so scared that he would not go in there. The Electrician actually had to carry his chicken-liver butt to bed Saturday night.
When I woke up Sunday, Sherman was already anxiously waiting at the bedroom door to be released from the terror that was a giant helium-filled cupcake and a purple “Happy Birthday Grandma” balloon. Maybe he’s against curly ribbons. The poor dog was watching the balloons, shaking and tearing his eyes away only every now and then to plead with me for release.
Frustrated with the apparent wussiness of my formerly confident dog, I quipped, “Come on, Sherm. Grow a pair!”
“He had a pair,” The Electrician quipped. “You had them cut off last December.”
I take it back, Sherm. I spend $300 getting rid of your balls; you’re fine just the way you are, tough guy.
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