Bite Me Harder, Tiny Dancer
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Phoebe has a finger puppet we like a lot. You stick your fingers down through her body and then put these tiny toe shoes on them, and your fingers become her legs. When I play with her, she looks like she has a grave circulation problem, and drinks way too much whole milk. Chet is bewitched by this little toy. At first, he wouldn't look at it, the way some dogs won't look directly at a kitten or a baby chick.
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So we tease him, dancing the ballerina around him like a saucy Lilliputian, until he falls for it. Once he realizes it's OK to go after the ballerina, he bars no holds. He dances on his hind legs, a peculiar puckered expression on his face, and rockets up to grab her.
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Chet has a stubborn face: his ears laid flat back, his eyes wide. He stiffens so he's really hard to pick up, and the bulldog in him comes out.
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No amount of cajoling or loving would free the poor ballerina. Finally, Phoebe brandished the rosewater spray bottle she's been using to lessen the skunkstink, and Chet relenquished the now sodden dancer.
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Poor Chet. The dog just doesn't get enough attention.
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