Banjo Special Edition II

(This edition is brought to you by our new weekend neighbors who come out to the middle of the north woods, where people seek the delicate sounds of nature, and run their generator for six hours at a time. Hence me sitting inside on a lovely evening.)

It’s time for another focus on our rootin’ tootin’ tar-rooter, b-b-b Banjo! 

Instead of new photos (like the last special edition) or a silly autobiography, here are Banjo Facts.

Banjo tells us what she wants (by booping it with her nose.)

If she’s inside when we’re getting ready to go, she’ll tap her nose on her halter at the door. “Look! Don’t forget this!” 

She’ll tap on our shoes and look right up at us. “These! These are part of going outside!” 

Tap on the leash. Tap tap on the door knob. “You guys! This is how you go get outside. Right here!”

She gets so excited we make her sit so we can get the leash on. But she knows she has to sit first; she’ll sit in the open airstream door while we walk around outside looking for her leash.

She sleeps like the princess on the pea, but with different complaining.

I’ve stacked all the inside rugs under her bed that’s under the kitchen table now that it’s consistently warm. (I’m regretting that here in the UP though where there’s a 40-degree drop at night!). She’s doesn’t give a fig.

She does complain when I try to cuddle in the middle of the night.

When I can’t sleep I wander around the trailer, cooking or knitting with the light on. Tracy sleeps through it but Banjo looks at me with disgust and moves from her spot on the sofa or under the table to her bed at the foot of our bed. It’s only a few feet difference, but she’s making a statement. “Nighttime is for dark and quiet, silly woman. Get away from me with your restlessness.”

When it’s storming she’ll get even closer to Tracy (and sometimes me), sleeping on the strip of bare floor between the side of the bed and the trailer wall, not making a sound. 

She’s crazy about people food (so we don’t give her any – on purpose, that is).

She’ll completely ignore our lunches placed right at her nose on the fold-up coffee table. But as soon as you drop a piece of popcorn to the ground, you better hold onto your beer. 

We do give her intensely flavored dog treats to keep her attention on us when other dogs walk by (some dogs freak her out). If there’s a dog almost out of sight, she’ll work hard to get a glimpse. “I saw a dog! Yeah it was all the way across a lake, but gimme the treat!”

She’ll sit and wait for her dinner (no matter where). 

She has to stay with her butt in place while we do all the things we have to get her food out of our tiny living space. 

Pull her food dish from under the sink, move her water dish from in front of where we store her food behind a dinette seat. Pull out the container, measure a scoop, drop it in the bowl. Walk the bowl to wherever we want her to eat. 

She continues to sit while we put the measuring cup back, slide the container behind the seat, place the water dish back, and then look at her. 
Is she drooling? Does she have ants in her pants? If she’s moving around, she has to stay longer. 

Finally, “Okay!” And she trots over to eat.  

She’s under the same deal when she’s outside and it’s meal time: she can hear us inside getting her food ready so she sits at attention in the tent or right outside the door. Good girl, Banjo! My new favorite way to get her to watch me closely is to put her full dish down right in front of her instead of several feet away. She looks up at me like, “Really? You’re doing this to me?” She waits though! 

She’s easy going (anywhere).

Time to go in the truck. “Get out of the way so I can jump in!”

Time to get out. “I’ll sit here while you put the leash on, but I’m going to squirm like mad while you lift me down. Let me jump!”

Here we are at our new campsite. “Okay, site approved.”

Here we are on a travel day, stopped for lunch. “Snooze

How about at an outdoor brewery garden? “I’ll just wait here under the table and people watch.”

She’s willing to live in the world as if we rule it (unless the illusion breaks). 

She accepts that the tent is an enclosed space. We take her off the tie-out line and remove her harness. We’re basically indoors. Illusion breaker: fireworks. She ducks under the zipped door to beeline it to the trailer. “Enclosed space, my doggy butt.”

She accepts that when outside right around the trailer, she’s tied on three line. Illusion breaker: squirrels venturing onto our site. “Get those squirrels! Laws of physics be damned!”

She accepts that she’s not allowed on our bed. Illusion breaker: we leave the campsite. “Our contract is now null and void.”

She accepts she can sleep on her one couch cushion, when we’re looking. Illusion breaker: when we’re asleep or outside. Then there’s a serious case of couch creep. 

She wants the pack to be together (all the time).

Tracy takes a side path while we’re out hiking to check something out. Banjo tries to pull me after him and has to be told to sit and wait. At her first glimpse of him returning, she’s all: “I thought you were lost! I thought you’d left us! Thank heavens you’re back!’ 

I walk the trash out to the dumpster. “Why are you abandoning us?

Tracy drives away while Banjo and I stay at the campsite. “I’ll lie right here in the gravel as far as the lead line allows and watch for him. As long as I keep my eyes on where I saw him last, he’ll come back!”

Don’t worry, Banjo. The pack is a staying together.