Queen Frida

Queen Frida. At her regal best she could pass for Egyptian royalty or a Sphinx, she lies with long legs tucked up. Head held high, the barest twitch of wet nose signaling the subterfuge.  If I sit like this, the humans will admire me, exclaim on my beauty and maybe drop a morsel of that treat they are eating.

 

Usually Frida has no truck with subterfuge. She may have a regal bearing, but she can counter surf with the manliest of curs, dumpster dive with abandon and snatch a sandwich right of the hand of anyone who turns their attention away for an instant.

Unlike Egyptian queens of old, she is not subtle. I discuss Egyptian queens because with her tall slim speedy body, unlike the shorter, squatter Australian cattle dog line which shows I her speckled red fur and wide forehead, she could pass for the vaunted Pharaoh hound, a built for speed site hound, having nothing to do with Egyptian queens except in bearing.

The red heeler is obvious. But she neither heels nor herds, she scavenge, turn your head and the dinner pork chop is gone, the butter plate licked clean, even the napkins scrunched up on the after dinner table chewed to soggy bits at her feet. She savors the flavor but doesn't swallow, I don't think.

The only way to deter her inquisitive tongue from an exploration along the table edge while human dinner is underway is a rap on the skull, with a knuckle. Low voices, chiding remarks have no effect. Knuckles only work momentarily before the tongue is back.

Frida feels no guilt.  We could post a dozen pictures of her on the dog shaming site, and her expression would not vary, eyes pleading, tongue darting in and out, yum that was good, more please.