Mud Wrestle: Photo Friday

I feel a bit sheepish to admit it, but my dog eats mud. Sydney, A.K.A. Sid Vicious for chewing on animal shelter worker’s fingers, has two bad habits. Glad we got him to stop his prolonged-puppy habit of teething on people but….

His all time top bad habit is his punk rocker impressions. His cover-your-ears greetings often get him a time out in the bathroom. Or getting stashed in there before guests arrive. Now that we are out gardening, Sydney enjoys his second favorite bad habit.

Looking at him from a distance he seems too cuddly looking to ever be a mud eater.

Cocker Spaniel Poodle dog with stuffed white cat.
I love my cat and soft clean beds.

But no book should be judged by its cover.

Many people buy or adopt dogs due to how the dog looks or the look of the breed. Thus 4 million pets end their lives in animal shelters. Dogs should never be treated like stuffed animals, fashion accessories, toys or gifts.

Back to mud wrestling.

First of all POODLES DO NOT HAVE FUR…they grow hair.

Last week, Sydney had a unusually long goatee, about three inches.

I wanted to show my readers a close-up of his recent sneak behind the hedge and pig out on mud. He gave me a fun time, trying to hold him and photograph the mud dried on his chin.

Sydney, a mud loving dog.
I love mud. Don’t you?

This is not the worst “mud face” he has given himself.

Sydney wrestling with chin on rug
Rub, rub, rub. That’s the next best thing to eating mud.

A week later we pulled out the electric clippers and zipped his beard.

What does your dog do that you wish he would stop?

2 thoughts on “Mud Wrestle: Photo Friday

  1. Farley barks when he figures out I’m leaving the house without him. He somehow knows I’m not just leaving the room. If I put my GPS watch on and my running gear, he’s all happy. If I put my GPS watch on and my cycling shorts he starts up. He doesn’t get to come with me for a cycle – boo hoo – poor dog missed out on something. But it would be nice if he didn’t bark at me.


    1. I sympathize. Even after mixing up my leaving routines, Sydney begins his “Mamma Please Don’t Go” punk rock song. When he hears my keys or sees my purse or his leash, he dashes up and downstairs like a madman. Any sign that someone is leaving (including himself) sets off a wild time.


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