December 25, 2006
Have a Very Daisy Christmas!
December 17, 2006
The Joy of Two Dogs
Today's Guest Blogger is Egrau, who sent me this email on Friday, regarding the joys of owning two dogs:
Yesterday, having eaten his cookie way too fast, Deuce ran into the living room to puke on the carpet. I ran after him but was too late. I dragged him back into the kitchen, and while I was digging out cleaning supplies, he yakked again. At least this time it was on the tile.Meanwhile, Ava had taken advantage of my distraction, and had eaten all of the puke in the living room. After all, there was a cookie in it. Gross, gross, gross!
Something for you to look forward to...
Love,
The Disgusting Dog's Mother
It's so nice to have such kind and supportive friends. Getting a second dog was an easy decision for Husband and I, and knowing we have such wonderful people around us makes it even easier.
Can you feel the love?
And no, Ava did not hurl after eating Deuce's vomit. That was my immediate follow-up question. Although I suppose a better question would have been -- What the hell kind of insanely irresistable cookies are you feeding those dogs?!
Posted at 09:24 PM | Comments (0)December 08, 2006
Stella Bella
We went to visit our puppy last weekend, since she's not old enough to leave her mother, yet. And I learned something that day -- black dogs are very hard to photograph.
But I did my best...
And yes, I have every intention of standing on the back porch yelling, "Stelllllllllaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!" While she's in the back yard. That's the whole purpose of the name!
Also in the running for names -- Xena and Heidi. Yeah, I put Xena forward as a joke so Husband would take the other two possibilities more seriously. You know, kinda like, "Mom, Dad, I have a terminal brain tumor. I'm kidding! I'm just gay!"
But he went for it! He wants to name her Xena! *sigh* It's so hard to use reverse-psychology on him because I never know when he's gonna go completely mental.
Posted at 08:04 AM | Comments (5)May 01, 2006
Eva's In the Hizzouse!
AB wanted more pictures of my dog, so here they are.
A lovely profile shot:
She's turned away from me because she hates it when I take pictures of her from above. She says it makes her look dumpy.
That's my office she's in. I hate that rug. I want a pink one. Hey, remind me to show you guys photos of my completed office. It's been on my To Do List for quite some time now. You'll be horrified.
While Husband was away at Timberframing School (a.k.a. Amish Fantasy Camp), he charged me with the care of his newly planted snowpeas. For me, this meant making sure they got enough water, and taking them inside if there was frost at night.
For Daisy, this meant licking them.
And this is one of Daisy's cousins, Eva (Egrau's dog):
Isn't she regal?
Eva used to live with the late and great Tango the Canine Cop. She was the main bitch in his harem, before he went to bite bad guys in heaven (I'm sure God imports some from hell specifically for this purpose).
Now Eva has a new brother, Deuce, or Shithead, as J calls him. Yeah, Deuce isn't quite as well-trained as Tango was, hence the affectionate nickname. (Remind me to get some photos of Deuce, too, he's gorgeous.)
In Deuce's defense, few dogs are as brilliant as Tango. And Eva is no exception. She's... not so much book smart as she is street smart. She's fast! She can catch a tennis ball when whipped at her head at point-blank range.
...
Not that we'd ever whip a tennis ball at her head. That would be wrong.
Posted at 01:05 PM | Comments (3)February 21, 2006
My Dog Can Type
My parents have a HUGE 90-year old house and a HUGE yard on a double lot, and they like dogs who follow the command "Other room!" So whenever we go outta town, that's where Daisy stays. One time, Daisy was there for a week, and she literally got tendonitis in her leg from all the exercise she got running around their immense property. That ought to tell you something about our lifestyle right there.
Now, when Billi and Older Sister and I were little and my folks went outta town or had a party that necessitated police involvement (not exaggerating!), we'd often stay with Mom's folks. My grandparents took us, my folks take Daisy -- it's the Circle of Life right here in my blog, folks.
And my Gramma would always have us write down what we did each day to give to Mom and Dad when they picked us up. Stuff like "Blew bubbles in the yard," or "Played kickball with Grampa," or "Played Crazy 8's." Oh my God. I just realized. Gramma J. was my first blogging influence. That's... surreal.
Anyhoo, Husband and I went outta town for Valentine's last weekend, and Daisy, again, stayed with my folks. And Mom had Daisy keep a blog of what she did all weekend. This is the email I got from my dog:
Dear Mom and Daddy:I am having a great time and no one here has dared give me "people " food. I gobble up my own food and drink lots of water and Grandpa has taken me out at least 35 times since Friday. I think Grammy will suffer a kiniption soon. I have fun with him. I just dance around him and he, quick, takes me out. What a sucker!! Grandma is kind and gentle with me, but doesn't spoil me, Phooey.
I really didn't like taking those pills, and after a while, Grandpa stuck it in a tiny bit of liver sausage -- he tricked me!
I don't play much with my squeeky squirrel, but Grammy loves it. She's wondering if it escaped from Cartwrights'.Well, I shall now go down to Grandpa's secret hideout, a/k/a the basement, while Grammy tucks herself in.
They don't sing in choir tomorrow (Sun) but Gram will go to church and hear Kathie talk at the Adult Ed program and Grampy and I shall frolick around the house until she returns.
WOOF--WOOF-------BOW-----BOW. Daisy.
She and I are going to have a serious talk about grammar.
"No, no, Daisy! No run-on sentences! Where's your commas? Go get your commas! Good dog!"
Posted at 01:11 PM | Comments (3)February 13, 2006
Ganging Up On Me
In order to cure Daisy of her bloody-pee malady, she has to take 2-1/2 antibiotic pills a day. Now, we discovered -- the hard way -- that these pills upset her stomach. (I don't know what the hell she was eating, but it'll be a looooong, long time before I have scrambled eggs again.)
To prevent me from sympathy-puking, we break up her pills and give them to her every few hours.
Now Daisy, although we never exercise her, is remarkably strong. When the vet was trying to examine her bladder, our sweet, patient 71 lb. dog got the better of two grown men, ripped off her muzzle and nipped the vet's hand.
I guess she didn't want his hands in that area.
She exercised this same strength when I was trying to get a damn pill down her throat. Despite the fact that we coated them in cheese and/or peanut butter and/or liver sausage, she wouldn't open her mouth. You've been there -- you understand. You know that if I just handed her the food-coated pill, she'd suck off the food and spit out the pill.
So I devised quite an ingenius scheme, if I do say so myself. I took two chunks of liver sausage -- one had the pill in it, one did not. I threw the non-pill hunk at her, and, after discerning that there was no pill, she swallowed it all, convinced I was merely being generous and not trying to sneak any life-saving medications into her body.
When I threw the second hunk -- with the pill -- she was so blinded by trust that she scarfed it right down.
HA HA! I WON! I outsmarted my dog!
What? It's a valid accomplishment! She's really smart!
Billious with pride, I invited Husband to witness her next pill time. I was busy getting out the zip-lock back with the liver sausage and the spoon and prepping the hunks.
Husband picked up the pill, said, "Daisy! Treat!" Threw the pill in the air, and Daisy caught it and gulped it down.
I hate it when they do shit like that.
Posted at 01:10 PM | Comments (5)February 03, 2006
There Are Worse Things Than Being At Work
Yesterday, Daisy peed over 400 times. Half of those were in my house, which now smells like a bus terminal.
Yes, she has some sort of bladder infection, but we won't know what kind until the urine work-up comes back IN A WEEK. By which time, I'm hoping the antibiotics make the work-up obsolete because I don't want to wake up to any more bloody-pee minefields on my kitchen floor.
And here's another image for ya, a mental image this time. Me, running around outside after a dog, trying to get the doggie-bedpan under her when she squats. [Insert "Turkey in the Straw" music here.]
Posted at 01:24 PM | Comments (2)January 23, 2006
F-E-E-D, F-E-E-D-I-N-G, F-E-D,
Husband arrived home the other night around 6:00, Daisy's usual dinner time, and I came up from the basement to greet him and chit-chat while he changed clothes.
H: So, how was your day?
PW: Enh. Boring.
Daisy: [sits at Husband's feet and bores holes through his skull with her stare]
H: Um, did you F-E-E-D Daisy?
Daisy: [freaks out and starts doing her pony-dance, which is where she keeps her back feet on the floor and hops on her front feet because I don't know it's just what she does]
PW: Dude! Does she know what you just said?
Daisy: [stops dancing and looks at me]
H: I don't know. Maybeeeeeee... we should F-E-E-D her?
Daisy: [runs into the kitchen where we keep her food]
PW: Did you teach the dog to spell? NO TEACHING THE DOG TO SPELL! If we don't keep her ignorant, how are we supposed to oppress her?!
The next night, similar setting.
H:: Has Daisy been F-E-D?
Daisy: [stares blankly at the blank wall]
PW: No. And thank God she hasn't learned to conjugate.
H: Yeah, she starts conjugating verbs, and we're gonna have to put her to sleep.
Posted at 03:06 PM | Comments (3)December 23, 2005
Daisy Meets Santa for the First Time
K and I had a lovely afternoon of Starbucks and shoe-shopping (new Sketchers -- yay!), and I was driving her home, when my cell phone rang. It was Nicholle, so I asked if I could call her back in ten minutes, so as not to be rude to K.
N: Are you on your way home?
PW: Yeah, I'll be there in about ten, fifteen minutes.
N: Okay, we'll meet you there.
Now, Nicholle is a very orderly person. In fact, she may be even more O/C than I, so drop-by's aren't exactly her thing. I was immediately suspicious, especially about the "we" part. I mean, if Nicholle was ever going to come over unexpectedly, I'd assume it would be alone with a suitcase in her hand, asking if I knew anyone who could do her a "favor."
Well, if J was with her, I figured she either got a puppy or a new car for Christmas and wanted to come show it off. I was so excited!
I got home and immediately tried to straighten up the place. J is a real estate agent, so I knew our house would be under intense scrutiny the entire time they were over.
Five minutes later, the doorbell rang. I opened it...
AND THERE WAS SANTA.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK! Oh, it was just J in a Santa suit. Still kinda creepy, but I was fairly confident he wouldn't ask me to sit in his lap with Nicholle right there.
"We're on our way to a party, and they just called and told us to stall for a little while. Can we come in and hang out?"
No puppy. Dammit. So I made some chai tea for J, since it would be inappropriate for Santa to smell like a brewery. But because they were on their way to her in-laws', I gave Nicholle the beer.
Here's Daisy posing against her will with the scary man wearing too much facial hair.
Immediately following the photo, Daisy ran in circles around the coffee table with her ears back and her butt tucked under her. I don't know why.
And as soon as Nicholle and Santa pulled outta the driveway, I slapped my digital memory card into the computer. Merry Christmas, J! Now you're as famous as your wife's panties!
Posted at 04:15 PM | Comments (0)December 13, 2005
Paying for Fresh's Sins
Because Fresh Pepper hasn't asked me a question, yet, I'm punishing everyone by posting another photo of my dog.
I wonder what she dreams of? Probably ripping my throat out and seizing absolute control of her food bin.
Ask me a question, Fresh! You disloyal, verbally abusive, mean, selfish hypocrite!
More tomorrow on my Grown-Up Arm Candy outfit. Sneak preview: These are the winners!
Posted at 12:11 PM | Comments (2)November 24, 2005
Thanksgiving Photo Gallery
Brace yourself -- here's my Thanksgiving centerpiece.
Yeah, it's a little... busy. But hey, can you ever have too many gourds? I think not! We're not actually having Thanksgiving dinner at our house, but I like to set the table according to the season, regardless. I change it every month -- tablecloth, placemats, candles, bric-a-brack. I should do a montage for you guys sometime, in case you still have a shred of respect for me.
This is my dollie, Marie. She used to live at my Gramma's house, but when Gramma died, I got to keep her.
My friend Joe (of Barbie fame) sews doll clothes and made me a whole slew of clothes for her, including a little 7-piece Witch/Pilgrim/Nun ensemble. Just change a couple accessories and voila! A whole new costume! Yes, I change her clothes every month, too. What? My shrink said it's good to have hobbies!
These are a couple of things I'm thankful for this year, but I can't say them at dinner this evening because you're supposed to say stuff like "continued good health" and "all the loved ones gathered around this table" blah blah blah.
From left to right: From Philosophy, Ultra Rich Shampoo, Conditioner and Body Wash, Cinnamon Buns scent; Frango Candy Cane Chocolates; Beanpod Soy Candle, Sugar Cookie scent. (Beanpod Candles give off no soot when they burn!) My life is richer because they're in it.
My contribution to the Thanksgiving feast.
In less than an hour, these docile-looking ingredients will become that treasured culinary favorite -- Green Bean Casserole!
Now who could resist this face?
I could, especially when there's stuffing involved.
Have a wonderful Thanksgiving, people. And remember, today is the day the police get the highest number of domestic disturbance calls. Guns don't kill people -- holidays do. God bless.
Posted at 11:04 AM | Comments (5)November 14, 2005
Closing Doors
Husband is physically unable to close anything or turn off anything.
Examples:
1. When getting silverware/toothpaste/potholder, he always leaves the drawer open an inch or so. AL. WAYS.
2. He leaves for work after I do, so I often come home to find that the water in the bathroom is still running. A thin stream, yes, but one that's been on for EIGHT. HOURS.
(He moves me to superfluous. periods. like no one can!)
3. I often come home to find the back door unlocked, and sometimes, even STANDING. OPEN.
4. He'll be in his office in the back of the basement, and yet EVERY. LIGHT. IN THE HOUSE. is on.
Makes. Me. Mental.
I've even come home a few times to find the garage door open. Like Thursday night. You know, after working a full 7.5 hours (quit laughing!), I just want to have a fudgcicle and look at catalogs. I don't appreciate having to enter my home with my musket at the ready and do a sweep of the entire house.
But my irritation turned to puke when I saw that the door from the garage to the house was also open. And Daisy wasn't running to greet me.
DAISYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!
Somewhere in the universe, Kahn is thinking, "Damn, that bitch is loud."
Somewhere in Milwaukee, Husband got a call from his whimpering, completely FREAKED OUT wife.
PW: DID YOU COME HOME BEFORE LEAVING FOR MILWAUKEE?! [Please, God, tell me he only left the door open for two hours instead of eight.]
H: No. Why?
PW: Because... [Wait a minute. I left after him this morning. So if he didn't come home this afternoon, then...] BECAUSE I LEFT THE GARAGE DOOR OPEN AND DAISY IS GONE!!!
The horror of my dog being gone was quickly replaced by the even more horrifying thought -- IT WAS MY FAULT! I left my house wide open for burglars and crackwhores and ninjas and teenagers and raccoons!
But how could that be?! I'm the responsible one! I'm the one who walks around the house turning off lights! I put everything away! I lock up tight before going to bed! I'M NOT THE STUPID ONE!
Except Thursday, when I was.
But I still totally blamed it on Husband when I called the police and asked if they had picked up a runaway dog. I mean, c'mon, what were the odds? He leaves shit undone all the time; I did it ONCE. It's more-likely-to-the-bajillionth-power that he'd be the harbinger of some disaster! So really, was it a huge stretch that I blamed it on him? No. No, it wasn't.
So the cop asked me the make and model of the dog I was looking for. Like, do people do that? Randomly call up police stations and hope there's a stray they can claim for their own? They'd still have to pay the $20 Dog Without Tags and $20 Dog Running at Large tickets (yeah, that's right), so it's not that much cheaper than just going to the Anti-Cruelty Society and picking up a pooch.
Then again, I've been to the Anti-Cruelty Society, and believe me, you get waaaaaaaay less hassle from the cops.
Isn't Dog Running At Large a great name for a band?
Anyhoo, before you people start sending me hate mail about WHY DON'T YOU HAVE TAGS FOR YOUR DOG? SHE NEEDS TO BE REGISTERED AND HAVE ALL HER SHOTS! Relax. Take a deep breath. Have an egg nog shake from Steak 'n' Shake -- they're fabulous.
I do have tags for Daisy. They just aren't on her when she's inside because they're noisy and annoying, and the whole point of this is that I wasn't expecting her to be outside that day.
The people at the animal hospital where she was impounded -- like a car, minus the Denver Boot -- were really nice. They didn't even charge me, so I thanked them profusely for taking good care of my dog.
And how do I know they took such good care of her? Because, when it was time to leave, she was like, "I'm sorry, what? You want me to leave these nice people, and the little puppy they let me play with, and the treats, and the petting, and the land of milk and honey, to go with the woman who left me to be eaten by wild animals? I don't think so."
But the part that really chaps my ass? This means I can no longer rag on Husband for leaving stuff open. Dammit.
Posted at 01:51 PM | Comments (3)October 13, 2005
1-800-GRR-WOOF
Daisy stayed at my parents' house while Husband and I were on vacation. She looooooooves it there! They have a HUGE back yard, and they're home a lot more than Husband and I are, so it's like a vacation for Daisy. Different crotches to sniff! New pizza crusts to beg for! Wheeeeeeeeee -- it's Christmas!
We got back in town last night around dinner time, and I called over there to let them know I'd be coming to get Daisy. Dad answered, which means Mom is either out or dead.
"Hello?"
"WHERE'S MOM???" I demanded, looking at the four un-listened-to messages on my answering machine and wondering if one of them was about Mom's funeral arrangements.
"She took Nephew to choir practice."
"Oh. Okay, well, I'll be there to get Daisy in about 20 minutes."
"Okay. You wanna talk to her?"
"Um... N-no..."
"Awwwwwww, she wants to talk to you."
"Dad, don't put the dog on the phone. Dad! Dad? Don't put the--Daisy! Hi! ... Yes, I'll be there in a little bit... No, you can't stay there... Because you're our dog! ... Because I said so... I will take you for more walks! ... Put your grandpa back on the phone."
HE PUT THE DOG ON THE PHONE.
This is going right into my Case for Having Dad Committed file.
Posted at 02:33 PM | Comments (2)September 21, 2005
Plumb Tuckered Out
Lucy and Milo, after a full day of trying to viscerate each other.
Posted at 02:06 PM | Comments (1)August 19, 2005
Pneumonia Is Pnot Phunny
Adding to my intestinal distress lately, Molly has pneumonia. It started off as kennel cough, which reared it's phlegmy head the day after my parents brought her home, and has since turned into a potentially-fatal case of pneumonia.
Excuse me? How is pneumonia even an issue anymore? Didn't that go the way of consumption and ennui and vapors? It's not like Molly was living in a drafty, mildewy castle on a moor!
Yesterday, the vet gave her a mega-bionic-anti-pneumonia shot and told them, "If she doesn't get better, take her back to ACS, and they'll put her down for you."
HORRIFIED!
You don't give up on your new dog, just because she's costing you an average of $100 a day, and you are on your knees every 10 minutes cleaning up puke or mucus from your oriental rugs! I shudder to think what would happen if little Wenchie had taken sick 35 years ago.
"Oh, the new one? Well, she's got an ear infection, and she's not responding to the rum. Clearly, she's defective, so I think we're just gonna take her back to the hospital. And then I think we'll pick up a new kitchen table at IKEA on the way home."
Also, if Molly dies, it will scar Mom, who won't want to get another dog and risk going thru all this again. So I'll be forced to buy a dog and leave it in their yard in the middle of the night. Is that a felony? Leaving something instead of stealing it? I don't think so. I mean, it's anti-stealing, so logically, I should have one of the felonies erased from my record, no?
Luckily, the drugs have perked Molly up a bit, and she was actually walking about and wagging her tail when I visited her last night. I wanted to comfort Molly, and to talk Mom out of returning her, which was easy to do. (Mom's secretly a softie. Shhhhhhh!)
I also wanted to lecture my Dad on the virtues of taking his turn cleaning up the canine bodily fluids once in a while! Do we all understand now why Mom was reluctant to get another dog? It's because Ward Cleaver considers any kind of caretaking to be woman's work. No one will be surprised the day he doesn't wake up, due to the waffle iron imbedded in his skull.
I go, "Dad, you have to help Mom clean up the dog puke! You wanted a dog, too!"
He goes, "Hey! I shaved my moustache!"
Posted at 01:24 PM | Comments (3)August 13, 2005
Molly for a Moustache
My father is Norwegian. 100%. This means he is a lot of things. He is tall. He is blond. He is sturdy. He can withstand cold water that would kill a dolphin. He can eat creamed herring without gagging. But he cannot grow a beard.
I mean, dude can hardly grow a chest hair, let alone a full beard. And yet, he tries. Every year on vacation, he stops shaving. And it's so, so sad. He looks like he has the mange.
This year, he took it too far. It was two weeks after he and Mom returned from vacation, and the "beard" and "moustache" (yes, facial hair that lame must be put in quotes) were still there. I was horrified. I mean, that plus the way he dresses -- he looked utterly homeless. I was expecting him to pull out a bible and a megaphone at any moment.
He finally gave up the "beard," praise be to God, be he clung stubbornly to the "moustache." And he grew it down the side of his mouth, too, so it looked like some weird fu-man-choo wanna-be. Ugh.
"Hey, Dad, are you auditioning for the next season of Deadwood?"
We tried EVERYTHING to get him to shave the thing. Every bribe we could think of, which isn't easy, cuz the man already has everything. In his basement. So then we tried the Peer Pressure tactic and had everyone we know tell him how awful it looks.
Mom was growing desparate. She hates facial hair. She also doesn't like dog hair. Or dog drool. Or dog smell. But Dad does. Dad LOOOOOOOOOOVES dogs. He wants one really bad. And fankly, I'd like Mom to have a dog, too, because Dad goes on business trips a lot. And frankly, even when he's there, he's not quite... well,... there.
So Mom pulled out the big guns. She told Dad, "If you shave off your moustache, we can get a dog."
His barber gladly did it for FREE.
Introducing... MOLLY!
They went to the Chicago Anti-Cruelty Society on Friday and came home with this little sweetheart. And I do mean sweetheart! What a serene and loving disposition! How could anyone give up this dog?!
She's a year old and still has some serious growing to do, judging by the size of her feet and how slender she is. Mom and Dad were told she's a German Shepherd mix, and if I had to guess what she's mixed with, I'd definately say Boxer.
Billi went with to choose the dog and brought Boy Child and Girl Child. When they got Molly out of her cage, the first thing Boy Child did was throw himself on her and shove his head in her mouth. Don't be alarmed; this is perfectly normal behavior for Boy Child. And Molly didn't bat an eye. So clearly, she was the right dog. She passed The Boy Child Litmus Test.
Are her ears not the cutest?!
Posted at 05:53 PM | Comments (7)August 02, 2005
Daisy
And for no apparent reason, my dog, on vacation from her otherwise grueling and dreary life:
July 29, 2005
A Tribute to Tango
Statistics say that the majority of us have some sort of pet -- dogs and cats being the most popular. And every year, the ridiculous amounts of moola we spend on our pets rises. Know why?
WE LOVE OUR PETS!
Pet-love is, of course, so much better than human love. Our pets don't care what we look like, sound like or smell like. In fact, I get the impression that, the worse I smell, the more Daisy loves me. Our pets don't care if our career isn't a huge success, or if we can't afford the fancy kibble. They don't care if we spend hours on the computer while eating cold lasagna for dinner.
So it is any wonder that, while the sight of Husband's dirty boxers hanging on the back of the bathroom door sends me into hysterics, I don't think twice about picking up Daisy's poop?
Of course not.
Now do me a favor. Think about your pet for a minute and how much you love him/her. Now imagine how much closer you'd be if you got to bring your pet to work and spent 24/7 with him/her.
NOW imagine how you'd feel if your pet actually worked WITH you, always had your back, and, indeed, had saved your life a few times.
Can you even begin to imagine that kind of relationship? That kind of love? I have to admit -- as much as I adore Daisy, as much as she's a part of my life -- I can't imagine the kind of bond between a police officer and his canine partner.
And such is the bond between J and Tango.
Unfortunately, a few days ago, J had to make the horrible decision to have Tango, his 11 year old German Shepherd, put to sleep. He was suffering from bladder cancer and bone cancer in his neck. But despite the suffering, and the knowledge that you have the power to stop it, it's a crappy decision for anyone to be faced with. And I commend the bravery and selflessness it took J to give Tango lasting peace, even at the price of his own terrible grief.
Not only was Tango incredibly handsome and a hit with the bitches, he was fearless and enthusiastic about getting the "bad guys" and making his "yard" a better place.
He had the STRONGEST BITE of any dog the trainers had ever worked with. Some of them even refused to play the "bad guy" in Tango's training sessions because Tango could BITE THROUGH all the padding that kept them safe from the other canine cops.
Tango's nose was amazing, too. He could find bombs, bad guys, drugs, and -- my personal favorite -- he could go into a field or forest and find whatever had been put there most recently. Meaning he could find the murder weapon or the shoe or the freshly buried evidence among the litter. I think that's just amazing.
His nose was also responsible for the LARGEST DRUG FIND EVER in the state of Illinois. Put THAT in your crack pipe and smoke it, baby!
But I think my favorite Tango stories are the ones where he made the hard-ass gang-bangers cry. BWAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
And then Tango would visit and play like a puppy with Daisy. And for that reason, he was her favorite, of all her doggie-cousins.
I guess I would say that Tango lived the kind of life most humans would love to lead. He had a wonderful, stable family who was always there for him. He had a job he excelled at and loved to do. He was respected and admired by his peers, and loved by everyone who knew him.
Who wouldn't want a life like that? Tango was the definition of "Lucky Dog," and we were lucky to have him. As a rule, canine cops do not socialize much, so I'm very honored to have been allowed to be part of his life.
He will be deeply, deeply missed.
June 24, 2005
And I Thought MY Dog Was Weird
Here's Lucy, reclining on her Mommy's lap, like Cleopatra suffering from a near-fatal tummy-rub.
And here's her famous impersonation of a side of beef. She gets lots of requests for this one.
I don't know if she was smoking it, or she just didn't realize she had grass hanging out of her mouth.
She also eats frogs. That's right -- frogs. Live ones.
Posted at 03:54 PM | Comments (3)June 08, 2005
Your Diabetic-Coma-Inducing Moment of the Week
A friend had a feral cat give birth underneath her backyard shed.
Awwwwww. It nearly makes you forget that they're almost certainly infested with fleas and worms. How precious.
Posted at 08:23 AM | Comments (5)March 29, 2005
Who's My Cute Wittle Babyface? You Are! Yes, You Are!
Yeah, so, I love my camera, and I love dogs. Hence the inevitable result.
This is my dog, Daisy the Shedomatic. Last year, she ate the fuzzy bunny ears, so now she's forced to pose with stuffed bunnies and basket.
Nice try, Wigglebutt, but you're not getting out of it that easily! I've got a pirate costume with your name on it for Halloween!
Note the worried look on her face, like, "Oh, God, are the other dogs looking?"
Here she is in all her regal glory, basking in the sun from the kitchen skylight. Note that this time, the look on her face says, "You don't have to worship me. Adoration will suffice."
Last but certainly not least, unless we're talkin' size here, Lucy. She looks so innocent without The Boy Child's head in her mouth, doesn't she?
But don't be fooled! She's evil, I tell you! Eeeeeee-viiiiiiiilll!
Posted at 09:48 AM | Comments (0)March 23, 2005
Lucy and The Boy Child
It just doesn't get any cuter than this.
Posted at 08:22 AM | Comments (1)March 18, 2005
Introducing... Lucy!
Well, Younger Sister (I think I will call her Billi from now on, for obvious reasons, because she really does need a name) and her husband have decided not to have a third child.
I find I have mixed emotions about this. For one, the interwoven DNA of the two of them produces such ridiculously adorable beings that the combined cuteness of three children would be positively paralyzing. Also, if the third is anything like the first two, I will probably be hospitalized from laughter.
Anyhoo, in lieu of a third child, they got A PUPPY!!!
And I just couldn’t be more excited! I love dogs, and I know that The Children love dogs, and all that lovin’ is just gonna be one Kodak moment after another! (The Boy Child has been known to drape himself over my poor Daisy as if she were a chaise lounge and he a lovelorn starlet with the vapors. Thankfully, Lucy is turning out to be a sturdy advesary!)
Obviously, they didn’t tell the folks at The Anti-Cruelty Society that The Boy Child is bi-polar and will probably attempt, at some point, to make sweet, sweet love to the dog. They never would have gotten the puppy outta the building. He has spent his time either lying next to the puppy, lying on the puppy (“Boy Child, get OFF the puppy!”), or standing there talking to her (“Ya yo ya yo ya yo, etc.”). He also joined her in her cage and was rewarded with some moist, rank-smelling pants.
Anyhoo, this is an exciting time for me for another completely different reason, too. I GET TO BE THE EXPERT! Billi will be calling ME with questions and looking to ME for wisdom! Despite the fact that I’m older than her, this will be a total role reversal.
See, Billi has always been prettier and cooler and more popular than me, and I always looked to her for my fashion and music cues. Garth Brooks, off-the-shoulder t-shirts –- oh, gimme a break, we’re in our 30s!
She was way ahead of me on the partying curve, so there was no need to introduce her around. She got married the same year I did -– and stayed married, so obviously, she’s not looking to me for marital advice. And she actually made her own children, instead of just occasionally looking after other peoples’, so I’m no help there whatsoever.
But now… NOW! Now I am Master & Commander of Canine Guidance and Development! I ROCK! I know how to crate train/potty train a puppy! I know how to get pee stains out of a carpet! I know what toys are the best! I know how to train a dog to stay out of your way when you’re carrying a basket of laundry down the stairs! I am a veritable cornucopia of dog-related knowledge!
So, Lucy is half black lab, half shepherd and, as you can tell from the photo, freakin’ adorable. Even after The Boy Child has tortured her into a coma.
I’m going there after work today to spend the night, and in the morning, Billi takes Lucy to Puppy Obedience Class.
She’s like, “Do you wanna come with and see all the puppies, or stay home and play with the chilluns?”
What is this -– some sort of sick joke?! I have to choose between puppies and chilluns?! God, that’s just mean! Can’t we just take the kids with us to the class? To this, of course, Billi laughed her ass off.
I think I’ll stay with the kids. See, if I let myself be exposed to dozens of adorable, little puppies, I’m just gonna wanna go out and get one for myself. However, if I stay with the kids, wanting to have one for myself really isn’t an issue.
Posted at 02:38 PM | Comments (0)February 23, 2005
Adding New Meaning To The Phrase "Sick as a Dog"
You wanna know why I wasn't here yesterday? Huh, punk? Do ya?! Oh, I'll tell you why I wasn't here yesterday! I wasn't here because my dog had been ill -- in a geyser-like manner -- in my living room and dining room!
And you know what she threw up? She threw up undigested CARROTS and GREEN BEANS. I'll give you a minute to let that sink in. MY DOG. VEGETABLES.
Not that there's anything wrong with carrots and green beans, mind you. But my dog's diet consists of excatly five things: fancy-ass kibble, Milkbones, rawhide chews made from American beef, the occassional pizza crust (I don't eat crust), and a bite or two of banana when Husband is eating one. That's it. Five things.
So you don't go introducing a smorgasbord of new things to a creature who only eats from a menu of five things! Of course she hurled her guts up!
AND she had projectile diarrhea. Did I mention the projectile diarrhea? Cuz she had that. In my dining room. On the rug, floor, woodwork, vent cover, wall, mirror and the little wrought iron table that holds our meager wine "collection." In my dining room. Where we DINE. Thank Odin she missed the wood furniture by an inch, or I would have been forced to just set the whole place on fire and walk away.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. I woke up in the middle of the night to a foul stench and assumed that it was Husband, and he'd eaten something stupid again. Turns out it was the Hershey squirts melding to the very fiber of my home, but I wouldn't know that for several more hours.
A little before 5 a.m., Husband and I awoke to the telltale retching sounds of a dog about to blow chunks. Alas, in our pre-dawn stupor, we were too late, and undigested veggies made Technicolor contact with our living room rug.
Have I mentioned that the living room and dining room rugs are the most expensive rugs in the house, i.e. not from Target? Cuz, seriously, replacing them is just not an option.
As Husband hurled obscenities at the pool of vomit, I discovered the splatter of ass-juice in my dining room. It was like the St. Valentine's Day ASSacre in there. So Husband tackled the fresh sick while I got to work on the dried sick.
(Those of you on a diet, feel free to print off this post and hang it on your refrigerator door.)
Determined not to let the stains set any further, I called the boss, took a "personal day" (like a sick day, only you don't really have to be sick -- we get two a year), and employed much time and many methods to rid my house of The Smell of Ass.
To no avail.
The rugs are currently rolled up in the garage and going to the professional rug cleaner's after work today. I get 20% off if I bring them in myself -- whoopee.
Posted at 05:02 PM | Comments (6)December 07, 2004
No, No! Bad Dog!
Yesterday, I arrived home from work to be greeted by a very strange sight: the complete lack of wiggling-jumping-up-and-down dog.
My first thought -- "Oh fuck. She'd better be dead or have the burglar cornered."
Because the only other option was that something had been chewed.
Now, Daisy doesn't have many bad habits. She doesn't beg at the table. She doesn't get up on the furniture. She doesn't run away. She doesn't drunk dial. She does, however, enjoy chewing up paper and ramming her nose into everyone's crotch without even a "How's it going?" or a romantic dinner date.
It may be just that she's inherently a darn good dog. Or it could be that she fears me the way Michael Jackson fears subpoenas. I found her wedged into the corner by the back door, ears down, shoulders hunched, looking like she'd just eaten the sofa.
So I walked around the house and quickly found the Christmas present she had halfway unwrapped. I can't tell you what it was, cuz it's for Little Sister, and she reads this, but it wasn't food, so I don't know what provoked her to unwrap it.
I picked up the scraps of paper, held them in front of her face and said in my Scary Mommy voice, "What is this? I spent hours of my life wrapping those damn presents, and now I have to rewrap!"
Shuh. Like I'm not just gonna tape some other wrapping paper over the hole. But she bought it and pressed herself flat to the floor, trying to melt through the linoleum into the basement and thus escape Scary Mommy. God, she looked like I'd just beaten her, and I didn't even raise my hand!
Naturally, I totally started laughing at her and forgave her. And she crawled forward and licked m chin in apology. Really, she's so pathetic. It's embarrassing.
Later, R and PJ came by to bring me a trifle dish and some allergy pills that can only be found at CostCo. They brought their two dogs, Karma the Golden Retriever and Zoe the Rottweiler, and I told them about Daisy's melodrama.
PJ said she had a similar experience with Karma yesterday. She got home from work, and Zoe was the only one who greeted her at the door. And in the kitchen was the reason: the garbage had been invaded.
"Which really was our fault for leaving garbage from Italian beef and hamburger and fries in there." PJ and her dogs are soooooooo codependent.
Anyhoo, she found Karma in the farthest corner of the house from the kitchen as was possible, grabbed her by the collar and started dragging. Karma splayed out her legs as far as they'd go, trying desperately to get a purchase on the floor. But to no avail. She got the scolding of a lifetime just as R was walking in the door.
He was all like, "Why are you yelling at Karma? It was probably Zoe!"
To which I took great offense. You see, Zoe was MY dog originally, but after my divorce, I couldn't keep her, so they agreed to take her. She has a great life -- I want to be reincarnated as one of R and PJ's dogs -- but I enjoy playing the protective "birth mother" and condemning him for treating her like the red-headed stepchild. We all have our hobbies.
But PJ defended her, "No, it was the kitchen garbage. Zoe only likes the bathroom garbage because that has the feminine products."
Ewwwww.
Posted at 11:44 AM | Comments (0)November 02, 2004
I Am Not Writing About the Election Today!
I have a 60 lb., 2-1/2 year old yellow lab named Daisy. My dog does not sleep with us. Dogs belong on the floor.
Now don't start with me. I am not mean. Daisy is well fed with top-o-the-line kibble. She has a comfy dog bed all her own. She has lots of toys, treats and attention. I just don't want the shedding, snoring beast on my pillow.
I used to dog-sit for an older, single woman's two shih tzus. Their list of "needs" included extensive daily brushing, a daily shower complete with shampoo and conditioner, and of course, they would need to be lifted onto the bed to sleep with me at night.
Yes, you read it right -- the woman not only slept with her dogs, she showered with them. Wet and naked with tiny, hairy yappers. Chilling.
Needless to say, altho' the dogs were not mistreated or ignored, they were not attended to in the fashion to which they had become accustomed. And they were none the worse for wear.
Which is a really long way of explaining -- I'm the only bitch allowed in my bed. I do, however, sleep with an over-active imagination.
When I was little, my nightmares were so bad, I would scream for my Mom, who would lay down with me until I feel back asleep, with the light on. Nowadays, Mom gets cranky if her phone rings at 3 a.m., so I cling to the Husband like he was the last lifejacket on the Titanic. And when my frigid toes meet his adorable butt-cheeks (I go positively fetal), he wakes up -- conveniently -- so that I may tell him my dream.
"A sorcerer?"
"Yes, but he was in the shape of an alligator, and I couldn't fly high enough to reach the ladder!" Silence. "It was really scary!"
"I'm sure it was."
Heartless bastard.
But the one I had on vacation a few weeks ago was really scary. Really! It starred that creepy, hairy dead girl from "The Ring" (I hate that bitch), with a couple cameos courtesy of "The Grudge."
[I have seen "The Ring." But I have only seen a trailer of "The Grudge." Yes, I had a nightmare about a trailer. I should mention here that I am the Queen of Wussdom.]
So I woke up in the pitch black cabin in the middle of the woods, knowing that the dead girl was after me. It was darker out than we city-folk can believe it gets. Husband was still back home, and a screened-in porch separated the cabin I was sleeping in from the cabin Dad was sleeping in. (The original cabin has the fireplace, but the new cabin has the bathroom. I'm partial to indoor plumbing myself.) That seaweed-haired bitch could just sneak in the screen door and strangle me with her white, gnarled, little hands without Dad even knowing!!!
I was terrified. Can't-move, afraid-of-the-windows, alone-in-the-dark-woods, can't-even-scream petrified.
But I gotta admit. There was one funny part to the dream. Me and two friends were in a boiler room, being chased by drippy-hair girl, running for the door. Friend One made it out. I reached the door, and it started closing, slowly but unstoppably.
I'm like, "Hurry up! The door is closing!"
Friend Two stops a foot from the door and is all, "The door's not closing by itself. You guys just don't want me to come with you."
Meanwhile, I'm stuggling to keep the haunted door open for her. "Are you fucking kidding me?!"
But seriously, it was freaking me out at the time. I laid there, praying for sunrise, which was hours away, not even daring to close my eyes. And it was in that most desperate hour that I succumbed.
I made that shedding, shoring, bed-hogging, butt-licking beast get into bed with me. And now there's fucking dog hair in my sleeping bag.