You are currently browsing the pets category
Ugh. Internets, I suck. Besides missing the very first day of NaBloPoMo, I missed another. And now, another. It’s like a metaphor, for my life. But like a smoker, I can start to quit anew every day…hmm, wait.
Anyway. Today, November 19, 2011, is the day we attempted to get my poor dog knocked up. I wasn’t there for it, but I’m told there was all kinds of weird stuff going on in the room: parts were massaged, positions were tried, things were injected into places.
And honestly, I feel like a sell-out. I worked at a humane society a long time back — I know how hard it is to get dogs adopted out. I know how much it sucks to see animals die because people are jerks. And I guess I’m one of the jerks bringing more unnecessary dogs into the world.
Except.
Except — ugh. I really want there to be an except, so I’ll make one: Except the dogs I’m responsible for bringing into the world won’t be unloved or unwanted. They’ll go to homes that are well vetted (by me, personally); they’ll be taken by people who can afford to pay not only for the dogs, but for the sometimes expensive care that ownership entails.
Except.
The people who buy these dogs wouldn’t be going to a humane society, anyway.
Except.
I love this breed: I love their energy, enthusiasm, curiosity, their contentment and love and slobbers and wrinkles. I love the way they breathe and snort and run out of energy at inopportune times and you have to carry them halfway down Tomer Butte and another mile up to your house, all fifty pounds of him, his slobbery mug resting on your shoulder. That’s a bulldog. They’re funny and loving, great with kids, not territorial, they don’t bark, they don’t bite, they don’t need long walks every day (though that’s fine, too); they just want love. And did I mention the wrinkles and cuddles and exuberance.
So, there. There’s my rationale. It’s flimsy and it sucks, and yes, part of why I’m doing this is for profit. And to pay the expenses of breeding and potential C-section, and to ensure the dogs go to homes that can afford them. But really, I love this kind of dog. And I love my Lucy, and Julius and Cleo before her, and Theo before them, and Angus before him. I’ve loved these dogs all my life and I hope that maybe other people can get that experience, too.
It’s Day 2 of The Husband Is Being More Productive Than Me, and his cleaning and organizing the storage room can only mean one thing: he’s avoiding something. What that is, I couldn’t say. But why else would he spend all evening sorting through boxes and asking me what I want done with old magazines, baby clothes, papers, and why else is he leaving passive aggressive piles of stuff on my side of the bed for me to “take care of”?
Too bad I have no problem taking care of these piles by putting them back exactly where he found them.
(In marriage counseling, this blog post will be logged into evidence as Exhibit 1.)
And in other marriage-related news, Lucy has literally gone off to a nice farm in the country to spend Thanksgiving: she’s staying with my parents on their acreage for a few weeks, and if she gets lucky, there will be an arranged conjugal visit with a local bulldog stud. If she’s not lucky, one of the neighbor’s miniature donkeys will take a shine to her and we’ll end up with a litter of bullonkeys.
Midnight: Awake.
1 a.m.: Awake. Get up to use bathroom.
2 a.m.: Awake.
3 a.m.: Awake. Dog is shaking her collar. Hope that she doesn’t need to go out, because it’s effing cold in the house.
3:30 a.m.: Dog is whining. Get up, locate bathrobe, think unkind thoughts about roasting a bulldog instead of a turkey for Thanksgiving.
3:32 a.m.: DOG WON’T LEAVE THE FUCKING PORCH. I know it’s like two degrees Fahrenheit out there, but for fuck’s sake.
3:34 a.m.: Dog has left fucking porch after I threatened her with broom to bottom.
3:38 a.m.: DOG WON’T COME BACK IN THE HOUSE. Decide to water and potty self while waiting.
3:40 a.m.: Dog wants to play instead of go back to bed. Effing dog is stuffed into effing crate without effing treat.
3:45 a.m.: WIDE EFFING AWAKE.
3:46 – 4:30 a.m.: Internet.
4:30 a.m.: Wide awake. Bathroom, again. Back to bed. House is bloody freezing and got two degrees colder while letting dog in and out.
5 a.m.: Sleep, finally.
6:15 a.m.: Husband’s alarm goes off. Consider roasting him for Thanksgiving in addition to dog and turkey.
6:50: Husband is waiting for car to finish defrosting and comes inside. Following conversation ensues:
me: The furnace didn’t come on last night. The heat pump ran all night instead and it hasn’t warmed up.
him: Furnace?
me: THE. FURNACE. Downstairs. That big thing next to the hot water heater?
him: It didn’t come on?
me, the one who slept for maybe an hour and a half: YES.
him, the one with a full night’s sleep: Huh.
him: (goes and checks temperature): It’s 55 degrees.
me: I KNOW.
him: It’s set for 59.
me: I KNOW.
him: So…the furnace didn’t come on?
6:52 a.m.: Husband leaves for work. Finds Trollop on porch and brings her in to bed with me, possibly because she is crying on the porch even though she has a heated bed, but probably in retaliation for my explanation of where he could stick the effing furnace.
6:53 – 6:55 a.m.: Pet Trollop. Wish she were always this sweet.
6:56 a.m.: Bitten by Trollop.
7 – 7:15 a.m.: Trollop bathes. Contemplate dinner of roasted turkey, bulldog, husband, and cat, but probably protein overload.
7:16 a.m.: Trollop jumps off bed; I levitate from bed (what enormous belly?) in time to grab her before she pees on anything and stuff her outside. Free Lucy from crate; dog heads straight for back door. Let her out; she stands on porch looking in, all like “This isn’t what I wanted; do you KNOW how cold it is? Lemme back in and I’ll pee on the nice warm floor.”
7:18 a.m.: Stomp outside and start to yell, “GO POTTY!” but words are frozen in my throat and can’t catch breath. Somehow, through skull of concrete, dog gets message and pees three inches away from porch, then streaks back up and inside.
7:20 a.m.: Breakfast for both of us.
7:30 a.m.: Dog comes over and slimes couch with food-encrusted drool.
7:31 a.m.: Dog back in crate. Me back in bed.
One. I’m sorry that my dog is SIX MONTHS OLD and is one big bundle of energy. We do train her, but she is not perfect. This does not mean you need to lecture me as you clip her claws.
Two. There is really no excuse — NONE — for not taking credit or debit cards in this day and age. Sure, I carry $10-15, but I don’t carry $30, so when your service is $30, you should take the damn card.
Three. There is no reason to license a dog every year. What a fucking racket.
I’d never heard the saying that bad things come in threes until I met Matt, and I credit that prior ignorance to having had a pretty good life, all things considered. Since he told me about it, however, I can’t help seeing the pattern. Take this past two-week period, for example: bad things didn’t just come in threes; they poured in threes.
1. For starters, I was roused from my grading one afternoon by the rhythmic plinking coming from the guest bedroom, whereupon I discovered that the leak we thought we had fixed over the summer was not only not fixed, but had worsened. So much so that we shall have to replace drywall, which I’m looking forward to with fervor normally reserved for dentists and having my toenails yanked out. I stopped the immediate leak with a bucket in the attic (and discovered another, albeit much smaller leak) and, two trips to the roof and a couple caulk cans later, we now have no leaks.
2.1 and 2.2. The second that was going to be on this list was the toilet handle snapping off, but a quick trip to ACE Hardware for a $10 handle (not the stupid plastic one the house-flippers bought; I am never buying a flipped house again) and ten minutes with a crescent wrench and all is well there. So the second thing is the triangle of death that appeared on our Prius last week. The short story (the long story includes lots of instances of the word “fuck”) is that we’re looking at possibly having to replace the HV battery. Which is the big battery, the one that isn’t available at your local auto parts store. Eek. Needless to say, being able to fix your own roof and toilet is a lot more gratifying than looking at replacing a hybrid battery.
3. But I must say, the third bad thing is not so much something that happened to me (in fact, it is a couple years old) as it is something that has happened to our poor world. Internets, while I have been trying hard to refrain from further prostrating myself before the godlessness of politics (except Focus on the Family, which is very godly in its politicking), I CANNOT RESIST COMMENT ON CONSERVAPEDIA.
I mean, THANK THE GOOD BLOGS that there is a site where REAL AMERICANS can bring their biased opinions knowledge together and WAVE FLAGS OF TRUTH at the unwashed masses. And THANK THE GOOD BLOGS that sockpuppetry is dealt with expediently, that there are conservapedia commandments for the proper dissemenination of disinformation, that the “senseless changing of American to British spellings may result in blocking,” but mostly that there is finally an answer to the godless, anti-American, anti-Christian, and anti-right-winged bias of Wikipedia.
– But see, I wrote that entire paragraph mocking Conservapedia because when I first read it, I was sure it was a joke: sure that no one would really use the American flag in the logo like that (and such a bad font! was this made in MS Word?), sure that the “sockpuppetry” was a joke, sure that the “conservapedia commandments” were mocking the Bible, sure that the feminism article was written as satire — so sure that I joked about it on Facebook, whereupon proper fact-checkers assured me that no, it’s real, even if some of its articles have been somewhat vandalized (or “scandalized!”) by hippie-lefty-pinko-commies, those godless bastards.
Look, if conservatives want to have their own wiki, that’s fine, but let’s be honest — it looks like they’re taking their toys and going home because they can’t play in the big Wikipedia league. Yeah, no, I’m sure they have a good grip on reality. /sarcasm
§ October 14th, 2009 § Filed under pets § 3 Comments
First of all, I am happy to report that Lucy is nearly completely potty-trained. Sure, she doesn’t always make it through the night in her kennel since she’s still a puppy, but she usually does. And she always walks to the door if she needs to go out. (Once we realized going out either the front or back door was confusing her, we settled on the back door. Now we only take her out the front door for walks.)
However…the rain is wreaking havoc on her desire to go past the protection of the eaves. This morning she stood, butt pressed against the sliding glass door and body protected from the rain, with her head pointed at the sky, licking her nose every time a raindrop fell on her. It was moderately cute, if you like puppies and things that are totally adorable.
As can happen, though, the raindrops reminded her that she still needed to potty, so currently I’m trying to devise ways to attach an umbrella to her body because once a drop hits her back, she won’t budge without me cajoling her down the steps. In the pouring rain. Then she squats and gives me a baleful, accusatory look while she goes about her business. “I’m in the rain, too,” I tell her, but I understand her point: she eliminates outside in the elements, whereas her humans, [surely] with the dignity befitting our species, get to use a bathroom with four walls and a roof and a heating vent not too far from our toes.
Do they make outhouses for dogs? Because, Internets, for those puppy-dog eyes, I would get one.
§ October 9th, 2009 § Filed under pets § 2 Comments
In the early days — back when she weighed nine pounds and I could hold her in one hand — I enjoyed having Lucy on my lap as she fell asleep. It was cute to watch her already-heavy head grow even heavier, and to have her snooze comfortably on my knees as I read the news or devised assignments. As she has grown to about 25 pounds, however, it is a lot less cute when her nails dig into me, or when she falls asleep against my chest and breathes her foul doggy breath into my nostrils. And in any case, she just doesn’t fit anymore. So I’m weaning her off my lap: starting today, she is a floor-bound doggy, and we’re both unhappy and crying about it — albeit she’s the one making piteous whimpers, but I’m the one shedding tears.
Yeah, I know, it’s spelled “scintillating” and it means something about sparking, but I always thought it was “scentillating,” like a smell you get titillated by (I won’t tell you what I thought “titillated” meant, although I’ll admit I thought “-illated” was “elated”).
ANYWAY. Already it’s been a day and it’s only half over. To explain, let me back up a week.
A little over a week ago I made a turkey. I never do this, and I shouldn’t because two people simply cannot eat that. much. poultry. The night I made it, I took the good meat off, dumped the carcass in the trash, and had Matt take it out to the trash can. That was a Monday. The trash goes out Wednesdays. Last Wednesday morning, I recall thinking, “Oh, there’s only one bag in the trash can; it doesn’t need to go out this week.”
I believe I’ve mentioned before that I am the world’s worst prognosticator? Yes. It is true.
By Thursday, the trash can reeked as if, well, as if something had died in it, which is only technically untrue in that it died and then went to the trash can to start decomposing. I suppose that keeping the lid of the black trash can closed in the baking sun helped that decomposition accelerate a tiny bit. Nonetheless, when today — a new trash day — rolled around, I was more than happy to wheel that smell-o-can to the curb. And needless to say, it was not nearly that simple.
Apparently I’d forgotten about the glass I broke that was also in the trash with the turkey. My best guess is that when the bag got dropped into the can, the glass broke the plastic and, well, things started leaking. Because Internets, in spite of the garbage truck coming and taking the trash away, there is still rotten turkey juice ALL OVER MY TRASH CAN. It does NOT smell nice.
Right about the time I realized this, I picked up the recycling bin to take it back inside. I got as far as the front door when I noticed the scent and moisture that suggested Trollop had been there shortly before me: yes, the damn cat had jumped into the plastic tub, sprayed her evil forces of urine, and jumped back out again. (Her wrath at no longer living inside the house is unbounded.) I put the bin out in the grass so I could clean up the trail of drops, but on my way downstairs to acquire a rag, I ran into the world’s largest spider, which I would totally have taken a photo of if I hadn’t been so busy freaking out about having nearly brushed it with my elbow. This sucker was the size of a small tarantula, and what’s worse, it didn’t die on the first or the second smack of a now-discarded-but-priorly-perfectly-good notebook.
So finally, having disposed of the spider and cleaned the cat drippings on the porch, I stepped into the backyard to wash out the recycling bin. Did you know that dog poop is nearly the exact same color as oak leaves when they drop onto the grass?
People. I know you don’t want to, but do you have ANY IDEA how much poop I cleaned up yesterday? Even if we forget the amount I cleaned out of her kennel at 5:45 a.m. (on a Sunday. Dog, do you know how sacred my sunday-morning lie-in is?), Lucy still managed to lay EIGHT PILES within a ten-foot radius in the backyard. IN ONE DAY.
§ September 8th, 2009 § Filed under pets § Tagged bulldog § 2 Comments
Lucy spent the holiday weekend camping with us and Matt’s sister and brother-in-law, and so I choose to blame them for her getting spoiled: sitting on her choice of laps and camp chairs and generally being petted to death the whole time. And she’s not so good at adjusting between situations, so she awoke this morning with the expectation that there were still four laps and eight hands just waiting to hold her, and when there weren’t, she began barking her little brains out, which roughly translated meant, “Hey, you. YOU. YOU THERE SLEEPING IN THE NEXT ROOM. I want to be HELD and PETTED and to SLEEP ON YOUR LAP. No more of this crate nonsense. GET IN HERE AND PICK ME UP.”
So I got up, looked at her on my way into the bathroom (an attempt at letting her know she’s not alpha dog, even though she totally is), got dressed(ish, enough for the back yard WHICH STILL IS NOT FENCED), and then sat in front of her crate with the treat bag and waited for her to shut the hell up.
Epic dominance act fail.
She got louder and louder, and I just sat there, waiting for her to stop barking so she wouldn’t think it gets results, and meanwhile Matt’s down for the count with a migraine, and the damn dog wouldn’t shut up, and I just knew that in another minute he was going to come out here swinging a baseball bat piñata-style until the barking stopped permanently.
Anyway, at this point y’all are probably thinking, She probably just wanted to be let outside. Why do you think her barking meant she just wanted to be held?
EXHIBIT A
Lucy momentarily choked on her phlegm and I pretended that this was enough of a lull so as to be a learning experience; I snatched her up, raced to the back door and down the steps, and set her in the dewy grass. She immediately tried to stand on my feet. I walked away. She followed me, still trying to stand on my feet. I walked onto the dry gravel drive-through (that is NOT YET FENCED); she followed me, now whining piteously. I walked to the front door; she followed. There was no squatting, no sniffing, no attempt at elminating any fluids. The front door was locked, so we reversed course, and all the while That Dog was a shadow at my ankles.
It was cold and my attire was not quite appropriate, so I gave up and we went inside. I held and petted her and she writhed in doggie ecstasy, her wrinkles sliding down to just above her butt as she sat licking my hands and neck, and I could almost hear her say, “Yay! I just need ATTENTION!” After a few minutes of this, the writhing apparently jostled loose the bladder sphincter because she began to sniff the floor, so I took her back outside for the second time, wherein she promptly bee-lined for the oak tree and did her business.
So, yeah. She spent four days having attention lavished on her by friends, family, and not just a few strangers (there’s nothing like making your own beeline for the outhouse, leashed dog in tow, when someone stops their car and gets out to pepper you with questions about what kind of dog? where did you get her? how much did she cost? why won’t you tell me, a stranger, how much she cost? why are you dancing like that? oh, you were headed for the bathroom?), and now life, it is so dull.
At any rate, one of two things are going to happen: either I’m going to end up with a fifty-pound lap dog, or I’ll be driven to drink (or another mentally incapable state*) and my chauffer will be Lucy and she’ll be saying, “Pet me! Love me! Please! DO IT NOW!”
*like Texas!
Earlier today, I was all hacked off about this story in the NYT about parents (many in Texas, surprise surprise) who don’t want their children to listen to Obama’s upcoming speech for high schoolers. Apparently those parts about responsibility, staying in school, and working hard? Those are socialist talking points! “I don’t want our schools turned over to some socialist movement,” said one parent of a child WHO GOES TO A PUBLIC SCHOOL.
And I was thinking, OH MY GODS. You people are close-minded idiots. God forbid anyone runs into an idea that she or he might disagree with. THE WORLD, IT WOULD END — KABLOOEY!
I tell you this to illustrate the type of grumbly mood I was in all afternoon. And then, completely unrelated to politics, tonight happened.
Seriously, you people who have children? WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!
You know what my damn dog does when we get her a nice, plush new bed? SHE PEES ON IT. Do you know what she does on the carpet as I’m opening the back door to let her out? SHE PEES ON IT. Do you know what she does when I only let her out onto the deck instead of taking her all the way down the stairs? SHE PEES ON IT.
Have gone through half a liter of Woolite Carpet Stain & Pet Odor Remover (With Oxygen!), gallons of water, and all of my nerves. Currently, Lucy is snoozing in her crate and I’m drinking beer. God bless Wailua Wheat and its Passion Fruity goodness.
Goodnight, and good luck to me.
We were supposed to go boating on Sunday, which would have been a great way to beat the heat, but instead we’ll be out in the heat putting up the remainder of our fence — partly because we’re lazy and should’ve done this months ago (e.g. in May), and partly because we didn’t think the puppy would be SO DAMN EXCITED about being outside in the 100-plus degree weather. Her favorite activity — aside from gnawing on whatever forbidden object is nearest and showing her skill as the Westminster Poo Champion — is belly-flopping onto the grass, and then ten seconds later, scooting over toward a fresh shady patch, and then another, and another…. In fact, the damn dog would rather lay in the grass and then pee inside, where she doesn’t ruin valuable cool surface area.
Actually, I’m beginning to think that it’s a bit harder to have a dog than to have children because, aside from the rather major issue that dogs grow up faster than kids (THANK YOU, NATURE), kids generally can’t chew the table legs, pee/poop/slobber with reckless abandon in every conceivable corner, and willfully hide from you, all at the same time. My understanding is that kids tend to do these things in stages (not that I particularly want this process to grow longer, but I’d love to have fewer worries). And kids have diapers. AND, AND, THEY DON’T HAVE THOSE GODDAMN SQUEAKY CHEW TOYS.
Hang on, I’m not done. More evidence: the house is a mess, I haven’t showered, I’ve done a load of laundry every day since she arrived, and only on two of those days has the laundry not been poo-related; no one gets a good night’s sleep because yes, I have to let her outside and feed her in the night (see also: poo laundry); she cries if you aren’t with her ALL THE TIME, and then when you are with her, she prefers biting your feet to chew toys, as the footholder squeals louder.
But the fact remains that, while I suppose you could just put your child out to pasture in the back yard while you go about your day, it remains socially acceptable to only do this for dogs. So in order to allow her to enjoy the yard without adult supervision, and so I can finally take a goddamn shower without worrying about stepping out into a pile or puddle of Lucy fluids, we’ve got to finish the effing fence while simultaneously resisting the urge to flop down onto the grass right beside her.
« Older Entries
