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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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?

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!

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.

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.

And while her brain will never be in the Doggie Hall of Fame, last night did mark the first time she asked, via pawing at the door, to be let out to use the turf facilities, and it was the fourth night in a row she slept mostly through the night, and the fifth night that I haven’t had to do doggie laundry in the middle of the night, if you know what I mean. So, I call that success.

Slightly less successful — depending on your perspective, and this is mine — is that if you leave the zippers on the collapsible crate near the bottom, she can work them apart and get out, thus provoking a frantic search for (1) her, and (2) any wayward fluids that may have been — inadvertently, I am sure — discharged during the outing. However, her brain cells haven’t quite mustered the stamina to account for the zippers being up in the high corner, so I think we’re safe. For a couple days, anyway.

For now, she’s sleeping in her crate (voluntarily, I might add), surrounded by her favorite toys: Faux Squirrel, Squeaky Sheep, and Mr. Bone. I don’t want to wake her with the flash, so no photo of that, but here’s what she looked like a couple days ago in the grass:

So I guess we’ll keep her. I mean, we’re kind of stuck with her now, so we might as well.

Little did the party know, however, that there was a gun trained on its every move.

Pow! Bang! Zing!

With the rapid action only a semiautomatic pistol can deliver, the Allies delivered rubber shock and awe. The scouting party was trapped!

Enemy Squirrel’s scouting party* retreated. But it soon returned with full reinforcements*, hellbent on biting apart the fabric of our society**.

Just when things were looking bleak for the Allies, they called in their secret weapon to patrol the borders:

All right, Squirrely. You tell ‘em I’M coming… and hell’s coming with me, you hear?… HELL’S COMING WITH ME!

[to be continued...]

*the damn squirrel himself

**the fence

So, Internets, here’s what I done did: I grabbed my gun, removed the window’s screen, and leaned halfway out in my pink silk nightie and fired three shots at the damn thing. Yes I done did.

And you know what that damn squirrel done? NOTHING. He just sat there blinking at me with his goddamn beady eyes, then took another nibble. Fortunately, at that moment, Sgt. Trollop showed up and Mr. Squirrel decided it was time to mosey off into the lilacs.

Tomorrow morning, Squirrel Wars 2009 recommences. Mr. Squirrel, I have reloaded. Your fuzzy ass is mine.

• yelled at you
• hurt you physically, enough to leave marks
• destroyed things you care about
• used you for his/her own emotional gratification
• didn’t care at all for your own emotional needs
• had no concept of your or his/her physical boundaries
• annoyed/harassed the neighbors
• didn’t like your friends, or want them to come over
• caused destruction to your house and possessions

you would be considered a battered partner; or, you would own this:

Craigslist doesn’t allow buying or selling of animals (or stud services), but it does allow “re-homing with a small adoption fee.” (Riiiight. Because you can exchange money and not call it a sale…. Anyway, I digress.) The following are reasons people will flag your ads:

• If your animal isn’t spayed or neutered (“you irresponsible pet owner, you!”/”could be used for stud services, which violates TOU”)
• If your animal is a purepred (“you must be a breeder, and this site isn’t for breeders”)
• If you guess but don’t know the breed of your animal (“that’s not an English bulldog, it’s an American bulldog, so this post is inaccurate”)
• If you do list a re-homing fee that is above forty bucks (“smells like a sale!”)
• If you list a re-homing fee under forty bucks (“you should care more about your pet, and asking for a larger re-homing fee ensures it goes to a better owner”)
• If you say a re-homing fee applies but don’t name the amount (“you’re probably going to ask for some exorbitant amount, which constitutes a sale”)
• If you give away your animal for free (“you should ask for a re-homing fee so it doesn’t get taken by people who fight dogs” [yes, even if it's a bunny or a goat...])
• If you don’t give away your animal for free (“people shouldn’t be in the business of animal trafficking”)
• If you’re letting go/getting rid of any animal, no matter how or why (“animals are part of your family! you should’ve thought about that before you adopted it”)

Never mind that the majority of people posting these ads are just hoping to find good homes for their animals and have no idea the shitstorm they’re walking into; no one can win.

I am tempted to draw conclusions about democracy, but think I’ll limit myself to the issue of power: some people can handle it, and some abuse it because, I think, they have so little experience with it, and because it’s much easier when you’re not being held accountable.