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That dog

§ September 8th, 2009 § Filed under pets § Tagged § 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!

Lucy

§ August 17th, 2009 § Filed under pets, squee § Tagged § 1 Comment

We’ve had Lucy for a week now, and life? it’s okay. I mean, she’s alright: The cuddling on our laps for hours gets kind of old when our legs fall asleep, and the puppy kisses are a little wet, and that wiggly butt sometimes looks like it’s going to fall off, and her wanting to play precludes us doing anything useful, but we’re dealing with it as best we can.

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.