Haikus For Stupid Pets

The cast of characters: Molly--70 lb (30kg) 2 year old German Shepherd Dog, and Madison--5 lb (2.5 kg) 2 year old cat. Both born within weeks and on the same farm as each other.





Oh, you stupid duo.
Worse than brothers and sisters,
At least in our house.

First, YOU. Dog. Yes. You.
What the hell were you thinking?
The small cat is armed.

Don't you corner her
and piss her off. Just DON'T. You
get what you deserve.

And YOU. Cat. Yes, you.
Those claws of yours don't retract
When hooked to the nub.

Mrararo! (Caterwalling)
Hnnnnnnnnnnnnn! (Dogerwalling) I turn.
Dog has grown a beard?

Dangling from both jowels,
All 10 claws sunk in her face,
Deep as they can go.

A foot off the ground,
Mad is, swinging back and forth,
While Mol shakes her head.

That fails, so Mol takes
her paw, slides it down Mad's arm,
to her throat and pulls.

Now Kitty's choking
and swinging and driving her
claws in even deeper.

(Dammit! Once again,
the camera's at the other
end of the whole house.)

With a large sigh, I
cross the kitchen and try to
disengage the cat.

Sadly, she's sunk in
so deeply that I can't back
her claws from Mol's face.

After much wrestling,
I close my eyes and riiiiiiiiip them
out of Molly's cheeks.

Cat is mad.
Dog is sad.
I have had
enough.









(Yes, this is an old picture but it fits.)

Follow-Up

So, Diana, what's going on out there in the land of brats and cheese, corn and cows? You've had a thing or two going on and have provided no feedback. What gives?


Well, thanks for asking! (Aren't you the kind ones to do so?)


Let's see...


Thanksgiving was nice and quiet and all the food turned out, so that was pretty perfect. Sadly, we were to a man Jack of us (Woman Jill? Kid Joe?) coughing and hacking (the bouquet of the phlegm blended so nicely with the gravy), so Lilian decided that an upper respiratory infection just wouldn't go well with her sternotomy scar and stayed away from all the festive nose-blowing. As her skilled nursing benefits were up (and as she was up and around), she and her few belongings shuffled across the small parking lot and back into her own apartment under the watchful eye of her neighbor, on Saturday.


Yes! Lilian has re-entered the building! She was to have come to us after leaving the nursing home, but, again, the coughing and sniffling and liberal usage of tissues made this not the place to be. She still plans on returning to us in the near future, though, so that's where we are on that front. So, cheers!


After our usual 2 false-alarm forecasts, we had our first snow on Thanksgiving, which was pretty and went away after a few days. Molly-dog and the kids were ecstatic. I was cooking. So, cheers!


After 7 months, my favorite road re-opened, "New! and Improved!". Before all the grading and paving and levelling and all, it had been this thrilling roller coaster that, if you theoretically (ahem) exceeded the speed limit, you could get the pit of your stomach to drop several times along it's length as you crested hills and plummeted down the other side. Yeah, sure, it was somewhere north of hazardous during a winter storm, but who the hell drives a roller coaster during a blizzard? That's when you take the interstate that's flatter and frequented by lots of snow plows. Now, while not flat, the high hills and big drops are gone, which is sad. I'm assuming it's still pretty (one of my favorite places on Earth is along this road: a bucolic pasture where cows graze and calves gambol and a stream wanders through it) but as it's dark when I drive in and dark when I drive back, It's going to be a while before I see more than the newly installed guard rails with their high-visibility reflectors. The whole thing has the feeling of a top-secret military landing strip. (Remember, this is waaaay out in the country where we don't believe in such wussy things as street lights. The moon and the stars were good enough for our fore bearers, so that should be good enough for us. If you're stupid enough to be out on a moonless, starless night, well, you just deserve what you got coming. Plus, most of the dark months are accompanied by a nice, reflective blanket of snow, which should be more than enough for the team of horses pulling your sleigh to see by, right Half Pint?)


Still and all, it's good to have the county road back, face lift and all. Trims a good five minutes off our commute each way. So, cheers!


For some reason, I'm just not in the holiday spirit right now. I've dragged out a few decorations (and by "few" I mean "3"). Santa has ordered a few things online but hasn't the slightest interest in trotting off on Rudolph to an actual store. This is very odd as I'm usually a Christmas fool. Good thing we've got a few more days this year. I'm thinking I'm going to need them.


As of yesterday, I think we've finished Lousefest '07. The last dousings of Rid were done. The final combings of the locks were clear. The microscope was returned from the counter of our bathroom to it's rightful place, the microscope-shaped space in the dust on my son's desk. Well, it's mostly done. The toys and such in the plastic bags in the garage still have a week to go, but think of how happy we'll be to see them. Sort of like a mini Christmas at the start of December! Maybe that's my problem. I'm missing my wood-handled, soft-bristled hairbrush. The nasty-assed cheap-o hard plastic brush that I found at the back of Charles's drawer is so cruel to my delicate scalp. The kids are well-versed on the evils of coming into contact with any spare hats or hairs of anyone else on the planet. They now don't even flinch when I leap out at them from various closets and doorways shouting, "True or false! We never, never, upon pain of death, even if it's 180 degrees below and we've forgotten our own hats put someone else's hat on our head?!?" More importantly, they get the answer to the question right with 100% accuracy.


I'm also positively giddy at the thought of not dealing with 2-3 times the amount of laundry in the course of a week and am looking forward to not having to make my kids' beds more than once a month. (Hey. They're little. They don't stink. Much.) So, cheers!


Sara's first kid birthday party went well. It was apparently the first birthday party for several of the little girls in her class and quite the social event of the season. The pinata was an especially brilliant touch, as it took up lots of time in first, getting everyone in their coats and shoes, then trotting them out and around the back of the house, where we'd hung the damn thing from the balcony (it was a large, pink crown. I'm regretting it wasn't a huge Dora The Explorer head or something equally despised) and then giving each kid multiple whacks with first, a soft bat, and then a hard plastic bat and finally, a hefty stick, until one girl had enough and took it to pieces. Go her! Then more time was spent with all the gathering of the candy and putting it in their bags and then going inside and shedding coats and shoes and all. Basically, with the pizza before and the cake and presents after, that was the whole damn party! Double cheers!!


Colin's birthday is in a few weeks and none of us, including the birthday boy, himself, can decide on a party idea. In a few years, he'll be old enough to do the planning himself. I'm secretly hoping he'll go my route of least bother and just have a family party from 5th grade on. And if he doesn't decide on that, I'm thinking a well-placed bribe may swing things in my lethargic favor.


I just don't do parties well. Guess that's one more thing for their future therapy sessions.


Speaking of which, that may be an idea for Christmas: Therapy gift certificates as stocking stuffers. That and journals in which to write down all my parental failings, birthday parties and all. I get why children's party planners are in business. I can see the appeal of just pulling out a check book (or applying for a bank loan) each year to give Junior a lovely birthday without ripping parts of your soul out to do it. I'm even dreaming of googling the location of the nearest Chuck E. Cheese, which goes to show the depths of my desperation. I won't actually do it, mind, as that'd take effort, but I'm dreaming of it.


And the furry ones? How are they now that they've turned 2? Very much the same. Mad-Kitty still has the propensity of getting herself shut in drawers and not meowing for release (meaning we still get to literally comb the house at 10 pm after we've gone to bed and realize that not only is she not in her usual place, curled up next to me, but we've not seen her for hours). Molly-dog still loves everyone and pees at any bit of praise or censure. A few days ago, Charles was dismayed to find her at the study window watching the UPS guy deliver a package. She was not barking (like any respectable German Shepherd). She was not even just watching. She was wagging her tail so hard that her body was moving back and forth, her ears flat to her head, whining in excitement that here, at last, was someone new! Someone she might possibly get to go out to greet and pee all over the shoes of, just to, you know, demonstrate her adoration and all. And, by the way, if here were interested, show where we keep my grandmother's silver and the stereo equipment. Clearly we need another dog if home security is a concern. We'd wanted a Shepherd who was submissive and non-agressive, but this is ridiculous.


And, finally, there've been no further zombie squirrel sightings on the UW campus, and I never did get that caramel latte, with or without the ricotta.


So that's the state of my Union. Yours?

Fallen

Who doesn't love fall?



The roses in the spring were lovely but the rosehips are fabulous.



True, the garden is lying in the gutter with it's stockings torn and it's skirt over it's head,

but it's easier to get at it's goodies. (ahem)



The monarchs are fueling up for their migration down to Mexico,



And the box elder beetles are cannibalizing their weak and their dead



to gather strength and numbers



for their annual assault on my house.



Marching over my floors and my walls.



Mad-kitty initially tried to hunt them down but now ignores them as they apparently neither taste good nor provide good sport. Unlike the moths, who satisfy both urges. Frequently she can be found cleaning moth scales off of her pus. Yesterday, for a change, she decided to try slug, but found the texture wanting and had to take multiple breaks to clean the slug snot off her paws. She didn't want to give up, though, so tried bringing the slug into the house for further keeping, perhaps thinking that time would tenderize it, but Charles and I quickly vetoed this little plan and flung the slug from the balcony onto the ground below where some bird will reap the windfall.

Should you come to visit, please accept this advice: Don't kiss the kitty. She's a disgusting little thing.

Molly would like you to know that she'd never eat a slug and is safe to play frisbee with. As long as you don't look too hard at the frisbee.

My Dog Has Placenta Eyes.

"Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!!!!!"

Charles: "What's wrong?"

"Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" (grabs counter, blinks, rubs eyes, looks again) "Aaaaaaahhhh!!" Honey! Please come in here! NOW.

Charles (from The Big Chair in the living room, which, let's be honest, is so very comfortable that you really don't want to leave it unless the house is not only on fire, but the fire extinguishers are all empty and the volunteer fire dept is on another call): "What's wrong?"

"YOUR dog has placentas for eyes."

Which, really is the only response when you gaze into your dog's lovely deep brown eyes and find thick, red, tissue completely covering what was until recently her corneas. Both her corneas.

Of course, this was a Monday evening, about 8pm. Charles had stumbled home after presenting, for over 2 hours, his school's wonderful results in the national Doubling School Performance conference (note how sneakily I slipped in the husband brag), and I stumbled home after a particularly busy Monday where no one seemed to have just a cold or just a splinter or just Dengue Fever.

I looked at him. He looked at the dog's eyes and jumped. He goggled at me. I goggled at him.

Molly looked at us and blinked frequently and uncomfortably.

"When the hell did that happen?"

"I dunno. I was just getting a bite to eat and looked into her eyes for the first time today. I know they weren't like that yesterday."

"We should call the vet."

"They'll just tell us to bring her in."

"We should call."

(both look at the phone and then look at each other)

"You call. I'm tired."

"YOU call. I'M tired."

"She's your dog and you pay more attention to her eyes. I thought they looked fine yesterday evening when you wondered if they seemed a trice swollen."

10 minutes later, we're in the car.

2 hours later and over $100 poorer, we're told that she has pannus, an autoimmune disorder of the eye, "particularly common in German Shepherds" and that she's "the youngest I've ever seen" at a year-and-a-half. The last bit doesn't mean that much, though, as the vet seemed genuinely uncomfortable and inexperienced around Molly, who, aside from shedding her entire undercoat all over the floor of the emergency clinic from stress, was very sweet. But, we believe the diagnosis as she did bring in pictures of the condition, and, even though a people doctor rather than an animal doctor, I could agree that Molly, indeed, had eyes that looked exactly like the scary pictures in the doggy eye book.

We went home with a 5 ml bottle of steroid drops that we are supposed to put in each eye 4 times a day.

Do you know how much 5 mls are in American? 1 teaspoon. For $30. Guess this is one time where pet drugs aren't cheaper than people drugs.

Do you know how hard it is to put drops in a wiggly, triangle-headed, 75 lb, submissive-peeing dog 4 times a day?

Very, very hard.

Do you know how many drops you dribble down the dog's face and onto the floor?

Me neither. I really don't want to think about it at $30 a teaspoon. Let's just say that less goes into her eyes than goes to places other than her eyes. More probably goes into MY eyes than her eyes.

So, I've taken to stealth.

I wait until she's sleeping, dive on top of her, pry her lids open and get at least one drop in at least one eye. Which, if I were a professional baseball player, would garner me a multi-million dollar contract. Such is the power of statistics.

So....good.

Fortunately, she no longer looks as if she was abducted by aliens and had placentas inserted where her corneas should be. Now she just looks like she's got cataracts.

And is it curable?

Oh, hell no.

Treatable, yes. With drops 4 times a day, or possibly surgery. Or not, if it progresses to blindness. (But then we'd not have to do the drops, so, hey, a sliver of silver to every jet black cloud.)

She can, however, sport these.

And it doesn't seem to have impacted her frisbee playing, so I'm guessing her vision is at least partly intact.

So, score one more for the Piffle team. We really know how to pick the pooches, don't we? Sweet, smart, and afflicted.

The More Things Change...

Remember this?

Well, like the behavior of some siblings, it really hasn't changed. In fact, after a year and some, it's gotten more pervasive.

Several times a day, we are treated to such scenes:







It starts silently except for the sound of thumping against any furniture that happens to be in the vicinity. Then there are the low growls from the kitty. As things escalate (and they always escalate) the size difference comes into play and there is the muffled meow of frustration, as the kitty's head disappears in the dog's maw. This is, of course to be expected as the cat weighs 5 lbs (3 kg) and the dog weighs 75 lbs (35 kg).

"Hey! Molly! Leave. The Kitty. Alone," someone will holler.



Molly opens her mouth and the now matted black cat lays there, scowling. She's clearly pissed that she came up on the losing end, yet again.





As soon as whoever halted the round turns away, one or the other (it's an even split) launches in again. Either the kitty goes for whatever body part she can reach (a knee, a tail, a nose if Molly is silly enough to put her schnozz in paw's reach) or Molly re-engulfs Mad's head.



My favorite was the episode I stepped in on, where I hollered, "Hey! Molly! Stop it!" Molly turned and lifted her head, with Mad-Kitty dangling from her pus, a foot off the floor, 5 front claws embedded in each side of her muzzle.

Both seemed fine with it, so I rolled my eyeballs to the ceiling and left to a distant part of the house where I didn't have to listen to it.

Unfortunately, Kitty doesn't leave it just for Molly. No, no indeed.

When bored (and an inside kitty is frequently bored, even with 2 kids, a large dog and several house plants to play with), she will lay in ambush, waiting for you to walk by. She then dashes out from behind a door on her hind tiptoes, arms stretched out to the sides, in the air, as wide as they can go, tail straight out behind for balance, and seizes you (usually me with my arms full of laundry or a glass of water) around the top of the calf, then releasing you, dances off sideways with her tail fluffed twice as big as the rest of her small self.

It's even more fun when she does this as you are descending the stairs, at night, with a large bowl of popcorn in your arms and maybe a glass of something in one hand.

Oh, yes. Ever so much fun.

Damn pets.

In Her Next Life She'll Choose To Be A Husky

Poor Molly-dog. She's been longing for winter for such a long, long time. And now that it's really here, she finds that it's not as, well, warm as she'd hoped. For the past near-week of sub-zeros (Fahrenheit) with another 20 degree drop due the the wind racing down from Northern Ontario, she's not wanted to be out for more than 2-3 seconds at a time.

It's really rather pathetic. She'll whine at the door or window, we'll let her out. She'll step out, turn around, and then flatten us in her need to get back to where the heat lives.

Now, this would be fine if she were like us, only needing to step outside to go from warm building to warm car to warm house, but she has steadfastly refused to be sensible like the humans and the cat and find a socially acceptable way to eliminate indoors.

She will dash out and pee in a matter of milliseconds (which is just dandy for the person at the door, but she has issues when it comes to pooping. See, she has a ritual she must perform that involves a complex dance of sniffing, pacing, turning, sniffing, and then finally trotting purposefully to her poop area 'round the side of the house and over by the little trees. This takes time, people.

Her solution?

The time honored one of 'holding it'.

And 'holding it'.

Finally, yesterday, the temperature was a balmy +10, so she and I tromped out to shovel snow (me) and romp (her). It was like she'd spent the last week cooped up inside the house, being taunted by the snow. Which she had. The joy! The glee! The pooping! She laid 3 very large piles in the space of 20 minutes.

Now that HAD to feel good.

Just So We're Clear On The Subject

When in the course of human events, say after The Holidays, one is forced into action against the clutter of the closet and dresser, one must take arms against the aggressor.

Somethings are helpful in this battle to regain the ability to see the floor of the closet and to close the drawers of the dresser.

Somethings are not helpful.

Let's review:



Stackable shoe shelves: Helpful



Maurading small, black creature: Unhelpful



Clothes neatly arranged so that the drawers are able to close easily: Helpful



Maurading small black creature: Unhelpful



Large, heavy-duty trash bags for putting in the items for donation: Helpful



Maurading small black creature: Unhelpful



Second tie rack to organize the ties: Helpful



Maurading small black creature: Unhelpful



Large, furry dog lying quietly by the door, watching: Most Unhelpful

(Trick question. True, she's not actively hampering the process but she should be chasing the small black creature around other parts of the house, not laying with her back against the egress door, so the small black creature can't even leave to go see what's happening in the kitchen.)

So, to sum up: Even if she says she really wants to help and all, the small black creature is never helpful.



Never. Ever. Helpful.

Definition of Futility # 43

Thinking you can fold the clothes and make the bed with this lurking and diving in the clean laundry:



Now where are those heavy dragon hide gloves?

Suddenly, I'm Not Laughing

I confess that this is probably part of some large cosmic payback for being too smug and daring the fates. After all, Jamie did warn me several months ago. "Beware. It's the coating on the lenses. The dogs just love it." And so, I was careful after that, for a couple of months or so, after we found Charles's missing (and industrial sized) key ring waaaay under the bed. Over the ensuing months, other things were drug under there to be mauled and mutilated by the shark-dog, most recently a plastic Darth Vader, who ended up looking like the scarred, broken Aniken Skywalker at the end of the Revenge of the Sith, as his body is encased in Vader armor, face and limbs all chewed away. There was also the collection of tiny dolls that were supposed to go on our trip for Sara, but instead were pilfered from the packing and mutilated. I returned to a scattering of disfigured mini heads, hands, feet and knees. Disturbing but hardly something that would touch me on a daily basis.

Of course, it was inevitable.

I'm also pretty sure the kitty was an accomplice. She who loves to bat things off high places, thus tempting the evil dog to do what is in her nature. It's just that I really did like those glasses and I really don't want to spend an hour and a couple of hundred bills a the eye doctor right now. Not to mention that I now have to get up and hop right in the shower, so I can put in the contact lenses, to be able to see. (If I put them in before I wash, for some reason, they get 'funny' and my eyes are irritated all day. I don't get it, either. I do close my eyes. Soap doesn't get in them.) I'm also glad it wasn't my contacts. When something happens to them, I get this sort of vague anxiety attack that lasts until I get them back. I hate wearing glasses. Always have, but they are handy for those pajama times.

I should probably get that lasik surgery, but I'm just not ready. I want some more years to go by to let me know that there's not some sort of complication that happens to those eyeballs when they reach the age of 50 or 90 or whatever. I am fearful of losing my sight, such as it is, completely.

So, off to the eye doctor, I go.

And, see, she really is sorry:



BAD DOG. Baaaaaaaad Dooooooooog.

Bad dog.

Stupid Pet Tricks

And, so, we reach the point in our story where you might start to wonder, "Hmmmmm. How are those new pets that you arrived home with a mere 7 months ago. They'd be, what now, about 8-9 months old?"

"Ah. Yes," I'd answer. "Mad-kitty is, as far as we can tell, since she was literally born in a barn, about 9 months and Maul-y-dog is about 2 weeks younger."

"And things are going.....?" you'd solicitously inquire.

"Never dull," I'd reply.

"Care to elucidate?"

"Well, ok, since you asked?"

Charles and I have come to the conclusion that Molly is like those white mice in The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy trilogy. You know, Frankie and Benji Mouse, the ones who were actually hyperinteligent, pan-dimensional beings, who ran the planet Earth as a huge experiment? (If you have no bleeping idea what I'm talking about, go read all 5 books of the trilogy and then come back. Now. I'll wait. At least read the first 3 books. You can finish the series after you finish this post.) I suspect that she's been conducting devilishly complex experiments on us using her chew-bones. See, some bones she chews, others, she keeps intact and places in, well, odd places. Like under our pillows. In our (Charles's) slightly ajar dresser drawers. Under the pile of laundry awaiting to be folded or in the basket of folded clothes. In Sara's bed, under her bears and dolls and such or between the sofa cushions, etc. You find it, toss it on the ground, and she spirits it off to yet another place. I've not seen her 'hiding' bone in a few days. I suspect it's either in the freezer under the bag o'chicken or on the closet shelf with my sweaters. If it's the latter, I won't see it for months. Actually, if it's the former, I probably won't see it for months, either, as I haven't dug into the freezer in a while, with all the lovely fresh stuff this time of year. She has many words and phrases down, including the invaluable ones of "oooooooooohhhhhh bad dog" and "Leave. The kitty. Alone." as well as its variation "Molly. Don't eat the kitty."

She's also becoming quite athletic, having caught a bird a few days ago. Literally. The bird (something small and brown) was taunting her. Really. The bird was dissing her and flying all over the back of the yard, at mouth height. If the bird got too far ahead, it would stop and taunt her, flying off at the last minute. "Hm," I mused from the deck. "What would she do if she actually caught the bird?" Seconds later, she found out. Yes she did. She caught it entirely in her mouth as it was flying away from her, just not flying fast enough and....oops.

She spat it out at once, clearly bewildered and a bit horrified, I think. It must be horrifying to find an entire bird in your mouth, nearly as horrifying as it would be to be the bird. I dashed to get my sandals (this be thistle country) and hurried over to find the foolish thing, but it was gone. Given the attention Molly was then paying the wiegela bush, 50 feet away from the incident, I'm thinking the bird was hiding in there for a little 'down time'. I called Molly away and that seems to be the end of the incident. The bird has not come back to taunt her further. Dead-dog, Emma, had a similar bird friend, a robin, who would 'play chase', but kept a healthy vertical distance away.

She hasn't yet given up her cave that is the space under our bed. To get in and out she somehow flattens her 70 lb body and scuttles, like a hairy crab. She then chews up magazines and plastic toys that kitty has supplied her with by knocking onto the floor. She has recently started making small moaning noises of the sort you'd expect if you were confined to a tight space of your own choosing. The clearance is only about 8" to get under the bed rails and only about an extra inch once you are under the bed proper. Someday, she's going to get stuck and I will have no choice but to ridicule her and poke at her with rubber bones. Then I will have to dismantle the bed to get her out. That won't be as much fun.

She is also rather fond of garden produce and has become quite adept at picking raspberries off the bushes, much to Sara's outrage.

Madison kitty is back to planning a prison break. After a several month hiatus of not trying to escape to the great outdoors, she's resumed her efforts and has actually managed a foray into the garage and another into the front flower garden. Fortunately, she was too giddy with her success, so she was easily recaptured, but this is concerning. She has taken to haunting the outside doors, drifting just out of your sight or behind the ajar door, waiting to make her move. She also has a disconcerting habit of writhing in ecstasy on the bathmat pretty much every time you use the bathroom off our bedroom. It's uncanny. She just appears, apparently euphoric that you are relieving yourself. Maybe she figures she had a role in our potty training and is demonstrating her praise? She doesn't do it in the other bathroom.

And then, there was the time, a couple of weeks ago, when she went missing for about 10 hours. We scoured the house and called and put out smelly kitty treats and searched the garage and called all over the yard and no kitty. We became seriously concerned and then downright worried and then bordering on frantic (we have hawks and coyotes and other cat-eating creatures, here). We tried to get Molly to help, ("Where's the kitty, Molly? Where's Kitty?") but all she did was tilt her head and then run in circles. I can't tell you how many times I used the bathroom off our bedroom in hopes of getting her to appear. Then, in sheer desperation, Charles began to look through his dresser and found her asleep in his sock drawer.

Yes. She'd gotten herself shut in the sock drawer and just napped all day and evening. I remember shutting all his dresser drawers that morning as I was vacuuming the carpet between the dresser and the bed, because if the dresser drawers are all open (ahem) the vacuum won't fit. So, instead of meowing like any normal creature needing rescue, she slept. Silently. Wish I could say that about her night-time antics. She still likes to play all night long, but, thanks to Leigh-Ann, she mostly leaves the plants alone. Sadly, she doesn't leave my knees alone and I've been woken more than once with all 18 claws and both jaws full of teeth embedded in my left knee. Damn cat. Too bad she's cute and otherwise affectionate. Make that downright cuddly.

So, there we are. We adore them, they submissively piddle on the carpet and chew up stuff that doesn't belong to them (Maul-y) or wake us painfully (Mad) and make us worry unconscionably (both). Not quite an equal relationship, but it has taught Charles to close his dresser drawers, so that's something.


Aren't you glad you asked?

Saturday Afternoon

And so, they are home again.

Everything went fine. He did Molly first as, according to tactful Sue, who womans the front desk of the clinic, "She was loudest." Heh. I bet. Molly has never been a shrinking violet. When I dropped her off, she started shaking in the kennel. I beat a hasty retreat after several kisses and a long hug. I'm sure the loudness followed shortly after. Kit pulled a Gandhi, forcing Sue and I to put her carrier on the floor and pulling out the towel she was lying on first, then prying her out of the thing, where she must have left several claws embedded in the plastic of the bottom of it. I haven't had the heart to go and look to be sure. Well, fewer claws to cause mischief, right?

Kitty was just about to go into heat, too, so she is a bit swollen about the incision. I feel as though we dodged a large bullet there. Last thing we need in this house is a horny kitty at all hours.

And so, they are "shaved" as Colin refers to it. And tired. So very tired. Well, the dog is. Mad-kitty was positively wired for a few hours this morning, but now is nicely tuckered, too. Charles and I are thinking this is a really good thing. Maybe we can convince our vet to do some anesthesia-requiring procedure on them each week, so they will be right tuckered for the whole weekend, or at least Saturday.

Kidding. KIDDING!!!

Mostly.

And, so, here are the two 'its' in sad repose, or as we like to call it, "Money Well Spent."




Mad-kitty in her cave.


Sad, tired dog.

Thursday Night

Hello, Dearest Darlings,

And how have you been?

Really? How dreadful! Or do I mean shocking? Lovely? What's the word I'm looking for? Oh! Interesting! That's a good all-purpose one. Because I really am interested.

Well, since you asked: Wet. And a bit smelly. Of dog.

You see, we washed the dog tonight. First time since we took her home, actually, and that was about 40+ lbs ago (20 kg-ish for the civilized world). The occasion? Ah. She is going in for her operation to become an "it" tomorrow. Well, both the pup and the kit, actually. It's just that one smells horribly of dog piss and one smells vaguely of kitten crunchies.

Clearly a bath was in order.

Now, we've bathed dogs before. We've had 2 prior German Shepherds. Yes. Something to be planned and dreaded and fortified beforehand with something bracing.

Tonight, we chose a ceremonial margarita to steel our nerves, as we had the ingredients on hand. Lovely.

The tub filled was with water, a large pile of big, old, sad towels at the ready. Bathroom door shut to prevent horrible things happening to the rest of the house should she get by both of us and through the door.

Charles tossed her into the tub and we braced ourselves for the worst.

She adored it.

No way. Really. She started drinking the bathwater, wagging her tail as he poured water over her with a large, plastic, ricotta cheese container. He lathered her. She made a token lunge or two to get out, but it was more of an attempt to climb into his lap to thank him, I think. He sudsed her, I stood there, basically superfluous, passing shampoo and such. He rinsed her. She snapped at the globs of fur floating in the water, trying to eat them. Then, she started pawing at them, with delight.

At the end, I toweled her as she repeatedly tried to escape. Well, make that climb back into the tub.

What the hell?

We've never had a pet; dog, cat, or fish, who wanted a bath.

At the end, we stood blinking at each other as she raced around the house in sheer glee. We finally had to shut her in her crate, next to the heat vent, to mellow her out.

I cleaned the bathroom, now basically covered in splashes of water and dog undercoat. Sadly, the bathroom I had cleaned a few hours ago. (Clearly, planning is not my strong point.)

Charles is now downstairs with the kids, watching a movie. The puppy is in her crate, longing for the bath. (Obviously, I am here, telling the tale to you.)

And I wondered why I always had to keep shooing her out of there when bathing the kids. The cat, she avoids the place like the plague.

Apparently, tonight, Molly realized a life long dream.

Good to give your pets a bit of joy before going under the knife, eh?

Guess who'll have the best time of all at the beach this summer?

Wish them well, tomorrow, please. We are rather fond of the furry ones.

The Usual Suspect

Exhibit A.

The crime: The removal of one (1) formerly nearly full bottle of massage oil from the nightstand to under the bed, contents dramatically reduced, top (with functioning hand pump) removed and chewed to small bits (no longer functioning, nay barely recognizable), and anointing of carpet under said bed with an unquantifiable amount of massage oil, assumed to be the initial total volume minus amount consumed by perpetrator.

The police line-up: Colin, Sara, Madison-kitty, and Maul-y pup.

The case against the accused:

-Guess which one has no iron clad alibi for the entire time frame of the crime?

-Guess which one was found red-pawed under the bed with the bottle?

-Guess which one has been found under the same bed with one (1) child's soldier, partially mutilated; two (2) mismatched socks, slimed, fitting one of the occupants of the bedroom; and one (1) plastic coat hanger; each an individual episode and occurring en toto within an hour of the egregious massage oil incident?

-Guess which one smells really pretty with essence of lavender, chamomile and sage?

-Guess which one was observed by several witnesses to be frequently licking her chops after being accused of said crime?

-Guess which one is not remotely sorry?


Oh well, the bedroom smells really pretty, now, too.

How About If He Buys You Two Cars?

It's Saturday morning and it's -17 degrees F (that's -27 C). This doesn't factor in the wind chill. Seems we finally have us some winter.

Unfortunately, Molly thinks it's too cold to poop. As she is not completely housebroken (meaning we can trust her to whine at the door when she wants to go out), this is disappointing. Charles has had her out 4 times so far and all he has gotten her to do is look at him as though he were completely deranged. Doesn't he know how cold it is?

Trust me, he knows. He's even promised to buy her a car when she is 16 if she'll just go ahead and go. So far, no dice.

Soon, I will know, too, as Charles is off to the basement to work out, leaving me with the pansy dog.

Inside, she looks longingly at the corner of the dining room. What's the problem? It's not like we've never cleaned up puppy poop before. After all, were the situation reversed, she'd let us.

She'd even clean up after us.

Sibling Rivalry

I fear that someone is going to end up decapitated, amputated or blind.

As it is my lap that this is happening on and around, I fear that it will be me.

And, yes, they are truly playing.

Sigh.

The State of the Household

It's Sunday afternoon, what has been described as the long, dark teatime of the soul, by Douglas Adams, rest his twisted, brilliant soul.

Sara is napping, Colin released to go play video games at last, and Charles is watching the football championship game. One of them. Who cares which one. I am barricaded in the kitchen with both pets and the computer. How cozy.

So, Diana, how are things in the recently enfurred household of Piffle?

Well, just jim-swimmin-dandy, thanks for asking.

"Really?" you ask.

Ah. Truth?

Well.

Hm.

Mad-kitty, it seems, thinks she is a dog, which includes drinking out of the dog's dish, which is a large dog's dish, seeing that the dog (if she makes it to big-dog-hood), will be a big dog. As a very small cat, she can only accomplish this by balancing on a single hind leg, her belly and front paws dangling over the edge of the dish, remaining leg hanging in the air. Now, she has her own small bowl of pristine (as it is changed a few times a day and she never drinks out of it) water, it seems that she actually prefers the water with chunks of saliva and dogfood floating in it. She also tries to cop the dog's food (kibble that is about the size of her petite kitty mouth) and sleeps in the dog's crate.

The dog is fine with all this as it makes kitty easy to ambush. Maybe ambush is not the proper term as ambushes are generally quiet and the dog thumps loudly as she careens across the tile floor, but, still, it is the best term I can think of.

If the pup finds Mad-kitty in her crate, she thumps down beside her, companionable paw over her, and then encloses kit's head in her mouth. Muffled "mraow"ing ensues and someone hollers, "Molly! Stop eating the kitty". Molly, looking surprised that we would misinterpret such an obvously neighborly gesture, opens up and kitty goes off in a huff. Molly gets out, as the only reason she ever wants in there is to torment the cat. The cat then goes right back in and the whole thing replays. Over. And. Over.

I am not making this up.

Clearly the cat wants to be chewed. We rarely intervene anymore.

We sigh a lot.

Her fur, in a strip from the back of her head to her tail, is matted, shiny, and encrusted with bits of dog food, as well.

Sigh.

Outside of that, well, she is still quite the gassy little 2 pounds of fur. As she is also quite the cuddly little thing, she also doesn't merely fart in your general direction, but in your face. It did get much better after the first de-worming and a bit better after the second one, but it looks as though a change of diet is in order. If she keeps up with the dog envy, though, we may need to change the dog's food, too. Drag.

She is also hell on plants. It is proof of how fond of her I am that she is still with us. An orchid I bought on a whim for $10 four years ago and debated tossing as it failed every attempt for me to get it to bloom again, (yes!) is finally putting out buds! I have moved it from my "keep out all you with small hands" cat-magnet of a sunny loft, to the dining room table, in an effort to enjoy these potential blossoms which will dangle beguilingly from the stem. I also didn't fail to notice that there was some potting soil on the table, trailing off from the only other plant not up in the loft, a toddler lemon tree. I think I will have to find another hiding place.

Yes, I know. You can't hide things from cats. I should just put it by the dog's dish, smear it in dog drool and be done with it.

She is very good with the kids, though, and even lets Sara tuck her in with a blanket and a stuffed dog. (No wonder the cat has a complex.)

And now, we turn to Molly pup. Or "Maul-y" as we have re-named her. Damn but she is the mouthy, chewy, one. We are making progress just this last week, though, as she has diminished her gnawing of our body parts and clothing from a conservative estimate of 4,089 times an hour to a mere 576 times an hour. That's a full order of magnitude, man! She also barks. Loudly. And often. And there is no doubt as to what she is saying, you stupid person, you. She, of course thinks she is a human. Her English vocabulary is getting rather good and includes "NO!", "Molly", "come", "treat", "down", "upstairs", "downstairs", "outta there", "inside", and "Leave. The kitty. Alone." The large spray bottle of water with a pinch of vinegar is also satisfyingly helpful in getting one's point across. At this juncture, just taking the bottle out and standing with it in your hand mellows her the hell out. This, of course, proves that she knows she is being naughty.

We almost took her back 3 times, but each time it was in the evening and by the time morning rolled around, we reconsidered the cute little fuzzball. She really is cute. And huge. At her 10 week check-up she was a bit over 20 lbs. We're guessing she will top out at around 100 lbs.

At 12 weeks old, she is now watching everyone who walks along the road with a suspicious stare. WTF? She's a baby! Emma didn't start that until she was a year and a half. Maia, our militant alpha female, did around 6 months.

Sigh.

So, that is where we are. Gnawed, farted on, bemused. But we all are trying.

Or "Oh, so very trying", as my Mum would say.

And then we roll the eyes. And buy yet another chew toy.

It is getting better. Slowly but surely, better.

Molly would also like you to know that she is very happy that the snow has returned, as you can see by the pictures. Much more fun to romp in snow. You can get it impacted in your sinuses and then sneeze big, snowy boogers all over the cat-dog.

Resistance Is Futile

Guess what word Charles and I utter most.

Go ahead.

Guess.









Nope. Not "and", "I", "the" or any of the other similar sentence starters.

It is "NO!" or it's less often used brethren: "NO!", "No!" or, rarely, "no".

We decided, last week, that we were becoming bored with the lack of vocabulary variety and that we needed an alternative for such recent real-life instances:

Me: "Sara, what would you like for breakfast?"
Sara: "CHOCOLATE!"
Me: "Ahhhhh, No."

Me: "Molly! NO! Stop eating the kitty's litter! and, NO!, don't lick me, now, please.

Me: "AAAAUUUGGGHHHhhh!" Madison, please, no climbing up my lightly pajama clad legs with your razor claws. (*whimper*)

Charles (muttered in soto voce in her ear): "Sara, no tantrums in the grocery store. If you don't stop this minute, you will go to the car at once, and...NO Dora The Explorer."

Me and Charles: "Molly! No!" or "Mollyno!, Mollyno!" (conservatively uttered, every 27 seconds, no exaggeration)

Aaaand, most horrifyingly recently:

Charles and I together: "What does she have in her mouth? Is that cat shit??? NONONONONONONONO! BAD DOG! Baaaaaaad Dooooooog! No!"

(Aside: No, we are not quite that stupid, the cat box is kept in the laundry room with the door blocked. It's just that for brief minutes, on occasion, the doorway is un-boxed and our attention is diverted. It is then that the dog-eating-cat-feeces-and-litter episodes take place.)



Remembering back to an old Dr Who series, as I recall, Charles came up with our new reply-in-negative: Resistance is futile. Just has that authoritarian ring we are looking for, especially if you roll the "R". Variety is the spice of life. Try it for yourselves. I think you'll find it fun. At the very least, it will garner you the odd look from the annoying customer, co-worker, or family member.

Wonder where this will rank on our kids' lists of What My Parents Did To Land Me In Therapy.

The Furry ones

Pictures for you, originally uploaded by DianaP.

May I introduce Molly-pup and Madison-kitty. They are very pleased to meet you and promise much in the way of hijinks in the future.

Also, they want to say, "Goooo Ducks!"

Weekend Update

It is Monday morning and I need a nap from this weekend's antics.

Let's start with dear ol' Dad, shall we?

The news is good, for once. He has been released from the hospital, after a total of 2 CT scans and an MRI of his noggin. He is now taking nourishment without giving it back and on thumping good painkillers. He is home, driving poor Cathy crazy, as the man refuses to admit he can't do every-damn-thing by himself. Sadly, his glasses, his only pair, were deconstructed, forcibly, by the fall and the concrete and all, so, while a good friend managed to unmangle and tape what he could, they are a far cry from being as much help as they could be. Speaking as someone terribly near-sighted, I think it will be a long, aggravating stretch before he can get himself to the eye doctor and a replacement set. Still, we are so very thankful.

What would have taken top billing (had fathers not taken falls onto driveways and ended up in the trauma center), the arrival of the furry ones, happened on Saturday. We feel as though we have two new toddlers in the house. One toddler, fortunately, is litter box broken. The second toddler is rapidly learning the great-outdoors-as-a-toilet way of life, after spending her first 7 weeks of life in a large room covered in layers of newspapers for free-form waste excretion. (Can we say "P-U! Stinko!" Oh, yes, we can.)

We waited a whole hour between getting them home and traumatizing them by throwing them in the sink and scrubbing them clean. I am glad to announce that they now smell nicely of baby shampoo and additive-free pet food and not feces and pee. To the pup, I am sure, this is not an improvement, but the kit seemed most appreciative, once she got over the initial horror of being wet all over and then rubbed dry. I am appreciative as I can now rub my nose on their heads and pet their baby-fuzz-covered selves and not have to go wash the grime off my hands.

Now, let's talk personality.

Oh, yes, we have personality. One (ahem) kept her sweet, calm demeanor. One (ahem) tricked us into thinking she was this sweet, docile thing but now shows her true colors of not liking that whole submissive thing. Clearly, she saw us for what we were: A pair of softies, who would dote on the tailed members of the family, letting them sleep next to or on them, having good eats and a large yard in which to romp and sniff.

Madison-kitty is an absolute cuddling fiend. She will follow you around and, if you are not in her line of sight, say when she wakes from her nap under the couch (safe, yet in the mix of things, as you wouldn't oblige her by doing the nice thing and laying on the couch and having a nice long nap, yourself, not that she'd hold it against you, no, for she looooooves yoooooou), she will cry with breaking heart until you come and scoop her up. She purrs so violently I seriously thought she was having seizures. (Yes, it's been 6 years since we had a cat, but still, the total body rigors with her purrs, sheesh!) She is scrawny and playful and dainty. She will even let Sara pet her, oh-so-gently, if I am holding her. Otherwise, she watches Sara from under the couch, as Sara, on her belly looking under, cajoles her with, "Hi Kitty! It's me! Sara!" Clearly Sara feels that if only Kitty knew it was her, Sara, and not, say a maurading wolf, Kitty would run out from under the couch and into her arms. Clearly Kitty feels that being assured that it is "Me, Sara!" is in no way a reassuring thing.

Molly-Pup is adorable, of course, as she is a 7 week old puppy and what puppy is not completely adorable? She is not docile. She does NOT like to be held on her back. She does NOT like to submit to being held gently down. For those who have not had strongly dominant, pack dogs, like German Shepherds, it is vital to assert your dominance from puppyhood, otherwise, they will continuously try to take leadership of the pack from you. You will then spend your days fending off a coup d'etat. This does not lead to peaceful slumber. In short, our sweet beta dog is actually an alpha. We have also fallen in love with her, so do not even entertain thoughts of trading her in. Plus, we have had a previous alpha female, our beloved Maia. Once you set the dominance hierarchy, things run well. You just must show no weakness. Ever.

So, that is the state of affairs in the House O' Piffle. Much to be thankful for, not the least of which is a bit of time off in a couple of weeks. I anticipate much napping with a small fuzzy being or two on chest or lap.

Ho! Ho! Ho!

(PS: Got a few pictures and will post soon, just need to get them loaded on to flickr. Sadly, camera is also officially dead.)

So Self-Absorbed

I think it is the nature of blogging that lends one to blither on about things that would normally be passed over. Before I started inflicting my thoughts on the internet, and you, my fine friends, I would think a thought, have a feeling, muse upon something ridiculous, and then it'd be gone in the ether. On to the next deep thought or absurdity.

But now, noooooo. I must regurgitate for all who stumble on here, either by accident or design. I really don't feel too badly about it, I mean, we can all chose to go elsewhere. And I certainly care, and care deeply what is going on in your lives and heads. Why else would I keep reading your blogs? I adore your blogs. Not like my poor, dear friends who I go to lunch with each week. They are stuck with my drivel, at least until the check comes. But then, I am also a captive audience to them. Tit for tat. Actually, I care and care deeply for what concerns my friends. Plus, they are screamingly funny, like you lot are.

So. How am I?

Surprisingly fine.

I say that with no little amazement.

When our beloved Maia died, about 2 years ago (9 year-old German Shepherd, waaaay too intelligent for our own good. We had to seriously spell around her. Not joking. Anything to do with food, playing ball or going outside had to be spelled. She had a human vocabulary of about 50 words and phrases. She died suddenly in the fall of '03 from canine bloat.), it took about 2 days for the screaming, hot tears of raw grief to pass, then another 2 months for it to pass into serene grief, where we didn't tear slightly when we came home and weren't greeted by a large pointy nose in the nether-regions. A total of 6 months before we were ready to have another dog (Emma).

This time, we sobbed for all of Thursday, moped for Friday, and Saturday, were ready to consider another furry one.

I don't understand, I really don't. It certainly isn't because we love one dog more. No more than you'd love one kid more. Nope.

Perhaps because we had more preparation up front? In our hearts, we knew that what was wrong with Emma was some really bad shit. Maia was fine until she suddenly got sick, went to surgery, which was a success, and then died, because the fuckers kicked her out of the animal emergency clinic only an hour after emergent abdominal surgery. They put her in the back of the SUV at a bit after midnight on a Saturday, because the clinic closed from midnight until 8am the next morning. Now, they didn't tell us of it, when we called, with a classic case of bloat at 9pm on the Friday. Nope. They had Charles drive the 45 minutes to their clinic, did the surgery, and then evicted them. She opened up on the way back to the vet clinic in Freeport, which refused to accept her, despite agreeing on the phone, re-taped her, and sent her back to a 3rd clinic in Rockford (another 45 minutes). The 3rd clinic, staffed by wonderful vets, tried their best to save her, but she died on the table, the result of her too early discharge. Had she been a human on some heartless HMO, she'd have had better care.

Not bitter. Nope.

Emma received top-notch, utterly compassionate care. Everything right was done, and for the right reasons.

You might say that Maia, being very healthy and only about 11 years old by this time, should still be with us, and we would have never known Emma. What a horrible thought. Yet, we have thought it.

I don't know.

Clearly, the universe is a bitch-goddess, and we are Her bitches.

Heh. Bitch. Female dog. Heh.

Anyway, back to my self-absorbed ramblings:

So, there I am in the shower on Friday and I realize that I just miss a furry, adorable, pain-in-the-ass, shedding, happy, trip-over-her-in-the-dark, pile of fuzz. A pile of fuzz that occasionally pukes in the house and frequently poops, not in the side yard, but on the path where we walk. And a cat.

Damn, I miss a cat.

We lost our pain-in-the-ass, soft, cuddly, neurotic cat, Booger (Ok, her real name was Banzai, but what cat goes by her real name, I ask you?) about 6 years ago. On Christmas Eve, no less, due to a sudden, massive neurologic event, probably a stroke. As Colin was about a year old at that time and Maia was about 5 and we were contemplating a move within the next year, we didn't get another cat. But we've missed one. And then Sara came along. And then Emma. And the move out here, and the timing was just never right

Until now.

Can you tell I'm having some guilt?

So, there I am, only a day or 2 after my beloved Emma is gone and, jeez, they haven't even done the autopsy, yet, so I can't even say that she is cold in her grave (or hot in her furnace, as we are having her cremated), and I am thinking of new pets.

And the name, " Molly."

I broach the subject with Charles and he has had the same shameful thoughts. So, maybe they aren't shameful, after all. Maybe the time really is right. So, he looks online.

And today, we went and met Molly. And then, there was this adorable 8-week-old ball of dark, chocolate brown fuzz with golden eyes that could sleep curled in the palm of my hand, who preferred to hang with the puppies than with the other farm cats on the porch of the home of the lovely people who just happened to have a litter of German Shepherd puppies born 6 weeks ago. Puppies who are starting to wean and will be ready at precisely the time we can devote a couple of weeks to intensive attention and training on the 15th of December.

Unless they need to come home sooner, of course. *cough, cough*

Besides, how could you resist this? (Scroll down and absorb all the gooey puppy cuteness.)

Fate? Chance?

I dunno. I just know that this Christmas, my gift to Charles and his give to me comes with hairballs and chew toys.

Be joyful for us.

I think Emma would be.