So there we sat, two "Br"s and two "T"s, watching Arrested Development, when the dog (one of the "T"s) exploded.
This wasn't the "IED dog harness" type of explosion; this was the "Loony Tunes many-feet blur" type of explosion, and since we haven't clipped her toenails in a while, it took her some time to get enough traction on our hardwood floors to go after... Der Maus.
The mouse made it behind the hutch in the dining room just as I finished a spectacular super-sectional leap. I am not bragging. My leap was made even more spectacular in that I went from a supine position on the swivel chair to full ballet extension, paused the DVD, and landed in the entryway in one smooth movement. The smoothness was only slightly ruined by the Snoopy-dance I did on landing, but since it was less violent than the dog's explosion, and it allowed me to slide gracefully across the dining room in a manner envied by Brian Boitano, I will not feign humility.
Of course, with all of this grace and smoothness, the mouse saw us coming and made a break for the illusion of safety that is the Girl's Room. He dove under their dresser, and I snapped on the light, shouting for the "Br"s to bring me "a shoe or something smashy!" (Both arrived in seconds brandishing goofy looks, and not much else.)
As I excavated old socks, graded homework, karaoke CDs (dang, I could have done "The Middle" at Festivus!), flinging them every which way and barking strategic orders at the others, and trying to get the stupid dog to sniff where the mouse was, NOT the end of my finger. Brent stood in the hallway. "Hey, I see him... he's back behind the hutch!"
So we re-mobilized.
The hutch has a back panel that touches the floor, and Der Maus had foolishly pinned himself back there. If I had had an X-wing fighter, I could have flown it into the little Death Star trench formed by hutch and wall, and blown him away. I blocked my end with a spare cardboard box from the recycle pile, and hollered for backup at the other end, thinking to enact the trash compactor scene instead (still on the Star Wars references for those who are lost). But before one of my storm troopers could get there, Der Maus slipped around the end of the hutch, and disappeared under it.
Now armed with the sneakers of a Texan, the two "Br"s and I arrayed ourselves around the three exposed sides of the hutch. We took turns shouting out nose sightings in a bizarre, non-violent version of whack a mole. We were discussing our next move - something to do with the vacuum cleaner - when he bolted.
He was a scruffy little streak of dark brown. A teen aged girl, a dog, and two grown men chased it the 15 feet from the hutch to the stove without disturbing a single hair on his furry little body.
Once under the stove, Der Maus disappeared. We move the stove, and poked into its many dark crevasses, but to no avail.
Saddened, disheartened, and wretched, we left the dog on guard and went back to the important business we were about before our world was turned upside down.
Vengeance for this humiliation will... be... ours.
Showing posts with label Dog Blog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dog Blog. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Dog Blog: The Death of Doots
From a dog's perspective, it is difficult to see a story unfold. The distractions that bound out of bushes and cause one to charge to the end of the lead - not to mention the sudden, sharp yank that results - make keen observation difficult. The beauty and wonder of the variety of smells defy the description of mere words. And the perplexing behavior of the giant, pink gods that control food, water, and access to the outdoors are frequently a mystery that only becomes clear at distant intervals.
Most of the time I lie around listening to them. The little ones babble and squabble, the bigger ones charge about, moving things and grumbling. There is a lot of noise, and little excitement. But there is something to be said for listening.
I have told some of the tales of the terrorist rabbits, and I shared some of my more embarrassing moments. I even told the story of my friend, the mouse, which was probably not one of the best series of choices I have made. Since then, a lot of waiting has gone on, and a lot of significant events.
The most significant thing, other than waiting for dead mice to show up, was this thing called "vacation". I have been to visit someone called Dr. Andrew several times, mostly to have my nails clipped, and to get shots. You would think this would spoil the allure of Dr. Andrew, but there is just something about him that I find enchanting. I think... maybe... I have a crush on Dr. Andrew.
But it's always been an intermittent thing, since I see him so rarely. But a few weeks ago, the people packed me and some of my things into the car, and took me to Dr. Andrew's office. I was thrilled, until they all hugged me, and petted me, and sent me back... and left me there!
My first thought was that they had gotten tired of me, or blamed me for the mouse situation, and I was being given away. But then Dr. Andrew came in, and it finally sank in that it wasn't supposed to be a "forever" kind of thing. Not that I have any concept of time, but it Dr. Andrew says it's alright, then it's alright.
We had a good time; I spent most of my days with the staff (since I still can't stand other dogs). And eventually, the family came back. We had a joyful/tearful reunion, and we came back to a house that felt... different.
Before leaving, I knew the big folks had made an extra effort to super-clean, and lock up and trace of food. And they set out extra poison and traps all over the place. But the poison was gone, and the traps had been empty when they got back. There were doots all over the usual places. At least they couldn't blame me, since I'd been in the klink.
Things were morose and tense, partly from "coming down" off their vacation high; partly from having to face the mouse problem. And then the other morning, the Hairy Guy went downstairs for a bag of human kibble - they call it "cereal" - and he came back up in a frenzied state of joy. He woke up the Mom Lady, so I knew it was serious.
"We got one!" he announced.
"What?"
"Dead mouse! Downstairs!"
"Ew! Throw it away!"
"I will," he said, chuckling. "Did you want to see it?"
"No!"
So, he grabbed a ziploc bag, and a few minutes later, he brought it upstairs. He didn't try to show it to me; he's not cruel that way. But I saw it. He was a little bigger than last time I saw him, but it was Doots.
The people are happy, now. There has been a victory, and a trophy, even if they did chuck it in the bin. But they're still waiting, and so am I. Because we all know there have to be more, hiding somewhere, working up the nerve to appear.
And what will happen when they do?
Most of the time I lie around listening to them. The little ones babble and squabble, the bigger ones charge about, moving things and grumbling. There is a lot of noise, and little excitement. But there is something to be said for listening.
I have told some of the tales of the terrorist rabbits, and I shared some of my more embarrassing moments. I even told the story of my friend, the mouse, which was probably not one of the best series of choices I have made. Since then, a lot of waiting has gone on, and a lot of significant events.
The most significant thing, other than waiting for dead mice to show up, was this thing called "vacation". I have been to visit someone called Dr. Andrew several times, mostly to have my nails clipped, and to get shots. You would think this would spoil the allure of Dr. Andrew, but there is just something about him that I find enchanting. I think... maybe... I have a crush on Dr. Andrew.
But it's always been an intermittent thing, since I see him so rarely. But a few weeks ago, the people packed me and some of my things into the car, and took me to Dr. Andrew's office. I was thrilled, until they all hugged me, and petted me, and sent me back... and left me there!
My first thought was that they had gotten tired of me, or blamed me for the mouse situation, and I was being given away. But then Dr. Andrew came in, and it finally sank in that it wasn't supposed to be a "forever" kind of thing. Not that I have any concept of time, but it Dr. Andrew says it's alright, then it's alright.
We had a good time; I spent most of my days with the staff (since I still can't stand other dogs). And eventually, the family came back. We had a joyful/tearful reunion, and we came back to a house that felt... different.
Before leaving, I knew the big folks had made an extra effort to super-clean, and lock up and trace of food. And they set out extra poison and traps all over the place. But the poison was gone, and the traps had been empty when they got back. There were doots all over the usual places. At least they couldn't blame me, since I'd been in the klink.
Things were morose and tense, partly from "coming down" off their vacation high; partly from having to face the mouse problem. And then the other morning, the Hairy Guy went downstairs for a bag of human kibble - they call it "cereal" - and he came back up in a frenzied state of joy. He woke up the Mom Lady, so I knew it was serious.
"We got one!" he announced.
"What?"
"Dead mouse! Downstairs!"
"Ew! Throw it away!"
"I will," he said, chuckling. "Did you want to see it?"
"No!"
So, he grabbed a ziploc bag, and a few minutes later, he brought it upstairs. He didn't try to show it to me; he's not cruel that way. But I saw it. He was a little bigger than last time I saw him, but it was Doots.
The people are happy, now. There has been a victory, and a trophy, even if they did chuck it in the bin. But they're still waiting, and so am I. Because we all know there have to be more, hiding somewhere, working up the nerve to appear.
And what will happen when they do?
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Doots III: The Suspense
The dog brought her head up when she heard the snap, and she thought then that it was all over.
It was not.
Over the next few days, as she roamed the house, she thought she could smell the sweet, clinging odor of decay, but she couldn't localize it. It could have been in the kitchen; could have been in the bathroom. It might even have been behind a wall somewhere. Or it could have just been something in the kitchen trash. One never really knows where bad smells come from when there are children in the home.
It had been weeks since the Mouse Man had come, laying his snap traps and glue strips throughout the house. And since Doots had vanished down the hole under the bathroom sink, she had not seen or heard a whisper from him. The traps had remained empty, though. So the Mouse Man returned, bearing his poisoned grains, and hid those throughout the house, too.
The family had begun speaking of "the mice" rather than "the mouse", though. That had been the only realy change in the great standoff. The Mouse Man had uncovered two corners in the house - both in forgotten spaces in the backs of closets - where the "Mouse" had built nests. Nests: plural. More than one. Thus, "mice" and not "mouse".
And the dog mourned her friend, though she sensed he was not gone.
Winter dragged on, finally giving way to spring. In fact, it tried to leap over spring and directly into summer, but missed by the smallest fraction of an inch, and the weather scrabbled back and forth between blistering humidity and near-freezing rain for a few days.
When the roulette wheel came to a stop, and the little, steel ball finally clicked into "spring", the trees exuded their fine, yellow spunk in one great, universal arboreal orgasm. Everyone developed breathing problems and red, streaming eyes; the dog began shedding her magnificent winter coat; and the windows raised and lowered in accordance with the predicted pollen count each day.
The dog sat locked in her kennel one morning, enjoying the air from the open window next to the box. She was not thinking about lonliness or despair; she was not missing her little friend, or their huddled winter conversations. That was when the voice returned.
"Hey, kibble breath! What's shaking?"
"Doots?" she gasped, and she looked around, trying to locate the source of the voice.
"Sure, I guess you can call me that," said the voice. "We're all one big family."
The voice peeked out from the corner of the kennel. It was not Doots. This was a smaller, younger mouse. But it carried itself the same way, and spoke in the same manner. She finally had to ask it to be sure.
"Strictly speaking, Doots is dead," said the new mouse. "Though, we never really die. Doots got 'reabsorbed' is all." The new, little mouse licked her lips at the memory. "We're a collective; we share everything, even our bodies and our mind. We are all 'Doots', really. You can think of me as a 'Dootlet' if you want to!" And she giggled a high, squeaky mouse giggle.
The dog was not amused.
Dogs, by their nature, are not great philosophers. Some do enjoy a bit of meditation, but most prefer to nap when they aren't being active. Cats are the thinkers; dogs prefer straightforward action, physical contact, and a clear, stable day to day universe. This whole "mouse collective consciousness" thing was lost on a dog.
And this dog had been suffering. Her friendship with Doots had brought an unfamiliar shame into her relationship with the humans. She had agonized over where her loyalties lay, and had put up with their accusations and their mockery. She had been hurt, and here was a stranger asking her to accept a substitute for that friendship.
She barked. Being part beagle, it was the peculiar baying yelp that said she was on the trail of prey. And the Dootlet - as far as a mouse is able to do so - blanched with terror, and dove under the cushion of the kennel. The dog writhed and tore at the inside of her box, trying to get at the fleeing mouse.
It was a grand ruckus, and it ended with a terror-bleached mouse flinging herself out into the open for a moment, only to dart back under the baseboards.
"Screw you, pup!" the angry little voice shouted. "We coulda been friends!"
"I have friends," said the dog. And she curled up to await the return of her humans.
But she kept one eye on the baseboards. Because now, she knew that the game was on, and which side she was playing for.
It was not.
Over the next few days, as she roamed the house, she thought she could smell the sweet, clinging odor of decay, but she couldn't localize it. It could have been in the kitchen; could have been in the bathroom. It might even have been behind a wall somewhere. Or it could have just been something in the kitchen trash. One never really knows where bad smells come from when there are children in the home.
It had been weeks since the Mouse Man had come, laying his snap traps and glue strips throughout the house. And since Doots had vanished down the hole under the bathroom sink, she had not seen or heard a whisper from him. The traps had remained empty, though. So the Mouse Man returned, bearing his poisoned grains, and hid those throughout the house, too.
The family had begun speaking of "the mice" rather than "the mouse", though. That had been the only realy change in the great standoff. The Mouse Man had uncovered two corners in the house - both in forgotten spaces in the backs of closets - where the "Mouse" had built nests. Nests: plural. More than one. Thus, "mice" and not "mouse".
And the dog mourned her friend, though she sensed he was not gone.
Winter dragged on, finally giving way to spring. In fact, it tried to leap over spring and directly into summer, but missed by the smallest fraction of an inch, and the weather scrabbled back and forth between blistering humidity and near-freezing rain for a few days.
When the roulette wheel came to a stop, and the little, steel ball finally clicked into "spring", the trees exuded their fine, yellow spunk in one great, universal arboreal orgasm. Everyone developed breathing problems and red, streaming eyes; the dog began shedding her magnificent winter coat; and the windows raised and lowered in accordance with the predicted pollen count each day.
The dog sat locked in her kennel one morning, enjoying the air from the open window next to the box. She was not thinking about lonliness or despair; she was not missing her little friend, or their huddled winter conversations. That was when the voice returned.
"Hey, kibble breath! What's shaking?"
"Doots?" she gasped, and she looked around, trying to locate the source of the voice.
"Sure, I guess you can call me that," said the voice. "We're all one big family."
The voice peeked out from the corner of the kennel. It was not Doots. This was a smaller, younger mouse. But it carried itself the same way, and spoke in the same manner. She finally had to ask it to be sure.
"Strictly speaking, Doots is dead," said the new mouse. "Though, we never really die. Doots got 'reabsorbed' is all." The new, little mouse licked her lips at the memory. "We're a collective; we share everything, even our bodies and our mind. We are all 'Doots', really. You can think of me as a 'Dootlet' if you want to!" And she giggled a high, squeaky mouse giggle.
The dog was not amused.
Dogs, by their nature, are not great philosophers. Some do enjoy a bit of meditation, but most prefer to nap when they aren't being active. Cats are the thinkers; dogs prefer straightforward action, physical contact, and a clear, stable day to day universe. This whole "mouse collective consciousness" thing was lost on a dog.
And this dog had been suffering. Her friendship with Doots had brought an unfamiliar shame into her relationship with the humans. She had agonized over where her loyalties lay, and had put up with their accusations and their mockery. She had been hurt, and here was a stranger asking her to accept a substitute for that friendship.
She barked. Being part beagle, it was the peculiar baying yelp that said she was on the trail of prey. And the Dootlet - as far as a mouse is able to do so - blanched with terror, and dove under the cushion of the kennel. The dog writhed and tore at the inside of her box, trying to get at the fleeing mouse.
It was a grand ruckus, and it ended with a terror-bleached mouse flinging herself out into the open for a moment, only to dart back under the baseboards.
"Screw you, pup!" the angry little voice shouted. "We coulda been friends!"
"I have friends," said the dog. And she curled up to await the return of her humans.
But she kept one eye on the baseboards. Because now, she knew that the game was on, and which side she was playing for.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Dog Blog: Doots II, the Battle
The dog woke up, and her head snapped toward the sound she heard in the dark.
"Did you hear that?" Mom Lady was asking the Hairy Guy. He mumbled something that might have been a question about the price of prunes. "The mouse is in your trashcan!" That made him lift his head, at least.
The two humans and the canine listened intently, each hoping for a slightly different thing to happen. There was a snap of light, a rustle of plastic, the clatter and scatter of an overturned bedside trashcan, and a tink of radiator tines as a small body disappeared under the baseboards. The two humans cursed, and the dog pretended to go back to sleep.
"He’s getting brave," the Hairy Guy said. "I thought I saw him run across the hallway when I was in the bathroom last night, and tonight he ran under the ottoman while I was playing Zelda. I would have got him, but he ran back under the couch."
"Great, and now he’s in here." Mom Lady looked over at the supposedly sleeping dog, and said, "You better eat him before we get that poison set out. If you decide to eat him after, it’s your own fault!"
The dog was trying not to listen. She almost convinced herself that no one whispered "collaborator!" before drifting off again.
The next day was gorgeous; no wind, no rain, and the sun shone brightly in the yard. The dog, the kids, and even the Hairy Guy, spent most of the day outside. The children played ball, and chased the dog around. She barked, chased sticks, sniffed around for vermin, and had a grand time. Except when the neighbors’ dog came out, and she tried to eat his face.
"What is your problem with other dogs?" Hairy Guy demanded, as he dragged her back to a neutral corner of the yard. "You know, half the reason we got you was so we could make some friends around here. The old ’hey, we both have dogs, let’s stand on the corner and talk’ icebreaker? Doesn’t work so well with all the blood and fur flying."
The dog would have said something in her defense, but she was still straining to see if the other dog was still there. And if he was...
If she really thought about it, though, maybe Hairy Guy did have a point. Maybe she wouldn’t be reduced to befriending the bane of the household if she had some canine friends. She just couldn’t help herself. Not being a creature of great self control, she tended to go with the gut reaction in most situations.
And not being a creature of great introspection, she forgot about the remark before they went inside.
That night, Doots was happily nibbling some kibble under the hutch, while the dog ate her dinner. The kids were in the living room, and the grownups were in the office. "You need to cool it," the dog was saying.
"Don’t worry," Doots said. "I’ve been watching them. They never look at the floor. I’m around all the time, and that Hairy Guy is the only one to notice. And that was a fluke; he’s in his own little world most of the time, anyway."
"I don’t know," she replied. "He can be scary."
Doots made a dismissive squeak. "Who are you kidding? You told me yourself he was slow, and dumb, and the only thing he’s ever done to you is yell. I think I can handle a bellowing fat guy if it comes to that. Here, watch; I’ll do a lap in the hallway and they won’t even know!"
The dog’s heart stopped as he disappeared around the corner. She braced herself for a scream or something; but nothing happened. Maybe he was right. Sure enough, the grownup voices droned on. And then...
"Hey, I just saw him!"
"What? Where?"
"There... he ran behind you. Either into the closet or behind the shelves!"
They each dove for wherever they thought a mouse might hide, and tore the place to bits. The Mom Lady called the dog: "Trixie! Come get the mouse!" But the dog was frozen, transfixed by the mayhem, and she stayed put under the table, just out of sight.
There was a moment when she thought he might have made it down some unseen hole, but then one of the humans shrieked, and the dog saw her friend scrambling frantically down the back side of a pile of rags the Hairy Guy had pulled out of the hall closet.
Doots didn’t look quite so confident as his tiny claws scrambled for traction on the hard wood floors, but the Hairy Guy just flailed helplessly after him, babbling something about a hammer, and they both bumbled into the bathroom, where Doots apparently dove under the baseboard radiators and from there, under the sink.
The humans seemed energized by the incident, and spent an hour seeking out and plugging holes with wads of copper scouring pad material. The Mom Lady ranted about poison, glue traps, and even borrowing a cat. The Hairy Guy suggested something to do with lengths of pipe, electrical wires, needles, and a 5 gallon bucket of hydrochloric acid.
When the Mom Lady finally spotted the dog, she waved a finger in her face. "Your little friend had best make himself scarce, little dog." She was smiling, but it wasn’t a nice smile. "You tell him we’re about to get really serious."
The next morning, a single mouse turd sat on the window sill above the headboard. A mute, mousey gauntlet that said, "I accept your challenge."
"Did you hear that?" Mom Lady was asking the Hairy Guy. He mumbled something that might have been a question about the price of prunes. "The mouse is in your trashcan!" That made him lift his head, at least.
The two humans and the canine listened intently, each hoping for a slightly different thing to happen. There was a snap of light, a rustle of plastic, the clatter and scatter of an overturned bedside trashcan, and a tink of radiator tines as a small body disappeared under the baseboards. The two humans cursed, and the dog pretended to go back to sleep.
"He’s getting brave," the Hairy Guy said. "I thought I saw him run across the hallway when I was in the bathroom last night, and tonight he ran under the ottoman while I was playing Zelda. I would have got him, but he ran back under the couch."
"Great, and now he’s in here." Mom Lady looked over at the supposedly sleeping dog, and said, "You better eat him before we get that poison set out. If you decide to eat him after, it’s your own fault!"
The dog was trying not to listen. She almost convinced herself that no one whispered "collaborator!" before drifting off again.
The next day was gorgeous; no wind, no rain, and the sun shone brightly in the yard. The dog, the kids, and even the Hairy Guy, spent most of the day outside. The children played ball, and chased the dog around. She barked, chased sticks, sniffed around for vermin, and had a grand time. Except when the neighbors’ dog came out, and she tried to eat his face.
"What is your problem with other dogs?" Hairy Guy demanded, as he dragged her back to a neutral corner of the yard. "You know, half the reason we got you was so we could make some friends around here. The old ’hey, we both have dogs, let’s stand on the corner and talk’ icebreaker? Doesn’t work so well with all the blood and fur flying."
The dog would have said something in her defense, but she was still straining to see if the other dog was still there. And if he was...
If she really thought about it, though, maybe Hairy Guy did have a point. Maybe she wouldn’t be reduced to befriending the bane of the household if she had some canine friends. She just couldn’t help herself. Not being a creature of great self control, she tended to go with the gut reaction in most situations.
And not being a creature of great introspection, she forgot about the remark before they went inside.
That night, Doots was happily nibbling some kibble under the hutch, while the dog ate her dinner. The kids were in the living room, and the grownups were in the office. "You need to cool it," the dog was saying.
"Don’t worry," Doots said. "I’ve been watching them. They never look at the floor. I’m around all the time, and that Hairy Guy is the only one to notice. And that was a fluke; he’s in his own little world most of the time, anyway."
"I don’t know," she replied. "He can be scary."
Doots made a dismissive squeak. "Who are you kidding? You told me yourself he was slow, and dumb, and the only thing he’s ever done to you is yell. I think I can handle a bellowing fat guy if it comes to that. Here, watch; I’ll do a lap in the hallway and they won’t even know!"
The dog’s heart stopped as he disappeared around the corner. She braced herself for a scream or something; but nothing happened. Maybe he was right. Sure enough, the grownup voices droned on. And then...
"Hey, I just saw him!"
"What? Where?"
"There... he ran behind you. Either into the closet or behind the shelves!"
They each dove for wherever they thought a mouse might hide, and tore the place to bits. The Mom Lady called the dog: "Trixie! Come get the mouse!" But the dog was frozen, transfixed by the mayhem, and she stayed put under the table, just out of sight.
There was a moment when she thought he might have made it down some unseen hole, but then one of the humans shrieked, and the dog saw her friend scrambling frantically down the back side of a pile of rags the Hairy Guy had pulled out of the hall closet.
Doots didn’t look quite so confident as his tiny claws scrambled for traction on the hard wood floors, but the Hairy Guy just flailed helplessly after him, babbling something about a hammer, and they both bumbled into the bathroom, where Doots apparently dove under the baseboard radiators and from there, under the sink.
The humans seemed energized by the incident, and spent an hour seeking out and plugging holes with wads of copper scouring pad material. The Mom Lady ranted about poison, glue traps, and even borrowing a cat. The Hairy Guy suggested something to do with lengths of pipe, electrical wires, needles, and a 5 gallon bucket of hydrochloric acid.
When the Mom Lady finally spotted the dog, she waved a finger in her face. "Your little friend had best make himself scarce, little dog." She was smiling, but it wasn’t a nice smile. "You tell him we’re about to get really serious."
The next morning, a single mouse turd sat on the window sill above the headboard. A mute, mousey gauntlet that said, "I accept your challenge."
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Dog Blog: Doots
The dog was trying out third person, and it made her feel strange. It was like she was talking about another dog altogether, yet the things that happened were happening to her. She would beg pardon for being confused, but the Mom Lady and Hairy Guy had been increasingly agitated about begging, and she wasn't sure what she could get away with.
Being in third person (third canine? canis tertius?) also made her feel lonely. It didn't help that everyone in the house was on edge from the lengthy winter. It hadn't snowed or done anything worth looking out the window for; it had just been cold for months on end, keeping them all inside with a series of colds and sniffles. Her only solace and excitement were derived from the not-quite-daily walks, and those had become rushed, cursory affairs.
The dog was experiencing ennui. So when the little voices started, she didn't mind them very much.
They were soft, and mostly distant. Muffled. She heard them in the living room, and would perk her ears up and watch the couch. After a while, she heard them in other parts of the house; in the baseboards, under the hutch, and in the bathroom. Eventually, they found the kitchen. By that point, they had started to sound normal to her.
"Oh, crap," said the Mom Lady one morning during the bustle of breakfast.
"What?" asked the Hairy Guy, not really paying attention. The Mom Lady pointed at the counter, and said it again. He looked up from his coffee and email, walked over and looked. "Oh... crap," he agreed.
Mom Lady sagged, and the cleaning began. After a couple of days, the children (and even the Hairy Guy) were pressed into service, but it was mostly Mom Lady wiping down counters, and checking cupboards, muttering a strange word to herself over and over again: "fuggenmice." Apparently, the fuggenmice were in the house, and she was not pleased.
But the dog stopped paying attention to the people, because the voices started speaking. To her.
"Hey, dog," whispered a little, but tough sounding something from under the hutch. It was just out of sight from where she stood eating her breakfast. The Mom Lady was stomping around that morning complaining that something had eaten her soap. Normally, that would have been entertaining, but this voice was a curiosity.
"Who is that?" the dog whispered back at the voice.
"I'm the 'fuggenmice'," the voice answered, chuckling. "Listen, that Mom Lady is trying to starve us so we'll fall for her traps. Can you help out by leaving a couple of nips of that kibble?"
"Um, I don't know," said the dog. She adored her kibble. And if the Mom Lady was doing something, she must have a good reason. "I don't know what traps are, but the Mom Lady is nice. Maybe you should do what she wants. And why can't I see you?"
An adorable little face with round, black eyes peeked out at her from under the hutch. "You don't know what a 'trap' is? Well, imagine you were going to take a bite of the best smelling treat ever and WHAM... a big stick snaps down out of nowhere and snaps your spine."
"Oh, my dog! That sounds horrible!"
"I am told that it is," said the creature wistfully. "My great-uncle twice removed on my mothers' side had one take off a leg and his tail. We called him Tripod for the rest of his life."
After hearing that, the dog left five chunks of kibble in her bowl, her appetite completely gone.
A couple of weeks passed, in which the children became increasingly belligerent about all the cleaning they were being asked to do, and the Hairy Guy (after being informed that he wasn't holding up his end of the chores) was doing a lot more of it. The two grown-ups had begun watching for evidence of the fuggenmice, which the Hairy Guy had started referring to as "Doots".
"No doots in the bathroom this morning, honey!" he would say. Then he would go into the kitchen and check. The dog tended to follow him around, wondering if this new ritual would mean any extra walks or snacks. It didn't.
Her only real company was the voice. "Are you Doots?" she asked it one morning.
"Sure, sweetpup," Doots replied around a mouthful of chicken flavored cereal filling. "Doots McFuggenmice, at your service." She giggled in return, and shoved part of a biscuit under the hutch for him.
"I didn't know you were Scottish," she said.
Then one afternoon, a stranger came to the door. He had a big, red box and brown coveralls; he smelled... different. It wasn't a bad smell, exactly; it had a kind of sweetness to it, but it made her think of fear and screams. The man was friendly, though.
"Hey, buddy," he said, scratching her behind the ears. "You a nice dug? Yeh, you bet you are." Mom Lady and the man walked all through the house, talking about mice. They talked about holes and food containers; they talked about poison and prices. The man said he wouldn't use poison - whatever that was - but then he said he'd set traps, and the dog's blood ran cold.
Then the Mom Lady turned and looked at her. "What about the dog? Wouldn't she chase a mouse if she saw it?"
"Not necessarily," the man answered. "A dug will sometimes make friends with the mouse, and I've seen 'em leave food and let the mouse come up in their bowl."
Mom Lady turned a cold, cruel eye on the dog. "You wouldn't dare, would you?" The dog shrank back. "I better not find out I have a traitor in my house!"
Overcome by a stew of guilt and defiance, the dog slunk out of the room and curled up in her kennel. She heard a scuffling noise, and Doots was there. They curled up listening to the man make plans with the Mom Lady, and the dog realized what she had smelled on the man when he came into the house.
That smell was the smell of death. Death for her only friend.
Being in third person (third canine? canis tertius?) also made her feel lonely. It didn't help that everyone in the house was on edge from the lengthy winter. It hadn't snowed or done anything worth looking out the window for; it had just been cold for months on end, keeping them all inside with a series of colds and sniffles. Her only solace and excitement were derived from the not-quite-daily walks, and those had become rushed, cursory affairs.
The dog was experiencing ennui. So when the little voices started, she didn't mind them very much.
They were soft, and mostly distant. Muffled. She heard them in the living room, and would perk her ears up and watch the couch. After a while, she heard them in other parts of the house; in the baseboards, under the hutch, and in the bathroom. Eventually, they found the kitchen. By that point, they had started to sound normal to her.
"Oh, crap," said the Mom Lady one morning during the bustle of breakfast.
"What?" asked the Hairy Guy, not really paying attention. The Mom Lady pointed at the counter, and said it again. He looked up from his coffee and email, walked over and looked. "Oh... crap," he agreed.
Mom Lady sagged, and the cleaning began. After a couple of days, the children (and even the Hairy Guy) were pressed into service, but it was mostly Mom Lady wiping down counters, and checking cupboards, muttering a strange word to herself over and over again: "fuggenmice." Apparently, the fuggenmice were in the house, and she was not pleased.
But the dog stopped paying attention to the people, because the voices started speaking. To her.
"Hey, dog," whispered a little, but tough sounding something from under the hutch. It was just out of sight from where she stood eating her breakfast. The Mom Lady was stomping around that morning complaining that something had eaten her soap. Normally, that would have been entertaining, but this voice was a curiosity.
"Who is that?" the dog whispered back at the voice.
"I'm the 'fuggenmice'," the voice answered, chuckling. "Listen, that Mom Lady is trying to starve us so we'll fall for her traps. Can you help out by leaving a couple of nips of that kibble?"
"Um, I don't know," said the dog. She adored her kibble. And if the Mom Lady was doing something, she must have a good reason. "I don't know what traps are, but the Mom Lady is nice. Maybe you should do what she wants. And why can't I see you?"
An adorable little face with round, black eyes peeked out at her from under the hutch. "You don't know what a 'trap' is? Well, imagine you were going to take a bite of the best smelling treat ever and WHAM... a big stick snaps down out of nowhere and snaps your spine."
"Oh, my dog! That sounds horrible!"
"I am told that it is," said the creature wistfully. "My great-uncle twice removed on my mothers' side had one take off a leg and his tail. We called him Tripod for the rest of his life."
After hearing that, the dog left five chunks of kibble in her bowl, her appetite completely gone.
A couple of weeks passed, in which the children became increasingly belligerent about all the cleaning they were being asked to do, and the Hairy Guy (after being informed that he wasn't holding up his end of the chores) was doing a lot more of it. The two grown-ups had begun watching for evidence of the fuggenmice, which the Hairy Guy had started referring to as "Doots".
"No doots in the bathroom this morning, honey!" he would say. Then he would go into the kitchen and check. The dog tended to follow him around, wondering if this new ritual would mean any extra walks or snacks. It didn't.
Her only real company was the voice. "Are you Doots?" she asked it one morning.
"Sure, sweetpup," Doots replied around a mouthful of chicken flavored cereal filling. "Doots McFuggenmice, at your service." She giggled in return, and shoved part of a biscuit under the hutch for him.
"I didn't know you were Scottish," she said.
Then one afternoon, a stranger came to the door. He had a big, red box and brown coveralls; he smelled... different. It wasn't a bad smell, exactly; it had a kind of sweetness to it, but it made her think of fear and screams. The man was friendly, though.
"Hey, buddy," he said, scratching her behind the ears. "You a nice dug? Yeh, you bet you are." Mom Lady and the man walked all through the house, talking about mice. They talked about holes and food containers; they talked about poison and prices. The man said he wouldn't use poison - whatever that was - but then he said he'd set traps, and the dog's blood ran cold.
Then the Mom Lady turned and looked at her. "What about the dog? Wouldn't she chase a mouse if she saw it?"
"Not necessarily," the man answered. "A dug will sometimes make friends with the mouse, and I've seen 'em leave food and let the mouse come up in their bowl."
Mom Lady turned a cold, cruel eye on the dog. "You wouldn't dare, would you?" The dog shrank back. "I better not find out I have a traitor in my house!"
Overcome by a stew of guilt and defiance, the dog slunk out of the room and curled up in her kennel. She heard a scuffling noise, and Doots was there. They curled up listening to the man make plans with the Mom Lady, and the dog realized what she had smelled on the man when he came into the house.
That smell was the smell of death. Death for her only friend.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Dog Blog: Pupsicle Doofus
Maybe I can't read human minds as well as I thought I could, after all.
My walks have been a sometimes affair, lately. They try, but illness and tight schedules have forced the Mom Lady and the Hairy Guy to skip my long, leisurely walks most nights. If I'm lucky, the Mom Lady takes me to the school so I can run around while we wait for the kids; and the Hairy Guy still takes me for a brisk once-around-the-block at least every other night.
Fine, I understand. As long as I can get out and about in this cold. I am part husky, after all! Nothing revs me up like charging through piles of icy snow, barking. If you've never tried it yourself, you definitely should. Very cathartic.
I had to really turn on the charm the other day; full on puppy dog eyes, and my nose in a rump every time they moved toward the door. They finally got the hint, and even though he had just gotten back from camping the night before, the Hairy Guy caved, bundled up, and took me out.
We had a great time; he's so funny, pretending to be grumpy while I bounce from p-mail to p-mail along the trail. I try to give him lots of material to work with -- wrapping myself around poles and bushes, knocking over lawn ornaments, going berserk when I see other dogs -- just because he seems to enjoy complaining. My piéce de resistance has been to wait until he has gathered up my poo in his little baggie, tied it securely, and deposited it in some public receptacle... then pinch out one more batch on someone's lawn (preferably while they are watching) so he has to scrounge around for some street trash or a discarded newspaper sack to avoid being caught leaving my mess behind.
Like I said, he acts really upset, but I can tell he enjoys solving these little "puzzles" ... keeps him sharp, and feeling intellectually superior to me.
But I fear I misread him the other day. We made it down to the park, despite the bitter cold blowing right into our faces. I found it invigorating, and he was grousing enough about it that I figured I didn't need to add to his "misery". We were so happy.
I could tell he wasn't really in a hurry, because when we got to the park, he led us over to the creek to see if it was frozen. There was just a small patch that was frozen, right where it is deepest. He said something aloud about wondering how thick it was, and looked around for a rock or branch to toss on it. But local kids have picked the river bank clean, throwing rocks and sticks into the "river" throughout the year, and the best he could come up with was an old, nasty tennis ball.
He held it out to me. "You aren't going to chase this, are you, stupid?" I ignored it, thinking he wanted to play with me. Don't call me stupid, stupid. "You sure?" he said, waggling it under my nose. I sniffed in disdain, and tried to crawl under a root system by the bank.
So, he chucked the ball down on the ice as hard as he could, and it went, "Poink!" and bounced once, then slithered to a stop against the other bank.
And I lost my mind. In my head, there was a perfect storm of influences; the natural urge to chase a ball... the misreading of his desire to play... and my husky nature, which said, "Ice means fun!" Before I knew it, I was soaring out from under the root system, and over the thinly, frozen water.
There was no splash; just a crunch, and I was in sub-zero water up to my neck. I could feel a tug on my harness, but it was feeble, since I had wrapped the lead around those roots. Hairy Guy came crashing down the bank, trying to untangle it, without falling in himself, and he seized my harness to pull me up to safety.
Back on dry (cold) land, I felt a rush. WHOO! I shook, and already crystallized chunks flew everywhere. Thick, oily hairs in my coat grabbed the water, and heated it quickly, forming an insulating layer by my skin, and the outer hairs spiked out, some drying quickly, others freezing.
"Holy crap!" shouted the Hairy Guy. He started urging me to run... back toward the house. A good 1/4 to 1/2 mile, uphill. I was game. I wish he'd run me more often, but he's a touch on the heavy side for that, if you know what I mean.
We got back to the house, and he collapsed in a steaming pile of wet outer wear, calling for the Mom Lady. They rushed me into a hot bath, and proceeded to wash me in the most undignified manner.
They lectured, teased, mocked, and imprecated me. They cast aspersions on my heritage, and rubbed mud and ice violently out of my fur. They turned the shower on me, the dog equivalent of waterboarding, if you ask me. But then it was over, and they dried me off, and turned me loose.
I guess I see where I made my mistake. Next time, I'll make sure he goes in with me, so he can see how refreshing a quick winter dip can be!
My walks have been a sometimes affair, lately. They try, but illness and tight schedules have forced the Mom Lady and the Hairy Guy to skip my long, leisurely walks most nights. If I'm lucky, the Mom Lady takes me to the school so I can run around while we wait for the kids; and the Hairy Guy still takes me for a brisk once-around-the-block at least every other night.
Fine, I understand. As long as I can get out and about in this cold. I am part husky, after all! Nothing revs me up like charging through piles of icy snow, barking. If you've never tried it yourself, you definitely should. Very cathartic.
I had to really turn on the charm the other day; full on puppy dog eyes, and my nose in a rump every time they moved toward the door. They finally got the hint, and even though he had just gotten back from camping the night before, the Hairy Guy caved, bundled up, and took me out.
We had a great time; he's so funny, pretending to be grumpy while I bounce from p-mail to p-mail along the trail. I try to give him lots of material to work with -- wrapping myself around poles and bushes, knocking over lawn ornaments, going berserk when I see other dogs -- just because he seems to enjoy complaining. My piéce de resistance has been to wait until he has gathered up my poo in his little baggie, tied it securely, and deposited it in some public receptacle... then pinch out one more batch on someone's lawn (preferably while they are watching) so he has to scrounge around for some street trash or a discarded newspaper sack to avoid being caught leaving my mess behind.
Like I said, he acts really upset, but I can tell he enjoys solving these little "puzzles" ... keeps him sharp, and feeling intellectually superior to me.
But I fear I misread him the other day. We made it down to the park, despite the bitter cold blowing right into our faces. I found it invigorating, and he was grousing enough about it that I figured I didn't need to add to his "misery". We were so happy.
I could tell he wasn't really in a hurry, because when we got to the park, he led us over to the creek to see if it was frozen. There was just a small patch that was frozen, right where it is deepest. He said something aloud about wondering how thick it was, and looked around for a rock or branch to toss on it. But local kids have picked the river bank clean, throwing rocks and sticks into the "river" throughout the year, and the best he could come up with was an old, nasty tennis ball.
He held it out to me. "You aren't going to chase this, are you, stupid?" I ignored it, thinking he wanted to play with me. Don't call me stupid, stupid. "You sure?" he said, waggling it under my nose. I sniffed in disdain, and tried to crawl under a root system by the bank.
So, he chucked the ball down on the ice as hard as he could, and it went, "Poink!" and bounced once, then slithered to a stop against the other bank.
And I lost my mind. In my head, there was a perfect storm of influences; the natural urge to chase a ball... the misreading of his desire to play... and my husky nature, which said, "Ice means fun!" Before I knew it, I was soaring out from under the root system, and over the thinly, frozen water.
There was no splash; just a crunch, and I was in sub-zero water up to my neck. I could feel a tug on my harness, but it was feeble, since I had wrapped the lead around those roots. Hairy Guy came crashing down the bank, trying to untangle it, without falling in himself, and he seized my harness to pull me up to safety.
Back on dry (cold) land, I felt a rush. WHOO! I shook, and already crystallized chunks flew everywhere. Thick, oily hairs in my coat grabbed the water, and heated it quickly, forming an insulating layer by my skin, and the outer hairs spiked out, some drying quickly, others freezing.
"Holy crap!" shouted the Hairy Guy. He started urging me to run... back toward the house. A good 1/4 to 1/2 mile, uphill. I was game. I wish he'd run me more often, but he's a touch on the heavy side for that, if you know what I mean.
We got back to the house, and he collapsed in a steaming pile of wet outer wear, calling for the Mom Lady. They rushed me into a hot bath, and proceeded to wash me in the most undignified manner.
They lectured, teased, mocked, and imprecated me. They cast aspersions on my heritage, and rubbed mud and ice violently out of my fur. They turned the shower on me, the dog equivalent of waterboarding, if you ask me. But then it was over, and they dried me off, and turned me loose.
I guess I see where I made my mistake. Next time, I'll make sure he goes in with me, so he can see how refreshing a quick winter dip can be!
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Dog Blog: The "P" in Correspondence
For those who might have noticed, I haven´t been writing lately. That´s because I decided to take a Canine Correspondence Creative Writing course. It was pretty intense, but I think it was worth it. Check this out:
¨It was a dark and stormy night. The air was as heavy as the Rottweiler that always craps on the corner of Park and Canterbury. Speaking of whom, there he loomed, dripping with evil plans and brutal actions.¨
Pretty great, huh? Of course, I have to translate from dog writing, and conveying all of the nuance and texture of urine scent into English is a bit tricky. But if you could smell it... wow!
And did you catch my correct usage of "whom"? Grammar is a female cat in any language.
As for all my time offline, it happened to coincide with the mom lady starting a new job. With her being gone half the week in the early mornings, and the Hairy Guy slacking off on his days, I have been cut down from two good walks a day to just one. The weather hasn't helped any. So this class has been about the only thing keeping me entertained.
At least it snowed. Wow, that was fun! I´m half husky, after all, so I had a blast chasing snowballs in the backyard with the kids. The TV told us it was supposed to snow at the end of November, but the Mom Lady kept saying it would snow on the Fifth of December. It is really spooky how she is right all the time.
The snow helped me finish my correspondence course, too. Being a dog college, we do all of our classwork by p-mail, and sometimes it can be hard to sort out new assignments from old homework. Rain can ruin a whole week, but snow... that has layers. Makes everything easy to read.
My final assignment was a doozy; I had to describe something that really drives me berserk. That´s hard, because there are only a few things that make me lose my mind, and they are usually around when I´m trying to post my answers. Squirrels, rabbits, other dogs, and cats that hide places and jump out at me. I wrote about other dogs, risking a lowered grade for having a bad attitude, but the instructor liked my approach.
It was really cathartic to write about it, too. I know it drives my humans a little crazy, because they have to bodily drag me away from any dog that comes near me. I still can´t explain it, but I just become overwhelmed with an urge to get at them, and teach them a lesson. I mean, how can they just assume that it´s okay for them to walk around anywhere near where I am? I don´t care WHOSE house he thinks it is, I AM WALKING HERE!!!
Whew... I´m getting a little overheated just thinking about it. But I passed with flying colors. Yellow, mostly. The instructor was impressed with my emotional range. I only lack a bit of control over my spilling. (That´s like the dog equivalent of spelling.)
Next I´m going to try to get into an accounting class. I´m not sure if I´ll be able to produce on the homework, though....
¨It was a dark and stormy night. The air was as heavy as the Rottweiler that always craps on the corner of Park and Canterbury. Speaking of whom, there he loomed, dripping with evil plans and brutal actions.¨
Pretty great, huh? Of course, I have to translate from dog writing, and conveying all of the nuance and texture of urine scent into English is a bit tricky. But if you could smell it... wow!
And did you catch my correct usage of "whom"? Grammar is a female cat in any language.
As for all my time offline, it happened to coincide with the mom lady starting a new job. With her being gone half the week in the early mornings, and the Hairy Guy slacking off on his days, I have been cut down from two good walks a day to just one. The weather hasn't helped any. So this class has been about the only thing keeping me entertained.
At least it snowed. Wow, that was fun! I´m half husky, after all, so I had a blast chasing snowballs in the backyard with the kids. The TV told us it was supposed to snow at the end of November, but the Mom Lady kept saying it would snow on the Fifth of December. It is really spooky how she is right all the time.
The snow helped me finish my correspondence course, too. Being a dog college, we do all of our classwork by p-mail, and sometimes it can be hard to sort out new assignments from old homework. Rain can ruin a whole week, but snow... that has layers. Makes everything easy to read.
My final assignment was a doozy; I had to describe something that really drives me berserk. That´s hard, because there are only a few things that make me lose my mind, and they are usually around when I´m trying to post my answers. Squirrels, rabbits, other dogs, and cats that hide places and jump out at me. I wrote about other dogs, risking a lowered grade for having a bad attitude, but the instructor liked my approach.
It was really cathartic to write about it, too. I know it drives my humans a little crazy, because they have to bodily drag me away from any dog that comes near me. I still can´t explain it, but I just become overwhelmed with an urge to get at them, and teach them a lesson. I mean, how can they just assume that it´s okay for them to walk around anywhere near where I am? I don´t care WHOSE house he thinks it is, I AM WALKING HERE!!!
Whew... I´m getting a little overheated just thinking about it. But I passed with flying colors. Yellow, mostly. The instructor was impressed with my emotional range. I only lack a bit of control over my spilling. (That´s like the dog equivalent of spelling.)
Next I´m going to try to get into an accounting class. I´m not sure if I´ll be able to produce on the homework, though....
Friday, October 12, 2007
Dog Blog: I Did Not Go Gently
Last week, I escaped. It was brief, but I tasted freedom. I can bound when I am unbound, and my heart nearly burst with the euphoria as my paws crossed the oppressive curb and propelled me across the road.
But it didn't last long, and I nursed that joyous memory all week, regretting that I didn't use that time to accomplish something... perhaps actually eat one of those terrorist rabbits. I swore that the next chance I got, I'd make a break for it, and this time, I'd stay out until I was done.
Today, my moment came. The Mom Lady had me packed into the van to go pick up the littles, and had to turn around to get something she'd left behind. When she went in to get it, she left me in the house, because the Eldest had arrived. So, Elder daughter and I went to the back yard.
It was fun, and she is a great playmate, but I had made myself a promise. So just as she opened the door to let me in, I dashed around her feet, and made for the street. It was every bit as exhilirating as I remembered! I positively flew down the driveway, and across the magic line between the concrete and the road, where a few stubborn weeds stand glumly eking out a sad, stationary life. Not me! I was mobile.
Speaking of mobile...
I suddenly wasn't. At first, I didn't know exactly what had happened. It went so fast, I had already leapt up and run up the steps to the porch. There had been a lot of noise, and the light had changed around me; I heard squealing and screaming, and felt strangely rude bumps on my limbs, back, and head. By the time I realized what it was, I was pressing myself against the house, cowering, and staring back out at the road, where one of those big, smelly things that roar past all day was standing still. There were people all over, coming from cars and houses. And the girl, not looking Elder at all, was crying and bending over me, screaming, "Are you alright, are you alright?"
Eventually I began to understand that I had been hit by a car.
Mom Lady came back just after a neighbor lady had helped me to my crate. She was inconsolable, and seemed to split into three people; one to call the vet and find the directions on the computer, one to remove the top half of my crate (MySpace for dogs!), and one to hustle the children back into the van.
I had begun to feel the impact, physical and mental, and wanted no part of any of it. I was terrified of every noise, and could barely breathe. This only made the panic of my humans more frantic. But we made it to the Pet E.R., and the doggy-docs checked me over thoroughly.
The Hairy Guy showed up just before I went for my x-rays, and I was touched to see how stricken he looked when he arrived. I was even more touched that seeing me all in one piece and eager to go for a walk made him happy.
"So, dummy," he said affectionately scratching my ears, "you learn your lesson about cars yet?"
"No," said Mom Lady. "I'm dumb as a box of hair!" It took me a minute to realize she was supposedly speaking for me, but I let the insult pass, because she did have a point.
Now I'm home, where they gave me some lunch meat (it had a hard, white, bitter filling in the center), and I've been feeling more and more drowsy... *yawn* ... and can barely....
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...............
But it didn't last long, and I nursed that joyous memory all week, regretting that I didn't use that time to accomplish something... perhaps actually eat one of those terrorist rabbits. I swore that the next chance I got, I'd make a break for it, and this time, I'd stay out until I was done.
Today, my moment came. The Mom Lady had me packed into the van to go pick up the littles, and had to turn around to get something she'd left behind. When she went in to get it, she left me in the house, because the Eldest had arrived. So, Elder daughter and I went to the back yard.
It was fun, and she is a great playmate, but I had made myself a promise. So just as she opened the door to let me in, I dashed around her feet, and made for the street. It was every bit as exhilirating as I remembered! I positively flew down the driveway, and across the magic line between the concrete and the road, where a few stubborn weeds stand glumly eking out a sad, stationary life. Not me! I was mobile.
Speaking of mobile...
I suddenly wasn't. At first, I didn't know exactly what had happened. It went so fast, I had already leapt up and run up the steps to the porch. There had been a lot of noise, and the light had changed around me; I heard squealing and screaming, and felt strangely rude bumps on my limbs, back, and head. By the time I realized what it was, I was pressing myself against the house, cowering, and staring back out at the road, where one of those big, smelly things that roar past all day was standing still. There were people all over, coming from cars and houses. And the girl, not looking Elder at all, was crying and bending over me, screaming, "Are you alright, are you alright?"
Eventually I began to understand that I had been hit by a car.
Mom Lady came back just after a neighbor lady had helped me to my crate. She was inconsolable, and seemed to split into three people; one to call the vet and find the directions on the computer, one to remove the top half of my crate (MySpace for dogs!), and one to hustle the children back into the van.
I had begun to feel the impact, physical and mental, and wanted no part of any of it. I was terrified of every noise, and could barely breathe. This only made the panic of my humans more frantic. But we made it to the Pet E.R., and the doggy-docs checked me over thoroughly.
The Hairy Guy showed up just before I went for my x-rays, and I was touched to see how stricken he looked when he arrived. I was even more touched that seeing me all in one piece and eager to go for a walk made him happy.
"So, dummy," he said affectionately scratching my ears, "you learn your lesson about cars yet?"
"No," said Mom Lady. "I'm dumb as a box of hair!" It took me a minute to realize she was supposedly speaking for me, but I let the insult pass, because she did have a point.
Now I'm home, where they gave me some lunch meat (it had a hard, white, bitter filling in the center), and I've been feeling more and more drowsy... *yawn* ... and can barely....
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...............
Monday, October 8, 2007
Dog Blog: Out of Shape
I don't know how plain I can make this, but you humans are pretty slow, so I'll use the caps lock:
DON'T FORGET TO WALK THE DOG.
If I feel I need to say it again, I'll just put "see top", and you'll know to look at it again. Maybe, it will sink in.
Now, usually, the Hairy Guy is good about taking me out in the early morning, and someone takes me out in the evening for a bit. I like it best when they all go and we play at the park, but sometimes they use the Bike thing and we go around the neighborhood at a brisk pace.
But the key to this all working is ... see top. This weekend, however, did not go my way. The Mom and Girl Scout were going camping, and the Hairy Guy ran late. So I got shoved in the crate, and there was mayhem and weeping (and not a little barking), and Friday night ended without any kind of exercise for me. See top.
Saturday started with a splat, when the little girl's system rejected the pizza transplant it had received the night before. I feared this would mean no morning walk, but after she held down some oatmeal and seemed to be feeling better, the BIC (Boob In Charge) decided to pack us all into his little Kia and drive us over to the garage. Something about "oil change" and "tuneup". Blah blah blah... see top.
But, good news! We left the car there, and walked back to the house. Sadly, it was only about a quarter of the usual morning walk I get (and this at nearly lunchtime), but it was something. And he seemed to imply that we would be walking back to get the car later. Cool.
Then the yak fest began. I wasn't there, but I hear that watching someone hork oatmeal is a very unpleasant experience. However bad it might be, it should not cause neglect of pets. See top. But alas, when it came time to go fetch the car, Princess Pukes-a-lot got the Little Tykes wagon, and I got the crate. Crap! And did they leave the house again the rest of the night? Noooooo.... See Top, you butt-faced miscreants!! See the freakin' top!
That is why, on Sunday morning, I released myself under my own recognizance. The Harried Hairy Guy, feeling pestered from every side (I didn't even need my recently discovered powers of mind reading to tell that) sent me out in the back with the boys. Always joyous fun. For five minutes. Then they either get bored and wander around yelling and hitting things with sticks as part of some imaginary ceremony or something.
Lately they've been calling each other "Fone Bone", "Phoney Bone", or "Smiley Bone", and I get to be someone called "Bartleby". This is usually fun, but today, they were interested in head standing. That means that either someone is standing on my head, or is standing on HIS head on MY butt.
I was not in the mood. Mainly, because: see top.
So I bolted. Not far, just across the street. Apparently, as I heard him describing it to the Mom lady later, the Hairy Guy saw me "bounding blissfully between the houses, headed to who knows where". That's pretty much how I saw it.
I also saw him drag out the bike, and trundle through the neighborhood, apparently looking for me. I heard him whistling, and declined to respond. Maybe now he'll remember: see top.
He went all the way down to the busy road, and came back up a block over, not realizing that I had done my turn around the house on the corner, and had pretty much set up camp in their sweet, wonderful, bunny-scented flower bed. I am still drooling a little... those people seriously need a dog. But I digress. He went back in the house, and sent the older boy out on the porch to look for me, and for once, the kid actually Looked!
After being retrieved, I was sternly lectured, but he wasn't mean about it. He probably felt like beating the tar out of me. I could tell because he kept saying, "I oughta beat the tar out of you." But I think he understood my side of the story.
After all, when you are as young and full of life as I am.... well, see top.
DON'T FORGET TO WALK THE DOG.
If I feel I need to say it again, I'll just put "see top", and you'll know to look at it again. Maybe, it will sink in.
Now, usually, the Hairy Guy is good about taking me out in the early morning, and someone takes me out in the evening for a bit. I like it best when they all go and we play at the park, but sometimes they use the Bike thing and we go around the neighborhood at a brisk pace.
But the key to this all working is ... see top. This weekend, however, did not go my way. The Mom and Girl Scout were going camping, and the Hairy Guy ran late. So I got shoved in the crate, and there was mayhem and weeping (and not a little barking), and Friday night ended without any kind of exercise for me. See top.
Saturday started with a splat, when the little girl's system rejected the pizza transplant it had received the night before. I feared this would mean no morning walk, but after she held down some oatmeal and seemed to be feeling better, the BIC (Boob In Charge) decided to pack us all into his little Kia and drive us over to the garage. Something about "oil change" and "tuneup". Blah blah blah... see top.
But, good news! We left the car there, and walked back to the house. Sadly, it was only about a quarter of the usual morning walk I get (and this at nearly lunchtime), but it was something. And he seemed to imply that we would be walking back to get the car later. Cool.
Then the yak fest began. I wasn't there, but I hear that watching someone hork oatmeal is a very unpleasant experience. However bad it might be, it should not cause neglect of pets. See top. But alas, when it came time to go fetch the car, Princess Pukes-a-lot got the Little Tykes wagon, and I got the crate. Crap! And did they leave the house again the rest of the night? Noooooo.... See Top, you butt-faced miscreants!! See the freakin' top!
That is why, on Sunday morning, I released myself under my own recognizance. The Harried Hairy Guy, feeling pestered from every side (I didn't even need my recently discovered powers of mind reading to tell that) sent me out in the back with the boys. Always joyous fun. For five minutes. Then they either get bored and wander around yelling and hitting things with sticks as part of some imaginary ceremony or something.
Lately they've been calling each other "Fone Bone", "Phoney Bone", or "Smiley Bone", and I get to be someone called "Bartleby". This is usually fun, but today, they were interested in head standing. That means that either someone is standing on my head, or is standing on HIS head on MY butt.
I was not in the mood. Mainly, because: see top.
So I bolted. Not far, just across the street. Apparently, as I heard him describing it to the Mom lady later, the Hairy Guy saw me "bounding blissfully between the houses, headed to who knows where". That's pretty much how I saw it.
I also saw him drag out the bike, and trundle through the neighborhood, apparently looking for me. I heard him whistling, and declined to respond. Maybe now he'll remember: see top.
He went all the way down to the busy road, and came back up a block over, not realizing that I had done my turn around the house on the corner, and had pretty much set up camp in their sweet, wonderful, bunny-scented flower bed. I am still drooling a little... those people seriously need a dog. But I digress. He went back in the house, and sent the older boy out on the porch to look for me, and for once, the kid actually Looked!
After being retrieved, I was sternly lectured, but he wasn't mean about it. He probably felt like beating the tar out of me. I could tell because he kept saying, "I oughta beat the tar out of you." But I think he understood my side of the story.
After all, when you are as young and full of life as I am.... well, see top.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Dog Blog: Read Your Mind
How on Dog's Green Earth does your species stay so dominant?
I mean, it's bad enough you don't have claws or teeth worth talking about; you eat nothing but crap (and don't friggin' share); you waste your evenings staring at a noisy box with moving gray blobs on the front of it, and you spend your days off doing Dog knows what while your faithful fauna companions waste away in a crate. But it turns out that you can't talk, either! And all this time, I thought my People were just slow.
Oh, sure, you make those god-awful moo-squawk noises with your squishy, flat mouths. But you don't really "communicate". The rest of us in the Animal Kingdom can read what you're thinking from the combination of smells you give off and body language. That is to say, we can read what's important. I'm even starting to piece together some of the sounds.
But it can't hardly be called "talking". Talking implies some listening, and when it comes to listening, you all need to take a page out of the canine playbook. I go out every morning with the Hairy Dad Guy, and I can tell you this: he's at his best when he's open to the surroundings and my signals. When he's paying attention, he doesn't need me to "tell" him that I see a rabbit, and am about to go out of my mind. He can see it! But who does he get mad at on those mornings when he isn't listening?
You bet: the "Stupid" dog!
Now that I know how crippled you People are, I can almost feel sorry for you. Almost. I just wish you were as smart as you all think you are. Then there wouldn't be those awkward little "misunderstandings". Like the time I threw up on the Mom Lady's shoes. That was no accident, Mrs. "I'm going to put barbecue in the crock pot all day and not give the dog any". And perhaps if you all really listened, you would have heard me when I accidentally locked myself in the laundry room. Honestly. After the first 20 minutes, it's just not funny.
I suppose I'll adapt. I've gotten used to the idea of being the lowest ranking member of the pack (which is totally unfair - that little girl can't fight worth a lick!), and all the other little indignities that go along with it. But I just wish I was included on some of the family discussions that I have some expertise in.
For example, the Mom Lady and the Hairy Dad Guy sometimes discuss what they're going to do about the rats. In previous episodes, you might have noticed, I had no idea what a "rat" was. Well, now I know, thanks to some of those crickets I found when I was locked in the laundry room. The rats are actually our FRIENDS! They only want to protect my humans from those evil rabbits and their terrorist plots. But if you listen to the humans, you'll get the totally opposite idea. They want to put poisoned meat with ground glass in the yard, out where they think the rats have been.
I don't know quite what to do about that. I would warn the rats, but I don't actually know any. I could tell a cricket to pass a message, but it's really hard to keep from eating them -- I need to enjoy some kind of hobby, don't I?
And I don't have any friends outside the house. I keep thinking I should try to get to know one of the neighborhood dogs, but I didn't make a very good impression my first few weeks, and now they all light into me whenever they see me walking down the street. (And of course I give as good as I get; those mutts won't get the last word on ME!)
Maybe if I'm really patient, those dumb people will pay attention long enough for me to get the message across... don't poison the meat.
Give it to the dog.
I mean, it's bad enough you don't have claws or teeth worth talking about; you eat nothing but crap (and don't friggin' share); you waste your evenings staring at a noisy box with moving gray blobs on the front of it, and you spend your days off doing Dog knows what while your faithful fauna companions waste away in a crate. But it turns out that you can't talk, either! And all this time, I thought my People were just slow.
Oh, sure, you make those god-awful moo-squawk noises with your squishy, flat mouths. But you don't really "communicate". The rest of us in the Animal Kingdom can read what you're thinking from the combination of smells you give off and body language. That is to say, we can read what's important. I'm even starting to piece together some of the sounds.
But it can't hardly be called "talking". Talking implies some listening, and when it comes to listening, you all need to take a page out of the canine playbook. I go out every morning with the Hairy Dad Guy, and I can tell you this: he's at his best when he's open to the surroundings and my signals. When he's paying attention, he doesn't need me to "tell" him that I see a rabbit, and am about to go out of my mind. He can see it! But who does he get mad at on those mornings when he isn't listening?
You bet: the "Stupid" dog!
Now that I know how crippled you People are, I can almost feel sorry for you. Almost. I just wish you were as smart as you all think you are. Then there wouldn't be those awkward little "misunderstandings". Like the time I threw up on the Mom Lady's shoes. That was no accident, Mrs. "I'm going to put barbecue in the crock pot all day and not give the dog any". And perhaps if you all really listened, you would have heard me when I accidentally locked myself in the laundry room. Honestly. After the first 20 minutes, it's just not funny.
I suppose I'll adapt. I've gotten used to the idea of being the lowest ranking member of the pack (which is totally unfair - that little girl can't fight worth a lick!), and all the other little indignities that go along with it. But I just wish I was included on some of the family discussions that I have some expertise in.
For example, the Mom Lady and the Hairy Dad Guy sometimes discuss what they're going to do about the rats. In previous episodes, you might have noticed, I had no idea what a "rat" was. Well, now I know, thanks to some of those crickets I found when I was locked in the laundry room. The rats are actually our FRIENDS! They only want to protect my humans from those evil rabbits and their terrorist plots. But if you listen to the humans, you'll get the totally opposite idea. They want to put poisoned meat with ground glass in the yard, out where they think the rats have been.
I don't know quite what to do about that. I would warn the rats, but I don't actually know any. I could tell a cricket to pass a message, but it's really hard to keep from eating them -- I need to enjoy some kind of hobby, don't I?
And I don't have any friends outside the house. I keep thinking I should try to get to know one of the neighborhood dogs, but I didn't make a very good impression my first few weeks, and now they all light into me whenever they see me walking down the street. (And of course I give as good as I get; those mutts won't get the last word on ME!)
Maybe if I'm really patient, those dumb people will pay attention long enough for me to get the message across... don't poison the meat.
Give it to the dog.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Dog Blog: August Oppression
I swear to you all, if there was any doubt, that I have nothing -- NOTHING -- to do with the weather! So please, stop calling the hot, uncomfortable, and humid days "Dog Days".
Even our normally comfortable and easy-going morning walks have been oppressed by thick, muggy air. I have to drag the hairy guy up the hill most days. More so since he hurt his back. And it's not just us. Everything seems to have slowed down to an agonized crawl. I'm not very old, but I think I remember this from when I was a puppy. I just hope I remember right, and it will stop soon.
Even though we haven't been outside often, I've been keeping my nose to the ground, trying to figure out what is leaving those strange smelling trails along the edges of my yard. It's not rabbit, but all I ever see out there is rabbit and squirrel. There was something out front that looked like another dog a couple of weeks ago, and the family spotted it and started yelling "Fox". It smelled like a cross between a dog and a cat, but it never really showed up where I could investigate.
But I think the humans know what this other smell is, even though their little button noses don't work that well. The hairy Dad guy keeps the big wooden fort in the back corner closed, and goes in there every now and then to look around. It's not a place I have any desire to go into, but the trails I find all seem to crisscross along the walls. The other day when he was in there, he came running out, making a gagging sound; he got a couple of bags out of the house, and went back in the shed, muttering, "Friggin' rats... disgusting."
Then he brought something small out, all wrapped in the bags, and threw it away in the front trash. I didn't get very close, because he seemed upset, but I definitely caught a whiff of that smell again. I may have to work up the nerve to go in there one of these days.
I asked Peter about it, but he doesn't like to tell me anything in a straightforward way. He's the rabbit I usually find in the middle of my yard when I get let out there. I wouldn't call him my friend, but he's the only critter out there with any brains that will talk to me at all. The squirrels are usually too busy playing their stupid games on the power lines to hold a conversation, and they don't pay much attention to life on the ground.
But Peter just laughs when I ask him about the Smell. "You're some dog, you know that?" he sneers. Or he'll tell me, "Just let us professionals deal with it, a'ight?"
Those danged rabbits are so superior, I'd just love to knock one down a notch. But I don't think I'll do any damage if I do catch one, now. I need to find out whatever they can tell me about that Smell. It could be important.
Last week, the family had to go somewhere with a bunch of flags (I think they said there were six of them), and couldn't take me. So, they put my crate down in the laundry room, where a concrete floor runs the length of the house. They blocked off a couple of areas they didn't want me to use as a toilet, and gave me some food.
While I was down there, I did a little exploring, and didn't find anything interesting. I was just going to have a snack, when I heard something. There is a big, metal hose that comes out of the back of one of the machines, and goes out a hole in the bricks. Something in there was moving!
I listened for a minute, and heard whispering voices:
"It's blocked off. I can't get through."
"Try chewing something."
"Ow! It's all metal."
"Alright, come back out. We'll find another way in."
I didn't like this at all. I started barking. Whatever it was, trapped in that hose, must have been scared out of its mind. Heh, heh. The echoes in there must have been horrible!
I heard the whisperers scuttle out the hole, and felt a little burst of triumph. I had saved the house!
But the good feeling only lasted until I heard a sharp little voice echoing down the hose from outside. "Nice one, dog. You cost Vinnie an eye. Watch your back from now on."
I told myself not to worry. After all, whatever it was sounded small. I was more upset that in the fuss, I had knocked all my food into the water bowl. But when the family got home, and let me out, I happened to notice the vent that opens out from that hole in the bricks.
It reeked of that Smell.
Even our normally comfortable and easy-going morning walks have been oppressed by thick, muggy air. I have to drag the hairy guy up the hill most days. More so since he hurt his back. And it's not just us. Everything seems to have slowed down to an agonized crawl. I'm not very old, but I think I remember this from when I was a puppy. I just hope I remember right, and it will stop soon.
Even though we haven't been outside often, I've been keeping my nose to the ground, trying to figure out what is leaving those strange smelling trails along the edges of my yard. It's not rabbit, but all I ever see out there is rabbit and squirrel. There was something out front that looked like another dog a couple of weeks ago, and the family spotted it and started yelling "Fox". It smelled like a cross between a dog and a cat, but it never really showed up where I could investigate.
But I think the humans know what this other smell is, even though their little button noses don't work that well. The hairy Dad guy keeps the big wooden fort in the back corner closed, and goes in there every now and then to look around. It's not a place I have any desire to go into, but the trails I find all seem to crisscross along the walls. The other day when he was in there, he came running out, making a gagging sound; he got a couple of bags out of the house, and went back in the shed, muttering, "Friggin' rats... disgusting."
Then he brought something small out, all wrapped in the bags, and threw it away in the front trash. I didn't get very close, because he seemed upset, but I definitely caught a whiff of that smell again. I may have to work up the nerve to go in there one of these days.
I asked Peter about it, but he doesn't like to tell me anything in a straightforward way. He's the rabbit I usually find in the middle of my yard when I get let out there. I wouldn't call him my friend, but he's the only critter out there with any brains that will talk to me at all. The squirrels are usually too busy playing their stupid games on the power lines to hold a conversation, and they don't pay much attention to life on the ground.
But Peter just laughs when I ask him about the Smell. "You're some dog, you know that?" he sneers. Or he'll tell me, "Just let us professionals deal with it, a'ight?"
Those danged rabbits are so superior, I'd just love to knock one down a notch. But I don't think I'll do any damage if I do catch one, now. I need to find out whatever they can tell me about that Smell. It could be important.
Last week, the family had to go somewhere with a bunch of flags (I think they said there were six of them), and couldn't take me. So, they put my crate down in the laundry room, where a concrete floor runs the length of the house. They blocked off a couple of areas they didn't want me to use as a toilet, and gave me some food.
While I was down there, I did a little exploring, and didn't find anything interesting. I was just going to have a snack, when I heard something. There is a big, metal hose that comes out of the back of one of the machines, and goes out a hole in the bricks. Something in there was moving!
I listened for a minute, and heard whispering voices:
"It's blocked off. I can't get through."
"Try chewing something."
"Ow! It's all metal."
"Alright, come back out. We'll find another way in."
I didn't like this at all. I started barking. Whatever it was, trapped in that hose, must have been scared out of its mind. Heh, heh. The echoes in there must have been horrible!
I heard the whisperers scuttle out the hole, and felt a little burst of triumph. I had saved the house!
But the good feeling only lasted until I heard a sharp little voice echoing down the hose from outside. "Nice one, dog. You cost Vinnie an eye. Watch your back from now on."
I told myself not to worry. After all, whatever it was sounded small. I was more upset that in the fuss, I had knocked all my food into the water bowl. But when the family got home, and let me out, I happened to notice the vent that opens out from that hole in the bricks.
It reeked of that Smell.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Dog Blog: Bike Hike
I know how these toothless, clawless omnivores took over the planet. They build things.
It is hard to believe, but I've seen them do it. They open these big boxes and take out pieces to fit together, and when they are done, there is a new thing. Like a shed, or a bicycle. It's mind-blowing.
So my humans have gone and built this thing that holds my leash for them while they ride a bicycle, and I have to run alongside. It sounds awful, but it's really pretty great. I mean, I am part sled dog, so I can really pull them down the road at a good clip. And there is nothing as enjoyable as a good mush around the block. Really clears up the humors, if you know what I mean.
There are downsides, like anything. I can't stop every three feet and check p-mail. I can't hare off after everything that moves (not without pulling the bike with me). It takes a little discipline. They have started taking the leash along, though, and will stop at the park to actually walk me a bit, and let me sniff around.
I've been smelling something really odd around lately, too. Every couple of days, I'll pick up a trail of it across my yard. And sometimes, I smell it on my walk. It's kind of like rabbit or squirrel, but more sinister. How's that for foreshadowing, huh?
I know it's not cat; I know cats from the jail place where the humans picked me up. Cats aren't bad if you give them their space, usually. Though they tend to get a little tense no matter what you do.
When we got to the park this morning, I caught a trace of the Strange Thing over by the fence of the yard that runs along the bottom of the park. I was being dragged by the bike, so I couldn't check it out, but the Hairy Guy stopped near there to put me on my leash. I ran over to have a good scenting while the getting was good.
He followed me a little way, but then kind of stopped. He tends to be a little slow in the mornings, and likes to grumble about coffee and showers when I take too long to do my business. So, I took a huge crap as close to where I wanted to investigate as I could get, and while he cleaned it up (griping the whole time, of course) I stuck my head under the hedge and snuffled for all I was worth.
Now, like I said, I know about cats, and I generally respect their space. But they can be kind of crazy, and pop up where you least expect them. This little black number had crawled up inside the hedge, right where the Odd Smell was strongest, and when it started whispering at me, I could have spayed myself! (I probably would have, too, if it wasn't already done.)
"Are they gone?" it hissed. "Are what gone?" I asked, once the shock wore off.
"Those things... can't you smell them?"
"Yeah, that's what I'm hunting." I told her testily; imagine implying that my nose didn't work! "Are they some kind of rabbit?" I had a theory going that the new smell had something to do with the One-Eyed Jack and his Leporidae terrorist network.
"No, fool!" she nearly shrieked. "The rabbits are the only ones doing anything about it!"
And then her eyes went wild. Something was shuffling toward us through the underbrush beneath the hedge. She turned, bunched herself, and shot out through the top of the hedge, and bounded around the side of the nearest house. I tried to push in deeper to get a jump on whatever was coming, when I was rudely yanked by the harness back out into the park.
"I have a handful of your crap here, and you go chasing cats?" yelled the Hairy Guy. He seemed ticked off, but obviously hadn't noticed whatever was in the bushes.
And before I could explain, he had me hooked back up to the bike, and we were on our way.
When we got back to the house, he put me on the lead while he packed the bike back in the shed, and I sniffed out the perimeter. I smelled TWO trails of the Odd Smell, now! Whatever they were, they were getting bolder.
And as I went inside, I caught a glimpse of the One-Eyed Jack, staring fixedly at the big wooden fort in the back corner of my yard. The corner I can't reach. Hmmm....
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Dog Blog: Dog Jog & Fat Dog
I've been keeping an eye out for those terrorist rabbits, but they seem to be lying low since the night I met One Eyed Jack. And since they've always been so clever about staying just out of my reach, I've been practicing some "caninja" skills on them. I make a show of not being able to reach one particular spot in the yard, and I've been holding back when they approach my "zone" -- no barking, no lunging -- hoping to lull them into thinking they know where my boundaries are.
I'll get them yet.
Meanwhile, things have been going great inside the house. I'm starting to enjoy the kids a little more, now that they don't all climb on my head, cooing at me everytime they see me. One at a time, they can be very sweet.
And the Mom lady got something great in the mail: a "Walky Dog"! It's a lead pole that mounts on a bicycle so that I can run alongside while she rides. It's fantastic! The Dad takes me on a nice meandering "explore" every morning, and the Mom either runs with me, or hooks me to the bike at night. And when she's on her bike, I can fly, baby!
She's been a little timid about it, though, so I've had to pull her along on most of the rides.
Those evening runs have an element of danger to them, though. I may have mentioned that I don't care much for other dogs. (I am a real bitch, you know.) As a result, I tend to get a little... *ahem* ...belligerent when I see them. I don't know why, but I can't help shouting at them when I see them. And since most of the dogs around here are yappy little pipsqueaks, or oafish tongue-lolling lab mixes, I feel I can put most of them in their place.
Then there's Fat Joe. He's an enormous Rottweiler that lives around the corner somewhere. I can't quite figure out where, but if I do, I'm going to leave him a vicious p-mail.
The first time I ran across him, he was pretty far away, but I let him know I was there. "Hey, Fatso, you better stay out of my way!" I yelped.
He just turned his head and blinked, looking like a hairy, black Marlon Brando on all fours. "It's Fat JOE," he said. "Fat SUE is my little sister."
But the Mom was dragging me across the street and in the other direction at that point, muttering something about livestock.
We saw him a couple of days later, but we didn't spot him until we were already on the same street together. The Mom dragged me to the other side so we wouldn't have to get too close, but I had to say something. It wouldn't be polite to just ignore him, would it?
"Hey, Fatso! You ever start any fires with your blubber thighs rubbing together like that?"
Who knew a dog that size could move so fast? His owner apparently didn't; he was yanked off his feet, and looked like a cartoon person with his feet flapping like a flag as he was pulled into the fight.
Now, if those darned humans had just stepped off and let us go, I'm sure I would have had him. I took a chunk out, that's for sure. But they pulled us apart, and the Mom lifted me up and carried me off toward home, a stream of really ugly words coming out of her mouth the whole way. (I know what I'm going to say to Fatso, now, next time I see him!)
Apparently, our little dust up made the local fauna news. The squirrels started cheering whenever I came out. "We got 20 nuts down on you for the next bout, killer!"
I even caught One Eyed Jack's attention. He came into the yard a couple of days later. I couldn't see him, but his voice seemed to be coming from just outside my reach while I rested by the pool.
"You're pretty scrappy," he said. "Could come in handy. We might be able to use you, if you get a little better with the caninjitsu."
"Use me for what?" I asked. I was irked that he knew about my plans, when I still had no idea what his were.
"We'll see," he said, cryptically. "I haven't made up my mind which side you're on, yet."
"What sides are there?" I sneered. "I'm on the good side!"
But he was gone already.
I'll get them yet.
Meanwhile, things have been going great inside the house. I'm starting to enjoy the kids a little more, now that they don't all climb on my head, cooing at me everytime they see me. One at a time, they can be very sweet.
And the Mom lady got something great in the mail: a "Walky Dog"! It's a lead pole that mounts on a bicycle so that I can run alongside while she rides. It's fantastic! The Dad takes me on a nice meandering "explore" every morning, and the Mom either runs with me, or hooks me to the bike at night. And when she's on her bike, I can fly, baby!
She's been a little timid about it, though, so I've had to pull her along on most of the rides.
Those evening runs have an element of danger to them, though. I may have mentioned that I don't care much for other dogs. (I am a real bitch, you know.) As a result, I tend to get a little... *ahem* ...belligerent when I see them. I don't know why, but I can't help shouting at them when I see them. And since most of the dogs around here are yappy little pipsqueaks, or oafish tongue-lolling lab mixes, I feel I can put most of them in their place.
Then there's Fat Joe. He's an enormous Rottweiler that lives around the corner somewhere. I can't quite figure out where, but if I do, I'm going to leave him a vicious p-mail.
The first time I ran across him, he was pretty far away, but I let him know I was there. "Hey, Fatso, you better stay out of my way!" I yelped.
He just turned his head and blinked, looking like a hairy, black Marlon Brando on all fours. "It's Fat JOE," he said. "Fat SUE is my little sister."
But the Mom was dragging me across the street and in the other direction at that point, muttering something about livestock.
We saw him a couple of days later, but we didn't spot him until we were already on the same street together. The Mom dragged me to the other side so we wouldn't have to get too close, but I had to say something. It wouldn't be polite to just ignore him, would it?
"Hey, Fatso! You ever start any fires with your blubber thighs rubbing together like that?"
Who knew a dog that size could move so fast? His owner apparently didn't; he was yanked off his feet, and looked like a cartoon person with his feet flapping like a flag as he was pulled into the fight.
Now, if those darned humans had just stepped off and let us go, I'm sure I would have had him. I took a chunk out, that's for sure. But they pulled us apart, and the Mom lifted me up and carried me off toward home, a stream of really ugly words coming out of her mouth the whole way. (I know what I'm going to say to Fatso, now, next time I see him!)
Apparently, our little dust up made the local fauna news. The squirrels started cheering whenever I came out. "We got 20 nuts down on you for the next bout, killer!"
I even caught One Eyed Jack's attention. He came into the yard a couple of days later. I couldn't see him, but his voice seemed to be coming from just outside my reach while I rested by the pool.
"You're pretty scrappy," he said. "Could come in handy. We might be able to use you, if you get a little better with the caninjitsu."
"Use me for what?" I asked. I was irked that he knew about my plans, when I still had no idea what his were.
"We'll see," he said, cryptically. "I haven't made up my mind which side you're on, yet."
"What sides are there?" I sneered. "I'm on the good side!"
But he was gone already.
Dog Blog: The Fourth & the One-Eyed Jack Rabbit
What a lousy week I've had. Every time I hear the explosions outside, I jump. I can't help it. The family laughs, sympathetically, and says, "Poor Trixie! She must be gun shy." But that's not it. Every screamer, every M80, every roman candle sends me up the wall with terror, but it's not just the noise that bothers me.
I'm terrified because any one of those noises could be Them...
I told you I don't trust those rabbits. I knew they were up to something. These aren't just your usual lazy, good-for-nothing lapidary menace. I could tell by the way they run just far enough away so I can't reach them, and then stand there taunting me. They wink, they tease, and they never quite leave... which is what I want them to do!
One of the cheeky little buggers even sits in the middle of the yard, waiting for me to come out so he can bait me. The family puts me on a lead when I go out, and he knows exactly how far I can go. The first couple of times, I thought he was as startled as I was, but then I noticed that he would dart around the corner of the fort, and then run around it and sneak up behind me while I was barking at the corner where I saw him last. Oh, he thinks that's great fun!
Two can play games, though. I started sneaking along the wall whenever I came out, hoping to get enough of a jump on him to at least put the fear of dog into him. And a couple days after my last post, it worked!
I came through the gate at full speed, and there he was. He had heard the door, but I managed to keep the chain from clinking. His ears went flat, and his mouth made a great "O" as he turned to take off. I felt my teeth in his fluffy little tail, too, just before the line jerked me off my feet. That hurt, but even before I landed, I had twisted and shot around where he usually sneaks up from behind. No sign of him!
Satisfied, I went and curled up next to the pool to pant. He wasn't done with me, though. He came sidling back to peek around the corner of the fort. "You think you're pretty clever, huh?" he said. "That was good, but it won't work twice."
I sniffed, and acted like I couldn't see him. Maybe he'd come a little closer, and we could have another shot.
"A bit of friendly advice, though," he went on. He wasn't fooled one bit. "I wouldn't try that with One-Eyed Jack. If you do, you tell him I warned you."
"And who are you supposed to be?" I asked.
"I'm Peter," he said. "The kids might have mentioned me; they named me, long before you came along. Just remember, you might be the predator type, but you're not the one in charge around here."
I shudder now, but at the time I laughed. "Bring on the One-Eyed Jack!" I snorted. "I'll take on any of your type that get within 30' feet of my pole, there."
But Peter was gone.
The next night, after a good walk around the block, I was lying down under the rose bush while the family swam and sat around the patio, reading their books. None of them smelled the thick rabbity effluvium on the air, but I knew they were out with a vengeance. Then I heard an odd, muffled thump.
I looked over at the fence, and there was a huge jack sitting there, holding something strange in his mouth. He thumped it on the ground again. "Know what this is?" he asked.
I hadn't moved, yet, trying to think of a way to get at him. I shook my head, no, to answer his question, and eyed the fence line. No way I could get to the end, and dash around in time to grab him.
"This is an explosive device," he said. "You know those loud bangs you keep hearing?" I nodded. "That's the humans, blowing these up. You know how many my people have managed to gather?" Rhetorical questions I ignore, especially from a stupid rabbit.
"We've got enough of these to take out this whole block," he said. It wasn't like bragging, because I could tell he meant it. But why tell me? "I'm telling you so you know to stay out of our way. You're new here, and I don't think Peter really got through to you the other night."
"And who are you to tell me who's in charge in my own yard?" I growled.
And then he turned. You know how rabbits, being prey animals, usually can't look at you straight on? They usually have one eye on each side of their head, and only really look at you from the side. Well, he turned to face me, and instead of two eyes staring off in two directions, he only had the one. The other side, where an eye should have been, was a mass of scar tissue. Part of the ear was even missing. The scar ran from the ruined base of the ear, down through the eye socket, and pulled up his lip, so he looked like he was snarling.
Without another word, One-Eyed Jack picked up his firecracker, and disappeared into the tall grass on the other side of the fence.
And now, every time I hear one of those pops, bangs, or cracks, I wonder... is it Them?
I'm terrified because any one of those noises could be Them...
I told you I don't trust those rabbits. I knew they were up to something. These aren't just your usual lazy, good-for-nothing lapidary menace. I could tell by the way they run just far enough away so I can't reach them, and then stand there taunting me. They wink, they tease, and they never quite leave... which is what I want them to do!
One of the cheeky little buggers even sits in the middle of the yard, waiting for me to come out so he can bait me. The family puts me on a lead when I go out, and he knows exactly how far I can go. The first couple of times, I thought he was as startled as I was, but then I noticed that he would dart around the corner of the fort, and then run around it and sneak up behind me while I was barking at the corner where I saw him last. Oh, he thinks that's great fun!
Two can play games, though. I started sneaking along the wall whenever I came out, hoping to get enough of a jump on him to at least put the fear of dog into him. And a couple days after my last post, it worked!
I came through the gate at full speed, and there he was. He had heard the door, but I managed to keep the chain from clinking. His ears went flat, and his mouth made a great "O" as he turned to take off. I felt my teeth in his fluffy little tail, too, just before the line jerked me off my feet. That hurt, but even before I landed, I had twisted and shot around where he usually sneaks up from behind. No sign of him!
Satisfied, I went and curled up next to the pool to pant. He wasn't done with me, though. He came sidling back to peek around the corner of the fort. "You think you're pretty clever, huh?" he said. "That was good, but it won't work twice."
I sniffed, and acted like I couldn't see him. Maybe he'd come a little closer, and we could have another shot.
"A bit of friendly advice, though," he went on. He wasn't fooled one bit. "I wouldn't try that with One-Eyed Jack. If you do, you tell him I warned you."
"And who are you supposed to be?" I asked.
"I'm Peter," he said. "The kids might have mentioned me; they named me, long before you came along. Just remember, you might be the predator type, but you're not the one in charge around here."
I shudder now, but at the time I laughed. "Bring on the One-Eyed Jack!" I snorted. "I'll take on any of your type that get within 30' feet of my pole, there."
But Peter was gone.
The next night, after a good walk around the block, I was lying down under the rose bush while the family swam and sat around the patio, reading their books. None of them smelled the thick rabbity effluvium on the air, but I knew they were out with a vengeance. Then I heard an odd, muffled thump.
I looked over at the fence, and there was a huge jack sitting there, holding something strange in his mouth. He thumped it on the ground again. "Know what this is?" he asked.
I hadn't moved, yet, trying to think of a way to get at him. I shook my head, no, to answer his question, and eyed the fence line. No way I could get to the end, and dash around in time to grab him.
"This is an explosive device," he said. "You know those loud bangs you keep hearing?" I nodded. "That's the humans, blowing these up. You know how many my people have managed to gather?" Rhetorical questions I ignore, especially from a stupid rabbit.
"We've got enough of these to take out this whole block," he said. It wasn't like bragging, because I could tell he meant it. But why tell me? "I'm telling you so you know to stay out of our way. You're new here, and I don't think Peter really got through to you the other night."
"And who are you to tell me who's in charge in my own yard?" I growled.
And then he turned. You know how rabbits, being prey animals, usually can't look at you straight on? They usually have one eye on each side of their head, and only really look at you from the side. Well, he turned to face me, and instead of two eyes staring off in two directions, he only had the one. The other side, where an eye should have been, was a mass of scar tissue. Part of the ear was even missing. The scar ran from the ruined base of the ear, down through the eye socket, and pulled up his lip, so he looked like he was snarling.
Without another word, One-Eyed Jack picked up his firecracker, and disappeared into the tall grass on the other side of the fence.
And now, every time I hear one of those pops, bangs, or cracks, I wonder... is it Them?
Dog Blog: Week Three
I think I'm starting to figure out this family I've been assigned to. They aren't too hard to get along with -- one at a time at least. And I think I know now why I was sent here to protect them.
They had me really baffled for the first couple of weeks with that word they kept shouting up my nose: Trixie. Apparently, that's my name. If I perk up my ears and wag my tail when they say it, they go all giggly. I tell you, it's good to figure out the basics, and feel like I have some control over the proceedings. Now I just have to finish hashing out who's who around here. Got to establish Dominance.
The Momma and the Dad were easy enough to figure out. They're bigger, and they made sure I knew they were boss right away. Then there's the kids. Whenever the parents aren't around, I try to mount them, of course. But they don't get it. They just laugh, run around, and yell "She's doing the 'Dog-danio!'" and swarm me. I really wish I knew what THAT meant.
At least the Dad has been really good about getting up early in the mornings and taking me on patrol. He still hasn't learned what rabbits are for -- they're for killing, hello! -- and that's really my only complaint. They won't even let me have at the impudent, long-eared rats when they're in my own yard!
The other night, we came home from one of our walks, and one of the little bastard was hunkered down right in the middle of the front yard. The Dad nearly stepped on it, leapt into the air, and shouted something I hadn't heard before. It sounded like a sneeze: "K chertu!" I think it was Russian.
But even with the sneaky devils ambushing him in front of his own dog, he won't let me go after them. I suspect the Lapidary Mafia has something on them; some kind of nefarious influence. Maybe they've got a hostage or something. I plan to make it my mission to figure out what it is.
Meanwhile, I keep watch. And bide my time. They will sure be glad I was on the job! The amazing Trixie: Dog Detective, Defender from Rabbits!
Oh... time for another nap!
They had me really baffled for the first couple of weeks with that word they kept shouting up my nose: Trixie. Apparently, that's my name. If I perk up my ears and wag my tail when they say it, they go all giggly. I tell you, it's good to figure out the basics, and feel like I have some control over the proceedings. Now I just have to finish hashing out who's who around here. Got to establish Dominance.
The Momma and the Dad were easy enough to figure out. They're bigger, and they made sure I knew they were boss right away. Then there's the kids. Whenever the parents aren't around, I try to mount them, of course. But they don't get it. They just laugh, run around, and yell "She's doing the 'Dog-danio!'" and swarm me. I really wish I knew what THAT meant.
At least the Dad has been really good about getting up early in the mornings and taking me on patrol. He still hasn't learned what rabbits are for -- they're for killing, hello! -- and that's really my only complaint. They won't even let me have at the impudent, long-eared rats when they're in my own yard!
The other night, we came home from one of our walks, and one of the little bastard was hunkered down right in the middle of the front yard. The Dad nearly stepped on it, leapt into the air, and shouted something I hadn't heard before. It sounded like a sneeze: "K chertu!" I think it was Russian.
But even with the sneaky devils ambushing him in front of his own dog, he won't let me go after them. I suspect the Lapidary Mafia has something on them; some kind of nefarious influence. Maybe they've got a hostage or something. I plan to make it my mission to figure out what it is.
Meanwhile, I keep watch. And bide my time. They will sure be glad I was on the job! The amazing Trixie: Dog Detective, Defender from Rabbits!
Oh... time for another nap!
Dog Blog: One Week
I won't bore you with my life story, but let's just say I ended up in the klink. It wasn't as bad as it could have been, I suppose, but jail is jail, and I was a little freaked out.
I've never been able to get along with other dogs, and the kennel amplifies their voices something awful. Have you ever tried to sleep while a chihuahua mix rabbits on and on reciting the dog rosary? Or while a basset hound sings the blues all night?
They put me through all kinds of tests and things, and I have to admit, I wigged out a little bit. Not my finest hour. I ended up back in the kennel, feeling like the end of the world was coming. That's about when they showed up.
There were six of them; four small ones, one huge one with as much hair on his face as I have, and one that was clearly the momma. I liked her right away. They met me outside, and I was so relieved to be in the yard, being petted. The kids weren't bad, I just didn't know what to do with them. So I ignored them, and let everyone scratch me behind the ears. The big hairy guy found that spot at the base of my tail, and when the staff took me out front again, and the whole group led me to their car... I didn't know what to think!
It seemed to go pretty well, though they were feeding me that crap from the kennel. The hairy guy has been taking me for walks in the morning, and sometimes I get to walk the kids to school. The only consistent trouble seems to be with rabbits. Apparently they can't see the little beasts, because they never let me chase them down and destroy them. I managed to slip out of the harness once to show them my chops, but they seemed pretty upset that I didn't catch the one I was after.
They took me in the car today, and all was well (I thought we were going to the "doggy store" again to get toys), and we showed up back at the jail. I even recognized a couple of bitches from my cell block. I was terrified they were going to turn me back in or something, but then we didn't go inside. We went over to a grassy area, and had a lady teach them how to handle me. Some of it was pretty rude... telling them how to discipline me sounded like a raw deal... but then it seemed like everything she was teaching them involved giving me treats. The phrase was "positive reinforcement", and the teacher lady made them practice feeding me treats again.
Life is sweet. Let's hope this keeps going.
I've never been able to get along with other dogs, and the kennel amplifies their voices something awful. Have you ever tried to sleep while a chihuahua mix rabbits on and on reciting the dog rosary? Or while a basset hound sings the blues all night?
They put me through all kinds of tests and things, and I have to admit, I wigged out a little bit. Not my finest hour. I ended up back in the kennel, feeling like the end of the world was coming. That's about when they showed up.
There were six of them; four small ones, one huge one with as much hair on his face as I have, and one that was clearly the momma. I liked her right away. They met me outside, and I was so relieved to be in the yard, being petted. The kids weren't bad, I just didn't know what to do with them. So I ignored them, and let everyone scratch me behind the ears. The big hairy guy found that spot at the base of my tail, and when the staff took me out front again, and the whole group led me to their car... I didn't know what to think!
It seemed to go pretty well, though they were feeding me that crap from the kennel. The hairy guy has been taking me for walks in the morning, and sometimes I get to walk the kids to school. The only consistent trouble seems to be with rabbits. Apparently they can't see the little beasts, because they never let me chase them down and destroy them. I managed to slip out of the harness once to show them my chops, but they seemed pretty upset that I didn't catch the one I was after.
They took me in the car today, and all was well (I thought we were going to the "doggy store" again to get toys), and we showed up back at the jail. I even recognized a couple of bitches from my cell block. I was terrified they were going to turn me back in or something, but then we didn't go inside. We went over to a grassy area, and had a lady teach them how to handle me. Some of it was pretty rude... telling them how to discipline me sounded like a raw deal... but then it seemed like everything she was teaching them involved giving me treats. The phrase was "positive reinforcement", and the teacher lady made them practice feeding me treats again.
Life is sweet. Let's hope this keeps going.
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