Monthly Archives: December 2013

Inappropriate Winking

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Recently, I was getting dressed in my room, in a rush to make my husband’s business dinner on time. I had approximately 2 minutes to whore myself up to trophy wife standards before dashing out the door. As I’m in my underwear, fiercely trying to put my nylons on as delicately and quickly as I can, I glance over at the bed to see Peterbilt. He’s watching me get dressed, probably sensing that we are about to leave him home alone AGAIN. Mom NEVER wears lipstick and nylons for Peter.

I pull up my nylons over my thigh, and snap and adjust them into place. Husband walks into the room and hearing the nylons, slaps me lightly on my butt as I’m bending over. I smirk and glance up again to call my husband some sort of offensive epithet and caught Peterbilt’s eye again. He winks at me. Peterbilt, that is. Not my husband, who’s buttoning up his shirt, trying his hardest to come up with a witty retort and is failing miserably. Pete saw my husband smack dat half nekkid ass and winked at me, like he knows all about the crude yet light-hearted games two committed people play with each other after they’ve seen each other poop. I told my husband, “Pete just winked at me.” He looked over at Peterbilt, smirked, said “That’s cuz he knows what’s up. That’s my DAWG!” and gave him a fist bump. Cue eye roll…

This isn’t my first experience with inappropriate winking and I know it won’t be my last. Any of you that own a dog or a cat know what I’m talking about. Every now and then, as you are taking care your “behind the scenes” human needs, you feel someone behind you. It’s your pet watching you and he/she gives you a wink as if to say, “It’s OK. Your natural unibrow will be OUR little secret.” And for a second, you drop the tweezers and wonder.

Or maybe you’re getting it on and you think the cat is sleeping on the recliner in the living room. As you enter the throes of passion you look over at the tall boy to see Mittens, perched on top, watching your horizontal mambo with great interest. *Wink*

Or, possibly, your in the kitchen, resentfully getting your passive agressive/sexist/racist/pig relative’s dessert. You accidentally drop his/her cheesecake on the floor. There’s glimmer of a smile as you scoop it back onto the plate, dog hair side down. You’re about to walk back into the dining room to serve it when you notice your dog has been watching you the whole time, tail wildly wagging like he agrees with you. *Wink* “Don’t worry. I shit in that bastard’s shoes, too.”

Winking is such a human thing, it’s weird to recognize it in animals. It personifies your pet to the point that you are as creeped out as if a midget just saw you and winked at you. Or a child. Or that creeper that works in HR that you can’t seem to rid yourself of. How does a creep get a job in HR anyways? Who hires these people?

You rationalize the behavior away, telling yourself that it was probably a hair in their eye or something and that helps, until it happens again. And then you wonder how aware your pet is to your goingson…..

Cats are the most frequent offenders, in my opinion.

My first experience with IW was several years ago, back when I had a cat. My cat, Jackson, woke me up one morning, going crazy because it was noon and I hadn’t fed him yet. I had the typical 20-something bender the night before but as I was entering my mid 20’s, I was noticing my hangovers were getting exponentially worse. Jackson performed his best somersaults on my stomach, which did get me out of bed: straight to the toilet. As I was dry heaving into the toilet, I looked over my shoulder to Jackson sitting at the threshold of the bathroom door. *Wink*, like he knew exactly why I was sick. I stopped heaving for a moment to absorb what had just happened. For a moment, I considered that maybe all animals were playing dumb, humoring US. I pictured for a moment all of the cats of the world, flying up into space in a Hitchhiker’s Guide-esque manner, after shit hit the proverbial fan planet-wise. Taking cue from the dolphins, they send humankind a message, “So long, and thanks for all of the room temperature potted meat.” Then I continued my vomiting.

Share your animal inappropriate winking story! What made you cringe or laugh? What it from your dog or cat, or baby even?

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Categories: Dogs, Pets | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

Weekly Writing Challenge | December 23, 2003

This is me in 2003:

Me on the left, with the 23 year old shit eating grin.

Me on the left, with the 23 year old shit eating grin.

December 23, 2003 I started working at my current job. My 10 year review is in an hour, actually. I told my boss “It’s gold watch time, baby!” when I left to go home on Friday evening, after he reminded me of my impending anniversary date. I still can’t believe it’s been 10 years.

Like most everyone else, my life was much different than it is now. Here’s 10 things different for 10 years:

1.) I had a half-pack a day smoking habit. Pack a day on the weekends. My mom used to love having me around so she could bum a smoke. She was (still is) as closet smoker that will never have the balls to buy her own cigarettes. Once, she went in my car to find my pack with one cigarette left in it. And. She. Smoked. My. Last. Cigarette. About 2 hours later, I sat her down and explained to her why she should never do such a thing, ever again, my eyeball twitching and all.

2.) My drink of choice: Barcardi Razz and Sprite. Because I’d had enough of Zima.

3.) I was 5 years away from meeting my husband, although oddly enough and unbeknownst to me at the time, I had ended up adopting his frat house dog as a pet (I’ll tell you about that sometime)

4.) I didn’t have a couple of bulldogs to fart by me while I was eating dinner. I was more of a dachshund fan at the time. And they didn’t fart nearly as much, but they had those shrill-ass barks…

5.) I slept soundly without a tossing/turning/farting husband beside me. I also used to get to sleep in past noon. I used to sleep in the middle of the bed….le sigh….

6.) I had a LOT more free time on my hands. I used to be able to remember everything and keep track of things so well and would fault others who did not. Then I learned after I got married that not keeping track of things has nothing to do with not caring or being lazy, but entirely hinges upon how much you have going on in your life at the moment. I’ve turned into one of those people I used to disdain. We are who we bitch about.

7.) I quit my horrible job of working night shift in a (creepy) male-dominated printing factory to start my current job. Yick, you could only imagine the kinds of dudes that work in a small town printing factory at night (cue in dueling banjos, Deliverance style.) I must admit, there was a creeper-stalker or two who’s heart I broke when I quit but I pat myself on the back everyday for not ending up in a trunk of some weirdo’s car.

8.) I used to think that I’d never get sick of eating Taco Bell, until I got sick after eating Taco Bell once.

9.) I thought Bad Santa was a good movie.

10.) I was one of first people to hate Nickleback. What changed? I still hate them, it’s just now I’m one of many.

Wish me luck!!!

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/12/23/writing-challenge-ghosts/

Categories: Dogs | Tags: , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Even while asleep, he’s still a pain in the ass

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We can’t escape Peterbilt’s ass shenanigans, even in sleep.

There’s no escape.

My husband turned to me this morning and said:

“I had a dream that we were at the house I grew up in.

We had Peterbilt with us and we locked him up in the gated back yard.

But then he took a dump.

And then another dump.

Which was really bad because we were trespassing and the current owners were going to find shit in their backyard.

And then he started to shit again, but this time string came out. He started freaking out, spinning and growling because he couldn’t pinch it off. So I had to pull it out for him.

So even in my dreams, I’m still pulling shit out of this dog’s ass.”

He’ll make a great father one day 😉

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“This bed is defective” – and other Bulldog Lies

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Oh, Peterbilt. I have to give you points for creativity. But seriously, you’re not fooling anyone.

Dogs lie. Especially bulldogs. They’re the
most corrupt of all. If I had a dollar for every time we fed Pete twice, because both myself and my husband were sung the same sob, hunger pang-filled story, I’d be a hundred-aire.

What does your pet lie about? Tell me your most outrageous story of how you were deceived. GO!

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Creepy Beeps

The list of things that wake us up at night continues to grow: Thirsty bulldog, frightened bulldog, bulldog that has to pee, vomiting bulldog, loud husband farts, my summertime night terrors about spiders, suddenly remembering all the stuff I forgot to do, owls and the latest….our ADT security system. It’s being a total pill.

We got ADT after my car was broken into about 3 years ago. It was one of the rare times I parked in the driveway overnight. Thankfully, nothing was taken as the only thing of remote value that was in my car was an outdated 2007 iPod Nano which apparently, the thieves were too good for. They emptied out my glove compartment and center console and left a mess of insurance papers on the floor. The cops said it was probably teenagers but whoever it was, they were (thankfully) of entry level because they could have hit the garage door opener and broke into our house.

We had the system installed and experienced the typical new user learning curve of forgetting to unarm the system before opening the back door in the morning to let the dogs out. It only took us a few times of sirens, lights and running around the house while our asses were being singed by lasers, to figure out how to coexist peacefully with the security system.

Months went by and my husband was out of town one night on business. I armed the system and settled (stumbled) into bed with a bottle of wine and one of the bulldogs and passed out around midnight….ish. I was awakened by a very serious sounding beep around 1:30 AM. Not a friendly sounding chirp like your smoke alarm will do when you are low on batteries, but a very stern beep. As of if to say “Awaken human. The time for reckoning has come.”

Never hearing this kind of beep before, let alone in the middle of the night, the first thing that came to mind was that the system had been breached and someone was inside our house. Thoughts of hiding, trying to outsmart the bulger and/or rapist with useless trivia (Did you know that Eagle Eye Cherry is the brother of Nena Cherry who hit The Buffalo Stance was a hit back in 1990?) and regrets that my handgun was unloaded in its case downstairs ran through my head. I quickly ran to the display of the keypad in our bedroom and read the following: “Phone System Failure”.

failure. Failure. FAILURE!!!! The word bounced around in my half-awake head…….!!!!!…”Phone? System? Failure? Wha….how?”. I flipped on the light and glanced at Peterbilt who was laying on bed, barely awake, shooting me a look like “You suck at life. Turn off the lights.”  Stupid alarm. Stupid husband.  I was seriously wishing he was home so I could go back to cowering under the blankets and he could battle off the bad guy.

After a few minutes of huddling in a corner and rocking back and forth, I remembered the details that the ADT lesbian who installed the system told me: The phone line was in our basement so that a burglar could not disable security system from the outside. I took another swig of wine and wiped the snot-fangs from my nose after realizing……I am safe. No one would have gotten into the house without the siren sounding. I looked at the bed: Peterbilt was casually licking his junk and since he tends to bark at anything, even when he sees our neighbor’s bathroom light going on (Hey, Hon! Frank’s pooping again!) I figured a person in the house would have set him off.

I grabbed my cell phone and dialed the toll free number on the keypad. I was greeted by a less than enthusiastic male voice. “Hello? I was sleeping and my alarm just made a noise and it says “Phone System Failure”. Can you tell me what happened?”, I asked.

“Press the ‘Star’ key ma’am.”

“Ok, I just did, but what does Phone System Failure mean?”, I asked again.

“Press the ‘Star key again, please”, he said, the annoyance in his voice growing.

“Ok. I just did it again.”

“Ok, that should clear it from your display. Thank you for calling A—”

“Whoa!”, I interjected. “You didn’t answer my question about the system failure. What happened?”

He answered, “Ma’am? Is your display reading just the time and date now?” You could almost hear him face palming.

“Yes?”

“Then the problem has been cleared. It shouldn’t happen again. Thank you for calling ADT.” Click.

adt

Had I been of sound mind (and sober for that matter) I’d have made him two new assholes. Here I was, woken up in the middle of the night by a strange beep, with a nondescript message, calling him up at 1:30 AM to ask for help and he’s pissed off at me?

Oh hell no.

Things went OK for another few months but then the Phone System Failure started happening again. This time, my husband was home with me. It seriously freaked him out. To the point where he’s got the gun and he’s heading down to the basement to look at the control box. Which woke up Mack. Which, even though it’s 2 AM, Mack thinks it’s time for breakfast. Which, unless you want to be driven insane, you might as well feed him something or else the shrieking will never end. Then Peterbilt starts to stir because he wants his, too. And then husband decides he’s kinda hungry, too………do we have any string cheese?

Might as well start a pot of coffee and get a head start on my emails………

Phone System Failure , or PSF as we now call it, keeps happening but I’m starting to notice a pattern. It usually happens between the 18th – 20th of each month, just once. I’ve been writing down when it happens on a calender so I can build up a case. Yes, I’m totally getting all Erin Brockovich on their asses.  If i’m gonna get lip again from ADT, I’m totally going to blow them out of the water. I’m talking credit our account for at least one month’s fee because YOU SUCK! And send someone out here! They can even spend the night on the 18th, downstairs with Mack on his old shitty couch. He’d love a sleepover.

Before I call, I want to ask: Anybody out there have this problem before? Feel free to also rant about your security system service, or hell cable service for that matter. Comcast is next on my shit list……

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12 Days of Horsesh*t

So Peterbilt was diagnosed with another torn ACL yesterday. Just what I wanted for Christmas: an expensive knee surgery! Thanks, you jolly, old, rat bastard! Santa always knows just what to get you.

This will be Peterbilt’s 4th surgery! His 2nd surgery on his right hind leg. Joy! He had surgery on his left hind leg 18 months ago for an ACL tear on that leg. This dog never ceases to find new ways to spend our rainy day funds. Horseshit.

In light of this bad news during this Christmas season, I have been inspired to write my own version of the Twelve Days of Christmas. For those of you with normal dogs and cats, this will enlighten you to the shitty process of expensive pet surgery:

12 Ways that Surgery will Totally Suck Ass:

12 – weeks of rehab

11 – days of pain meds

10 – months of savings *gone*

9 – bottles of wine 😉

8 – bulldog meltdowns (from boredom)

7 – short walks daily

6 – baby gates

5!!!!! CONES OF SHAME (He eats them)

4 – thousand dollars

3 –  angry tweets

2 – mumbled curses

And a hyperactive dog (who doesn’t understand why you won’t play with him or let him run so he constantly bitches at you until you give in and throw him in your truck and drive around town to pacify him) in stitches!!!!!

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Daily Prompt: Daring Do | Lost Bulldog! :(

How did we save an animal from danjuh? I’ll tell you. This story takes us back to the year 2010.

It was a era like no other. The world was still reeling from the loss of Patrick Swayze. Miley Cyrus had not yet come in like a wrecking ball. People still listened to Kanye West. The economy was at it’s low point and my husband (boyfriend at the time) was out of work after being laid off.

One hot, summer morning about 6 AM, we heard a knock at the door. This seriously pissed me off because I had at least 45 more minutes of sleep to be had. I made boyfriend answer the door.

I laid in bed and tried to go back to sleep, but I found myself trying to eavesdrop. I heard a woman’s voice….interesting. So it’s not a polite rapist at the door after all.

Figuring that any chance I had of recovering sleep was now dashed, I got out of bed and walked to the front door. It was one of bf’s old ass hermit neighbors that I rarely see outside. I stifled a laugh. Figures it would be a 70 year old at the door. Some of them forget that most people don’t get up at 4:30 AM. I bet she didn’t expect a dude in his underwear answering the door. I hope he gauged himself up down there before opening the door…

Anyways, she knocked on our door because she was taking out her garbage and this bulldog (English) came out of nowhere and trotted up to her. Knowing we have bulldogs (Olde English – NOT THE SAME) she figured it was those dang lazy Gen X’ers down the street, letting their dog run free in the neighborhood. Hippies.

The bulldog was standing behind her. He did not look unfamiliar. We told her that was not our dog. Our dogs were still asleep inside (some watchdogs we have). Where did it come from? She didn’t know, didn’t care, wanted to be rid of it and told her it was not her problem and walked away. Must of had to get home right away. Only 3 more hours until Matlock is on, you know.

The bulldog was panting. It was only 6 AM but it was already over 80 degrees and humid. He was fawn colored with white spots. He wasn’t a puppy, but he wasn’t an old dog, either. He had a collar, but no tags. He didn’t seem mean, but was very frightened. My BF, a sucker for any bully breed, decided to let him inside. We locked up our other dogs as a precaution. We didn’t know how they would get along or if this dog had any diseases.

We filled a bowl of water, of which he drank only a little. What he really wanted was more of that cool linoleum floor. He stretched out and tried to cool himself down. At first, any time we’d get up or move, he’d jump but eventually he calmed down and started following me around the house wherever I went. This poor guy. His collar told me that he had a home once but someone, somewhere decided they couldn’t live with him anymore. Why someone would just drop him off in the middle of the night and drive off rather than trying to find this guy a home is beyond me. Assholes. So many people in this world too lazy for due diligence.

We named him Tank.

I had to get to work so I left my bf and Tank at home. The rest of the story was told to me by my husband:

BF drove around the neighborhood posting Lost Dog signs, even posted an ad on Craigslist. Nothing happened.

He then drove Tank up to a local vet to see if the dog was chipped. He was, but unfortuantely, the scan yielded nothing useful. It traced him back to his breed in Missouri. Crap.

He called the local Human Society, but they couldn’t guarentee they wouldn’t put him down. With a noticeable hobble, BF feared relinquishing him to the Human Society would be his demise. Tank, who by now clearly bonded with BF, would not leave BF’s side. BF packed Tank up and took him back home.

BF then Googled around and found a Bulldog Rescue Organization. He called them and got their voicemail a few times. In the meantime, he tried offering Tank food. Tank was not interested. BF made a space in our garage from him to hang out by himself. He took advantage of the solace and napped on an off. Poor exhausted, Tank.

He tried the rescue organization a few more times and finally reached a woman.

The woman didn’t believe my boyfriend when he said he had a lost, purebreed English bulldog. They argued back and forth throughout the afternoon. She didn’t’ believe my BF when he said he knew what a English Bulldog looked like. She figured he probably had some random pitbull mix dog and he was another ill-informed yahoo. He finally texted her a photo.

She called up within minutes offering profuse apologies.

Within 2 hours, she found a temporary foster home for Tank.

BF dropped Tank off at a woman’s house not to far away around 4 PM. She carefully looked Tank over and mentioned he had cysts on his paws and possible joint problems. She seemed to know the breed very well – in fact – she started popping his paw cysts instantly. That’s dedication.

She assured my BF that Tank would be well taken care of and went to bring Tank inside. A tornado watch had been issued for our area and storms were rolling in. BF went to leave, but Tank followed. He had bonded with BF through the day’s adventure. Tank loved my boyfriend, and my boyfriend did a little bit as well. It was hard, but he left Tank with that woman. Had we been in a better situation financially, we probably would have kept him.

BF got home right as I was pulling in and he told me the story. Our hearts bled together for that sweet, little bulldog.

Within an hour, a bad storm hit. Straight line winds made every single house on our block, including ours, lose at least one tree. Our mulberry tree laid across the front lawn. If Tank had managed to survive the 90 degree heat with humidity during the day, he probably would not have lasted through that evening’s storm.

A few weeks later, the woman we spoke with at the rescue emailed us and update and said they had pooled their resources together to provide surgery to Tank’s paws and right eye. He was in recovery and doing fine.

Another month went and we received another email. Tank had been adopted by a woman a few towns away. She re-named him George. The picture included showed George, happily playing with the other small dogs the woman also owned. The email also went into detail about how George wouldn’t have to brave the intense summer heat again. His days were now spent indoors, in air conditioning on a cushy dog bed. A little 10 year old neighborhood girl walked him every day, which he really seemed to enjoy.

George, found a home and was doing just fine. All thanks to the effort of my boyfriend, now husband, who went above and beyond the call of duty.

Tank, we will never forget you! We love you!

Tank.

Tank.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/12/13/daily-prompt-daring-do/

Categories: Bulldogs | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

G.T.E.

As the years have gone by, my bulldogs have managed to come up with new, sick and twisted ways to blow my mind. Just when I think their antics can’t get anymore nasty and gross, they mind-fuck me all over again.

Warning: This post might make you gag.

I remember the first time I saw Peterbilt vomit up a pair of my panties that had gone missing 5 days prior, re-eat them before I could grab paper towels to pick them up, and vomit them up 3 days later again. The panties were surprisingly still intact, just covered in bile from that 8-day simmer in the crock-pot that is my dog’s stomach. I looked in my husband’s eyes and saw exactly what he was thinking as he held them out to me: “You know…..a good wash in the washing machine could –“. No, Husband. Don’t add to the fucked-up-ness of this whole mess.

When this first happened, I.Could.Not.Believe.It. I almost puked, myself. But when it repeats itself 4-5 times, you become calloused to it and learn to wrestle those nasty things away from him before the re-eat starts. You also learn to put your laundry away immediately.

Prior to this morning, that was the Grossest Thing Ever (GTE) to ever occur in our household.

Then, today happened.

I’m getting ready for work. The morning routine is always the same. I get up around 6:30-ish (ie: 6:59), shower, get dressed and feed/potty the dogs. Peterbilt is used to laying on our bed while I do my makeup and hair in the adjacent bathroom. After I was done, I walked into the bedroom to snuggle with Peter just a short while before going to work. He always lays on my side of the bed, the memories of my husband pinning him to the bed and touching his toe-pads too recent in his mind. I walked around the bed to my side and noticed a wet spot on the sheet, by his booty. Not on the duvet, or on the flat sheet, or on one of the other 8,000 blankets on our bed, but the fitted sheet. You know, the one thin layer of cloth that separates you from the mattress? “Sweet. Baby. Jesus. Please tell me that’s drool and he just changed positions.” There’s only one way to tell: The Sniff Test. Nothing will humble you more than owning dogs.

I unceremoniously kicked Peterbilt off of the bed and bent down and gingerly sniffed the spot. Hmmmm. Nope. Not drool. That liquid most definitely came from his butt. My, that’s pungent! Ladies and Gentleman: Peterbilt has ass-juiced the bed.

I ripped off the fitted sheet shouting “nonononNoNoNONONONO”, wincing with the anticipation that the ungodly fluid has probably seeped through to our mattress. A small, yellow stain appeared on the mattress. OK. Small. I can deal with small. I ran out of the room past a remorseful and embarrassed Peterbilt. I grabbed a bottle of some pet stain remover with a picture cute and probably well-trained  French Bulldog on the label. “I bet that dog never ass-juices his owners bed”, I thought to myself. “Why am I stuck with Anal Glands McGee?!?!”

I squirted the cleaner onto the spot and dabbed at it until I felt that it was contained. I threw the fitted sheet in the washer and texted the Hubs to let him know what transpired. I looked at the clock and realized I was running late to work.

Think that’s bad? We’re not done here. There’s more…..

Time to let Mackie out to do his business before I took off to work. I opened the back door and booted Mack out, while I feverishly packed my bag for work. I glanced outside expecting to see the usual scenario: Mackie peeing, his weiner 3″ deep in a snow bank and him looking back at me with a expression that says “Oh, you think you got it rough? My dick’s in snow right now. Merry Christmas”. Instead, I see Mack digging through the snow to dirt, munching away at a mystery something. Face-palm time.

I yelled at Mack to get back inside and once inside, I grabbed a wet paper towel to clean him up. However, I discovered that it wasn’t dirt I was wiping up. It was poop. Mack was eating shit, rabbit turds probably. It was all over his face. Our backyard was a fecal buffet and Mack had seconds. Mack, unlike his son, looked proud rather than embarrassed. Almost defiant, actually. Probably a jab at me for cutting down his food portions as part of his diet.

Mind thoroughly blown, I situated the dogs and ran out of the house as fast as I could before any thing else could possibly happen: Turds raining from the ceiling, blood dripping from the walls, Peterbilt starts a small fire in the family room and dances around it. I don’t know. At this point, there’s no telling what will come next.

I drove to work with a 1,000 yard stare today. Mind-fucked. G.T.E.

Categories: Dogs | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Mack Checks a Ho

Its hard out here for a pimp.  Especially when your name is Mack Truck.

I got 99 problems

I got 99 problems

Mack’s a cool rider most days, but even Trucks have a limit. Mack laid the smack down on Saturday.

This story will be laid out differently than my others, with the italics being Mack-speak. Caution: Mack has a potty mouth worse than I do. That and he’s a little sexist at times……

The stack of reminder postcards from our vet was starting to topple, so The Husband and I gave in over the long holiday weekend and decided it’s finally time to bring The Fat Guy in to see the “White Coats” for his annual check up. Mack was up for a car ride. (OPEN THE GODDAMMED DOOR TO THE TRUCK! And fetch my leash, woman! No, not the new one. That old red one that stinks real good. Yeahhhh……)

We absolutely love our vet clinic to the point that we are willing to drive 30 minutes away down perpetually-gridlocked I-94 when there is a vet clinic, literally, within walking distance from our house. (Fuck walking.)

The doctors and staff there know both of our dogs by name when we call and are a pleasure to do business with. They’re not at all pushy about vaccinations. I’ve been to some vet clinics that act like they’ll call the ASPCA on you if you don’t get your dog/cat’s distemper vaccine. When I was broke and in my twenties, I had a vet tech look at me with such disgust when I declined my cat’s distemper shot (after paying for the rabies shot and a pack of Frontline) I never went back. I understand vet clinics are businesses but that type of behavior, bullying people into buying things they don’t feel comfortable with, is just in bad form. You’re getting off the subject, Treat Lady.

Anyways, going to the vet is a real treat for Mack. Mmm Hmm.

I’ve never seen a dog so happy and relaxed about a place that has consistently stabbed him with needles for the last 12 years. He’s got his own routine he runs through each time we visit:

-Sniffs around outside (gotta check my pee-mail), takes a leak, maybe a dump (which I will bag up and hand to the receptionist with a smile, “Here’s that stool sample! She’s a honey of a turd!”), then walks through the door and intimidates a smaller and already panicked dog (Do you have a hoo-hoo or a hee-haw? Let me inspect your junk, DO NOT RESIST!). He walks up to the reception desk and wags his nub at the delightful, hitch-pitched female voice that greets him. (Hello nice lady. Look in awe at me) He then impresses the staff by doing his best perky little trot over to the scale, walks onto it without force or assistance and plops a sit for the tech to get his weight. (I get a  treat now) Granted, this is only a performance of which Mack knows the end result is one of those mediciney-looking dog treats. (What, are you new here? Give me my damn treat!!) Those things look like they have to be the most tasteless things in the world, but you know Mack. (GIVE ME MY FUCKING TREAT!!!) He gulps treats down before he has a chance to taste them. (NOM. GULP. FART. More please!) And then continues to try to work over the girls for more. (Don’t get stingy on a bully now)

The scale groans with the weight of the giant bulldog that has foisted himself onto the contraption…..just kidding. “He’s 76 lbs! Down from 87 last year! That’s a lot of weight to lose in a year”, the vet tech said. Mack was too busy inhaling another pill treat to care about his accomplishment. (*Burp*)

This time, Mack was due for his Bordetella vaccine and Distemper. He also had a skin tag on this back that was now big enough to open up and bleed at times. It was about the size of…well….a really big booger. (I like boogers) The kind  you stick under your desk at work. (I’d totally eat those) That’s all I can compare it to. It was odd shaped.

The doctor came and gave Mack his usual look over. The doctor said he was in great shape (damn straight) and at the perfect weight even! We told the doctor about his skin tag and she said that would be no problem to remove. She left the room to get the anesthetic and his shots. (Say whut?!?!)

During that time, Mack farted once or twice in unusual anxiety. (Uh oh) Hubs and I slowly moved our shirt collars over our noses in synchrony. He started to pace around the exam room, knocking over the chairs and checking and rechecking the interior of the garage can. (Anything good in there? Damn. Better check again.) He looked up at the glass jar of treats on the counter (…what I would give….), and repeated the routine a few times more. Mack, was getting nervous. (THEY’RE SENDING ME TO THE GLUE FACTORY!!! I JUST KNOW IT!!!)

The doctor came in and Hubs hoisted nervous Chubs onto the table. (I CAN DO IT MYSELF, DICK!!!) The doctor gave him a shot to numb the area around the skin tag. She gave it a few seconds and proceeded to give him distemper shot. Mack jerked back in pain a little bit but I was there ready with a pill treat to make it all go away. (Oh, pill treats. You make it all worth while)

Then came the bordetella shot. (Whut?!?) This shot is sprayed through the nose. (WHUT?!?!?) The doctor approached Mack, and Mack held up his paw and pushed the doctor away! (ENOUGH’S ENOUGH!). The doctor tried again and received another paw to the chest. (DON’T MAKE ME TELL YOU THREE TIMES!)  The doctor tried again and then, he bit the air by her hand (Back OFF, B!). Mackie had had enough of this woman’s voodoo. Another bite (DOESN”T ANYONE SEE WHAT SHE IS TRYING TO DO???) and Husband had to use every muscle in his body to clamp his mouth shut and weight him down, getting a small dose of the vaccine in his face in the process. (Mmmfppfpf!)

That wasn’t even the end of it. They still had to remove the skin tag. We attached the leash to Mack’s collar and the doctor opened the door to get Mack into the back room. Mack threw his ass down went dead weight on her (No!!!!!!! The Glue Factory!!!!!), but the Doctor, knowing Mack’s weakness, removes a pill treat from the jar and used it to lure Mack into the back room (ROBOT VOICE: Ok. Doctor. I.WILL.GO.WITH.YOU)

The door shut and we heard the electric razor fire up, to shave the area. Husband and I, trying to be quiet for Mack’s sake,  could barely contain our laughter, “He’s going to be SO PISSED!!”. Mack returned a short while later with 2 metal stitches and a scowl. (Fuckers) which then evaporated once we gave him another treat. (I love you again, now) .

All in all, Mack did have a pretty rough morning at the vet, but he and the doctor made up before he left and Mackie got to unwind in the back of the SUV (I need a beer) and was back to being his normal level of pissed off by afternoon.

Side Note: Our vet is a wonderful and patient lady who has kept both of our guys healthy for years. I hope to God she doesn’t read this.

Categories: Dogs | Tags: , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Golden Showers

Yep, that’s right. Pee-Pee. A river of it is forming in my house and I’m powerless to stop it.

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At 4-1/2 years old, Peterbilt has taken the liberty to totally un-house train himself and now pees in the house, every day, while we are at work. Our house might as well be a fire hydrant.

We’ve tried a variety of things to curb this: morning walks, taking his water away while were away and blocking off his usual pee corners (he just makes new ones). Before we leave, we give him Kongs filled with various foods as busy toys, to no avail. He’s totally healthy, well…physically anyways….as confirmed by the vet. He had one UTI earlier in the year, which came about during this whole ongoing incident, so it was really obvious that he had it when he started peeing blood. But that was resolved with meds and every pee puddle since is just blood-free. So we got that going for us.

He doesn’t piss himself while asleep, nor does he pee in the house while we are home. We have not made any big changes to our house or family or his schedule, that I can see anyways.

To be totally honest, this dog was never 100% house trained. He’d have an accident in the house about a 5-6 times in a given year, usually happening after being boarded at the doggy country club for a few days. We NEVER use to have a behavioral issue with him during the hours of which we went to work. Any emotional outburst by him was usually done at night, if we left to go out.

However, over the last few months the pee puddles have increased steadily to just about every time we leave the house, including when we go to work.

He totally knows he’s in trouble when you come home, too. He looks extremely submissive and is unusually affectionate and loving. He tries to block you from the puddle. On the flip side, on the now rare occasion that he DOESN’T pee in the house, he is excited that we are home and is eager to show us the area that he DIDN’T pee in. He does this special dance in celebration then, where he swings his butt from side to side like he’s doing his own version of The Twist.

This dog is a fucking enigma. What god-forsaken tangled ball of emotional and mental distress could be causing this? I have a few theories, but your guess is as good as mine:

 

1.) Substitution

Peterbilt has always had separation anxiety and we’re not sure why. It didn’t really manifest itself until he was about 2 years old. He used to deal with it by chewing/eating/destroying our shoes, cherished possessions, hopes and dreams. Since we’ve Bilt-proofed our house, Peterbilt is substituting whizzing in the house for chewing shoes. So we haven’t resolved his anxiety issue. We Band-Aid’ed it and it came off in the pool. It still floating in there. Eww.

2.) He hates the new color of our living room

We’ve recently went from a Sky Blue (what was I smoking 4 years ago?) to a Toasty Taupe. It looks 10x better to me but he just might just have shitty taste in decor. He is colorblind after all.

3.) He’s mad we canceled cable.

Maybe he enjoyed watching Walking Dead with the hubs…but F those assclowns at Comcast. We will wait for that shit to come out on Netflix.

4.) Fear of nuclear war

5.) His heart bleeds for those dogs & cats on those ASPCA commercials, that he can’t watch anymore because we canceled cable.

6.) 2 of the 4 of the Golden Girls are dead.

Mack couldn't be happier about the whole thing.  Every time a Peter pees, another Mack Truck smiles with glee

Mack couldn’t be happier about the whole thing. Every time a Peter pees, another Mack Truck smiles with glee

So we’ve checked marked every possible way to avoid this problem except for one: crating.

I was saving that for last. The mom in me is heart-broken at having to baby-gate him off, as this is surely to affect his quality of life. Poor guy.

 

The other side of me sees the cost replacing hardwood floors and is tired of having my house smell like tinkle. Our poor mop. It’s perpetually moist. Moist. Don’t you hate that word? I don’t :). Moist.

 

For my own selfish reasons, I gave Peterbilt another 5 chances or so and he just keeps peeing. I know he’s trying to tell me something, but how can you reason with a dog? A maniac, meathead crack-hound, no less?

So the other night, the hubs and I were eating dinner and discussing this very topic. We let Peterbilt outside to drop a deuce and I told Husband about my guilt about crating him while we are at work. I admitted to myself that I was avoiding it, even praying about it. And just then, we heard a K-K-K-K-K-K-KA-KUNK! outside. Peterbilt slipped on the icy steps of the porch and crashed landed. He came inside with a noticeable limp. Great. Another leg injury.

 

So…..

 

The answer has been made for us. Crate Peterbilt. Not only for the house-peeing, but to keep him on physical restrictions in hopes that whatever injury it is, it will heal itself and not yield another $4000 surgery. Because an expensive surgery is just what I wanted for Christmas.

11-2

Speaking of Christmas, the Christmas tree is now up and that blocks Peter’s favorite pee corner.

God works in mysterious ways.

Categories: Dogs | Tags: , , , , , , | 1 Comment

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