5 things me n’ Peterbilt now have in common

And yes, I’m totally aware of the grammatical blunder that title is, but ‘Peterbilt and I’ just seemed too mature for the upcoming content of this post.

First off, let me start on a high note and announce that we found out that Baby is a girl! Myself, Hubs and the bulldogs are thrilled to be expecting a little girl. Especially me, because a girl balances things out in my favor, household-wise. Now our day-to-day life isn’t going to be so much a big, giant, wave-it-in-your-face, sausage party. Because it is now. Seriously. Put it away.


5 months and halfway through my pregnancy, I’m finding out that me n’ Peterbilt have more in common than I like to admit. Pregnancy has heightened many of my senses while at the same time, taken away from others. It’s laughable because I never thought that I would have ANYTHING in common with a creature so morbid and foul, but life has a way of turning shit around on you to knock you down a few pegs. The following are 5 things we now have in common besides our address:

We tolerate each other.

We tolerate each other.

1.) We both are HIGHLY food motivated.

Peterbilt has always been, but until recently, I wasn’t. Pregnancy has amplified my appetite and now we are both transfixed by food. If it’s laying out, we want it. If we think we smell food, we want it. You can’t even talk to us while eating something, without us wanting your food. You can wave a piece of food in your hand in front of our faces and much like those darling kittens in those internet videos, you can watch me and Peterbilt turn our heads in unison together, eyes locked on the prize. If you eat said piece of food instead, you’ll get the same stunned expression out of both of us.

My boss came up to me the other day to talk about some mundane work crap, while peeling an orange:

“That orange looks really good. I really want your orange. Can I have your orange? Not asking anymore, telling. Give me the GOD DAMN ORANGE!”….

…it what was going on inside my head. Didn’t hear a damn thing he said. I though about the orange for like a hour after. I still want that fucking orange.

2.) Heightened sense of smell.

Peterbilt will tell you up and down what a blessing that is, while I’d say it is more of a curse. Peterbilt smells even worse to me now, especially his breath when he yawns in my face (which he does, ALL THE TIME) and I hold my breath when he comes in from the rain. I can also smell if Peter’s had an ‘purpose pee’ in the house while we were away from home, right when I walk in door.

Other smells are more dimensional to me now. While getting a car wash the other day, the colorful soap they squirted on my Jeep TOTALLY smelled like Flintstones chewables. I also can’t stand the smell of Kalla Lilies any more. I had enough of their creepy, sweet yet haunting scents after my dad’s funeral. I’ve also described Dunkin’ Donuts Pumpkin Spice Latte as ‘vomit-flavored Pledge’, although that’s more of a combination of smell and taste. But seriously, that shit is terrible.

3.) We’ve both pissed the bathroom rug.

Peterbilt’s was due to revenge-pee (see ‘purpose pee’ above), while mine was a combination of getting ready for a shower, a semi-full bladder and one very, big sneeze.

4.) We both picked up seasonal allergies this year for the first time in our lives.

Kinda the reason for my #3. For like a week, both Pete and I walked around the house sporting snot fangs.

and finally,

5.) It’s totally gross when we sleep on our backs.

I can’t speak for all pregnant ladies, but it’s the most comfortable sleeping position for me, even though it drives my doctor and husband nuts when I do it. My stomach compresses and you can totally see baby girl poking and kicking through my stomach, like she’s going to rip me open stick her head out at me and shout “Quaid! Quaaaaiidd! Open your miiinnnnnnd!”

(does any one know what movie I just referenced? Bonus points if you do.)

When Peterbilt sleeps on his back, it’s head back, legs apart and junk out, which brings me back full circle to the sausage party I was telling you about. That dog needs a black censor box when he sleeps. For Christ’s sake, Pete. Put it away.

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


There aren’t many things that can make Mack bust a move anymore, with the exception of the 3 CH’s: Cheese, Chicken anything, and Children.

Mack absolutely adores small children for reasons we aren’t quite sure. My theory is that Mack loves children because they always have hands that are sticky and flavored with some kind of food. Hubs thinks Mack loves children as they tend to want feed animals anything they have within reach, including but not limited to goldfish crackers and frosted cheerios. Real. Frosted. Cheerios. ((((a bulldog shudders in ecstasy))))

And it’s not all fat jokes. To be fair, children always seem to flock towards Mack when we are out in public, too. Children love Mack because he’s a non-scary big dog, they like how his brown and black brindle makes it look like they are petting a tiger and Mack looks like he’s smiling when he pants. Very inviting. Mack can also put up with kids pulling at his ears, poking at his nub and will endure countless hugs. Parents love Mack’s calm yet protective nature and the fact that he is gentle, even with the tiniest babies.  Parents even don’t even seem to mind the coat of drool Mack usually lacquers their offspring in. Hell, a fart elicits even more brownie points from adults.

So, it came as no surprise as to how excited Mack would be when we took him to the cabin for Labor day weekend, SANS PETERBILT, meet up with my in laws and my husbands best friend, wife and two young daughters.

The minute the young family arrived, Mack was there to give them a good-old fashioned, ‘welcome to my lake-home’ greeting.



A first the girls, aged 4 and 2, were a little put-off by the giant, smiling, tiger-crossbred-with-a-bulldog-hybrid breathing heavily by their sides. However, the wise old bulldog knew just the trick to break the ice. Mack grabbed his rope toy and walked over to me. We then began a very tame version of tug-of-war, Mack making sure to omit any growling or grunting so as not to spook the girls (who says dogs aren’t intuitive?). b1

The girls immediately began to giggle and squeal at Mack’s playfulness and even took turns teaming up against Mack, who made sure to not pull at his full force to make the game a little more fair. The girls father walked in on the game and said, “Oh! Are you playing a game with Macaroni?” Macaroni. It was decided then by the girls that Macaroni would be Mack’s name for the holiday weekend.

I could end this blog here with everyone happy with each others company, but how boring would that be?

For the remainder of that day, Mack relished in the attention of the 2, adorable little girls. The girls would sing “Macaroni….Macaroni” in soft, soothing tones to him, hug him and give him kisses. Mack had it made! All he had to do was lay there and occasionally play tug of war. Mack shot me a glance at one point that I swore said “Why don’t we have more of these at home? They’re so nice! This is going to be the best weekend ever!!!!” When the girls would run to the next room, Mack would follow with a dutiful look on his face. “I will protect you small children for I am Macaroni.”

But then as the evening progressed, Mack noticed he was getting rather exhausted. With two girls constantly vying for his attention and the cabin at full capacity, Mack soon found he didn’t have the option of lumbering off into a spare, dark bedroom for a cat nap. In fact, Mack wasn’t very happy at all with his accommodations. I had to put Mack’s dog bed inside a large closet, clearing out a space that was otherwise filled with winter boots and hunting gear. Mack looked insulted as I gestured him towards his new micro-hotel room. “Look at how cozy it is! It’s completely dark and quiet here, Macaroni! Plus it’s 2′ from our bed! Totally conducive for sleep!” Mack snorted, farted and walked away, resigning back to the family room where the girls were and resumed his baby sitting duties.

Not two hours went by before I caught him passed out in his closet dog bed.

The next day started off on a good foot until after breakfast. I noticed Mack was a little sluggish since he was not able to get his post-breakfast nap in. The minute the girls were up, the search for Macaroni began. Mack’s new role as a baby-sitter/floor pillow/huggable creature/entertainment center was taking a toll and Mack only began to look more drowsy and puffy as the day wore on. Up until now, Macks exposure with children was only in short bursts. I could tell in Mack’s eyes that he was starting to realize that spending a long weekend with little kids was not nearly as easy as he though it was going to be and he wasn’t getting anywhere near the kid’s food payload he thought he would be getting. Not a single goldfish thus far! What kind of shit is this!?!? All of this exhaustion….so tired….

Pontoon rides. Campfires. S’more making. Meal times. Outdoor time. Running around. Fuck that shit. Mack would try to herd everyone inside. ‘Hey everybody! Let’s all go inside and all take like….4-5 hour naps”, Mack seemed to say.

Mack passed out in his dog bed at very early 8 PM that night.

The next day, Mack could barely stand it. For dog that is used to getting a healthy 16 hours a sleep a day, getting by on a meager 9 hours was just not cutting it. The girls’ love for Mack had not changed overnight and they were well rested and ready to kiss and hug a bulldog once more.

Going against the 13-year grain of his DNA, Mack took from following everyone around, to avoiding everyone at all costs. When we’d all go outside for breakfast on the patio, Mack would waddle inside and sneek in a nap on the floor. When we all went back inside, Mack asked to go outside where I saw him plop into a sunny grass patch and fall asleep, face in the grass. All of the adults had a good hearty laugh at Mack. Turns out Macaroni wasn’t the babysitter he talked himself up to be. Here are some great and hilarious pictures the girls’ mama took of Mack, looking absolutely tired and under-enthused:




Oh joy. The fish pillow game again.

Oh joy. The fish pillow game again.

Later that day we packed Macaroni’s fat old ass into the Jeep to head home. Before we left, I turned around a looked at him and said, “Get your Z’s in, old man. You’ve got 5 months until this starts all over again, but full time.” I then sang “Macaroni…….” until he fell asleep. Which was about 4 seconds.


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

And Baby Makes……5?

Yes, it’s true! We are expecting our first child! We are due right around Valentine’s Day, Feb 13 to exact and we couldn’t be more thrilled.

Pregnancy has been treating me well and isn’t nearly as scary or weird as I thought it would be.

It’s funny how this pregnancy has altered our household already, even though I’m just now starting to show. The Hubs is racing to get all of his race cars up and running before the end of the year. Without my consent, my brain has switched into full-on nesting mode and can only comprehend words and notions as they pertain to the baby.

For example, when my husband talks about spraying weed-killer on the lawn, my response is “Make sure I’m not around because I can’t be exposed to those chemicals with the baby.”

Or when the conversation shifts to ordering custom seat covers for the backseat of our Jeep, my reply is “Make sure they also allow hook-ups for a baby car seat for the baby.”

Sounds normal enough, right?

It gets more obscure. When Hubs talks about:

-The weather



-The conflict in Israel

he gets:

-“The weather is going to very cold when the baby is born.”

-“Babies can’t eat apples, Stupid.”

-“Fake snow is toxic to babies.”

-“………..I’m sorry, what? I was thinking about paint colors for the baby’s room.”

This mindset was funny at first, but is now taking a toll on my husband, who is perpetually taking off his glasses and massaging the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Even the dogs have been stepping it up a bit. And by stepping it up, I mean Mack has put on about 3 lbs in sympathy weight and Peterbilt has resorted back to peeing in house, after a nice 4 month break. See? Everybody is chipping in to make sure the house is baby-ready.

Plus, everybody in the house has benefited greatly from my recent subsequent sobriety. As someone who regularly walked the line between wine-lover and high-functioning alcoholic, I’m actually surprised at how easy it was to give up drinking. Mack’s relief is palpable now that 9:30 PM surprise dress-ups have ceased to exist

Mack is ready for his date!

Mack is ready for his date!

and Peterbilt has enjoyed the decrease in humiliating, Pinot Grigio-induced iPhone pictures. The Hubs is happy that he just doesn’t have worry about stepping on any verbal land-minds past 9PM, or about walking into our bedroom and finding me half-sloshed and crying, watching Ice Age 3 on Netflix.

And finally, although I’ve managed to escape fatigue and nausea for the most part, I have experienced some of the classic early pregnancy symptoms, so I though it would be only appropriate that I update my banner drawing, now that I am a major contributor:


More fart-filled pregnancy stories to come! Stay tuned!

Categories: Babies, Being Married, Bulldogs, Farts, Funny, Pets, Potty Humor, Pregnancy | Tags: , , | Leave a comment

Rest in Peace, Dad

A poem to my late father:

Your Last Day

The day that I last saw you, you were lying on your bed.

“You’re dad is really tired”, is what the nurse had said.

I did think you were sleeping, as you did that more and more.

Your disease had been rendering you weak, and you fell often on the floor


I called your name aloud, but you didn’t open your eyes

you continued to lay there with your Parkinson’s shake, arms laying by your side.

So I talked with you anyways, just like you were awake

and told you how I bought your favorite kind of milkshake.


I told you how everything was great and mom was doing OK

that you needn’t worry about a thing, and ‘Happy Father’s Day’

Before we left I told you I loved you and gave you a little kiss

I said I’d see you tomorrow and had your shake put in the fridge.


However, as I was leaving, I did not know that was actually ‘goodbye’

I received a call just hours later that my father had just died.

I wondered if my words were all that he needed to know

that hearing that everyone was OK was enough for him to let go.


Dad, now I look up to the sky and think of you every day

I’m eternally grateful that I visited you on your very last day.

Life can change in a blink of an eye. it’s scary but it’s true.

Tomorrow is never a guarantee. Dad, I miss and love you.


James M. Cheney – May 2, 1945 – June 16, 2014







Categories: Crappy Adulthood Problems, letter to my father, Old People, parkinson's disease | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

Thunderstorms and Bulldogs

I’ve always loved thunderstorms. It’s one of the many reasons why I enjoy summer the most.

I pretty much know my love of storms stemmed from when I was a kid in Illinois. When big storm would roll through in the middle of the night, didn’t matter the time, my dad wake the whole fam damily up and would nervously bark at me and my sister to evacuate our bedrooms and march downstairs into the lower level of our split-level home. There, he’d chain smoke and sit on the end of the couch, the Weather Channel on and his CB radio tuned into the local National Weather Service station.

My sister and I were always ordered to go back to sleep on the downstairs couches, but with the TV on full blast, the radio on and my parents arguing yet again, it was an impossibility. In fact, watching my dad (who spent an unnecessary amount of time and energy flexing his dominance over my sister and I) succumb to his nerves over a stupid thunderstorm gave my sister and I quite a thrill! We’d run around the house, peeking at the storm through the various windows. We’d invent stupid games like “Jump Up Every Time You Hear Thunder” and run around like crazed lunatics every time the NWS radio station emitted any beep, buzz or tone. Dad would threaten and scream at us to stay away from windows and shut the hell up, but that only added fuel to the fire. His plan totally backfired: He made thunderstorms exciting, not scary.

To this day, I get excited when I see a line of thunderstorms on the local radar. I have about 3 weather apps on my iPhone. Some days I visit nws.com more than Facebook. I even admit, I’ve YouTube’d videos of old Weather Channel local forecasts from the 80’s and 90’s (back when they had the local time in the upper right hand corner that showed the time in minutes and seconds……does anyone else remember that???) to reminiscence and appreciate how far technology has come since then.

But now that I have bulldogs, nightly thunderstorms are rapidly losing their appeal and just like every other problem in our house, Peterbilt is to blame.


It there was ever such a thing as a cute turd...

It there was ever such a thing as a cute turd…

Since about a year ago, any thunderstorm that happens overnight sends Peterbilt into a panic. Sequestered with his dog bed in our den with pocket doors, the symphony of girlish whines and the nervous tippy-tappy noises from his paws are always enough to wake me up from even the deepest sleep, which is exactly what I don’t need on a Tuesday night.

When a loud thunderstorm would commence overnight, I used to get out of bed all groggy as hell, and open the door to let him out. Then it was a literal race between us, back to my bed to claim my spot before Peterbilt did. Trust me, you don’t want to lose because once that dog lays down, there’s no moving him. And he totally wants to sleep with his giant fucking head on MY pillow on MY side of the bed. ab

And once we’re all in bed, that scared, poor baby bulldog that was just seconds ago having a meltdown, instantly transforms into a calm, sleepy dog who curls up and goes right to sleep. ON MY LEGS.

My husband, who could sleep through a tornado, would wake up the next morning, unaware of the whole ordeal and would ask me, “How’d Peter end up in our bed?”.

Oh how nice. You must have gotten 8 hours of sleep. What’s that like?

Soon, it didn’t take a big ol’ thunderstorm to send Peterbilt into an anxiety attack, but any storm with thunder and/or lightening. At times, all it took was a single, distant rumble of thunder. So quiet, I only hear it when fully awake. Which is exactly the state of sleep I’d find myself with an 80 lb bulldog draped over my legs at 4 AM.

Then, just a few short weeks ago, Peterbilt started to whine for no reason in the middle of the night. No storms, no thunder, no nothing. The one time Husband woke up to Peterbilt’s whining, he said, “He probably has to pee. Just let him out.”

Oh, thank you. You’re a saint. Yes. That’s exactly how I’d like to spend my 3AM. Getting out of my cozy bed, to wrangle Peterbilt’s ass to the back door, open the door and let him out, set the ADT alarm off so the whole damn house is up, disarm it, and stand with my forehead resting on the back door while Peterbilt leisurely chews on the long grasses by our shed.

I find my husband’s theory to be complete bullshit since every time I open the door to the den to let him out, the dog makes a bee line to the bed, not the back door, and then he’s already got a head start on that bed race I was telling you about.

But I digress.

So Peterbilt is now using any excuse he can muster to sleep in our bed. In other words, I’m being played like a fiddle by a creature who likes to eat cardboard paper towel tubes.

I put my foot down. “Treat him like a baby!” I told myself. “Just let him cry it out and eventually he’ll go back to sleep. If I get up and let him out every time, I’m just reinforcing that behavior.”

The first night, Peterbilt whined for about 5 minutes. I put a pillow over my head and drowned him out. Success.

The second night, Peterbilt whined for 15 minutes and then quit. Victory #2.

Night #3 and Peterbilt starts whining about 1:30 AM. Sticking to my guns, I laid in bed, trying to get back to sleep. The whining continued. And continued. To the point where my husband was actually woken up. I heard him get out of bed, open the den pocket door a crack, curse at Peterbilt and walk back to bed.

The whining subsided. For about an hour. Round 2.

Husband wakes up again. In an attempt to prove his theory to me, he gets out of bed, walks into our kitchen and opens up the pocket door to the den from the kitchen side, so Peterbilt was not able to run down the hallway to our bed. He let Peterbilt outside and he did his business. However, when Hubs let Peterbilt back in, the dog snuck past his legs and started to tear ass down the hallway towards our bedroom. Theory debunked.

Hubs tackled Peterbilt and threw him back in the den, closing the door. “Go to sleep!!”, he hissed. Things finally quieted down.

An hour later, the whining started yet again. And then I heard the thunder rumble.

“Fuck it. I totally give up”, I said out loud.

I got out of bed, let Peterbilt out, who did a victory run to our bedroom and beat me to bed. Tired and crabby, I literally gave Peter a good old fashioned kick in the butt and knocked him out of my spot. He then jumped off the bed, ran into the family room and came back with a bone. He jumped on the bed and started excitedly gnawing at it, still savoring his victory. “Oh, hell no!” I said, and grabbed the slimy bone out of his mouth and put in on the night stand.

Somehow, we all managed to go back to sleep. Peter especially, followed by Hubs and me coming in dead last for the amount of sleep gained from 4 AM to 8 AM.

I gave up on sleep at 8 AM and yawned and stretched. This immediately woke up Peterbilt, who did his own yawn and stretch. Then he proceeded to hassle me for his breakfast. “C’mon Mom!” He seemed to say. “Get up, already!”

I sat up and in doing do, Peterbilt leaped to the edge of the bed and looked over his shoulder at me, leering. He emitted an annoyed, low-pitched growl. I knew exactly what he was trying to tell me: “Feed me now and don’t even THINK about going to the bathroom first.”

Screw you, dog. That’s a tall fucking order, coming from  you.

I totally went the bathroom. And from there, SLOWLY started a pot of coffee. And did a couple of dishes that were in the sink. Just to piss him off.

There’s 3 months of summer left to go. Time to invest in a set of ear plugs.

Categories: Dogs | Tags: , , , , | 2 Comments

The Lilacs

It’s my favorite time of year again! It’s warm, the sun is out, we have 4 months worth of warm temps in front of us and most of all…..MY LILACS HAVE COME IN!!!!


Actual photo of my lilacs

Actual photo of my lilacs

I only have about 2 weeks of being surrounded in my purpley loveliness and each year I make sure to enjoy it to the fullest.

These sweet-smelling flowers are beneficial in many ways:

1.) The backyard smells awesome.

2.) The lilac bushes are full and leafy so I don’t have to see my sweaty, shirtless neighbors.

3.) I pick the flowers and bring them inside to use as a natural deodorizer. Mack crop dusts the house about every 10 minutes on the 8’s, Peterbilt manages to forever smell like a wet Sasquatch and my husband punctuates his sentences with farts:

“I’m hungry” (toot.)

“What’s for dinner” (rip?)

“Peterbilt jumped the fence and is running amok in the neighborhood again” (POOT!)

Although to be honest, Peterbilt escapes so often, it’s more commonly punctuates with a “toot.” than a exclamatory “POOT!”.

Just let the dog run. He’ll be back and if not, well, then that’s cool, too.

4.) I can sit underneath the bushes and pretend I’m in a magical forest. I’m the queen of Pinot Grigio-land.

So yesterday, I was out snipping more lilacs to put in a vase. I noticed what looked to be like two, upside down bird’s nests made of grass on the ground, with a large tuft of gray fur, balled in on top of it.

“What kind of bird would make a nest out of fur?”, I wondered.

I used my scissors to lift the nest and peek inside,expecting to see eggs. Instead, I saw something small and furry, move inside.

Bunnies. Two bunnies. In a small hole in the ground by the root of one of the pine trees in our backyard. Just out in the open! What type of unfit mother leaves babies vunerable to such beasts as an always-hungry, possibly diabetic, 13-year old bulldog and a 5-year old, spawn of Satan bulldog? Doesn’t she know? Doesn’t she read my blog?

Oh the poor things! How are they going to survive? How will I protect them? They were about the size of golf balls.

All sorts of scenes are starting to play through my head:

-Mack gulping the bunnies down and devouring their nest. Seriously. The dog would eat the nest.

-Peterbilt ruthlessly murdering the babies for the pure sport of it, his blood-stained face peering through the back door asking to come inside to vomit them up on a bathroom rug.

-Hubs mowing over them, a brief, red spray of blood, mama bunny looking off in the distance with tear in her eye

I didn’t want to disturb them too much, so I did not take a picture.

I brought Hubs out to the backyard to prove to him these were rabbits and that I was not crazy.

“Well”, he said. “We can take care of that.”

“NO!!!”, I yelled. “Please don’t kill or move them! Help me think of another way that we can keep the dogs away and keep them safe!”

Google it, he says. Find out how long bunnies are helpless for.

So I did:


So Mama Rabbit isn’t a deadbeat mom after all! And now I can move them so Mack won’t turn them into appetizers!

Here’s hoping Mama Rabbit doesn’t come tearin’ ass out of the bushes at me and gnaw my nose off. Because then I wouldn’t be able to enjoy those lilacs.



Categories: Bulldogs, Farts | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Happy Birthday Mack!

This past week, Mack turned the ripe old age of 13. Yep. Fucking old. But he still has an ass like a dog of 9. Macks words. Not mine.

Although physically Mack is in superb shape for a dog his age, Mack does display some characteristic behaviors of his now geriatric age bracket.

For example, he is somewhat hard of hearing. I say somewhat because it’s an unknown ratio of  age and selective hearing. it seems Mack’s ability to hear is directly contingent upon my proximity to food.

Mack is also turning into a one of those old men who just doesn’t give a fuck. About his actions, his appearance or what people think of him. He now begs at the dinner table, licks the dirty dishes in the dishwasher rack as I rinse them after dinner and rips ass frequently and without care. Oh wait, that last part has always happened. You can yell at him or shoot him with the sprayer from the kitchen sink but you’ll get the same, shit-eating grin of his every time. “What you gonna do? Spank me like a puppy? I DO WHAT I WANT!”, Mack seems to emanate.

On Saturday, we planned to celebrate with Mackie during the afternoon. By the time we got all of our errands taken care of, it was after 1. I found Mack in a deep, afternoon slumber on his raggedy-ass couch in our basement. I woke him up by the same old ‘treat under the nose’ trick that just never gets old. I love watching him go from sleep to eat in under 4 seconds. God damn that dog loves his food.

Then it was time to let him take care of his business in the backyard before we left. Mack is a pro at stalling when you want him to move. There’s a lot of dawdling. First, Mack hates exercise, so going up the stairs takes about a minute. Then he makes a point of drinking all of the water out of Peterbilt’s dish. Mack really gets a kick out of that.

I let Mack out, went to find my phone and my purse and heard Mack’s big boy bark coming from the yard. Mack rarely barks. I ran out to see, figuring there was a deer in the backyard or that autistic kid got loose again. Nope. The neighbors had a small, white tent set up in their back yard. How frightening. Fur mohawk city.

I reassured Mack that white tents are not alive and stroked his fur back down, all the while, Hubs has been waiting in the car the whole time. i coaxed Mack back in house and to the driveway, Mack resisting the entire time.

We recently bought a 2-door Chevy Cavalier, which replaced a 4-door Ford Taurus. Both bulldogs have not been fans of the 2-door car so far. Mack refuses to squeeze into the backseat with the front seat folded down. It takes both me and my husband to force him inside, where he further protests by standing in the footwells. At this point, we unfold the passenger seat and move it back, physically forcing him to jump up on the backseat. Mack let out a grunt at his unceremonious birthday send off.

We are finally on our way. The birthday ritual of a car-ride to the “buffet” (Chuck and Don’s Pet Food Outlet) for Mack.

photo 1 copy

Since Mack’s been double-digits, we usually pepper the birthday car ride with sarcastic remarks about his age. “Was Jesus cool?”. “What was your favorite dinosaur?” “Mack, tell us again about your cocaine days at Studio 54.” We just can’t help ourselves.

We arrived at the pet food store and a line of female employees gathered to pet the birthday boy. With each one, the same process repeated: Mack’s ears would pin and his nub would wag, he’d check both hands for treats, find nothing and walk away disinterested before they could even pet him. Because fuck pets and kisses. In a store full of food, Mack fully expects to get his ‘ugly eat’ on.

Mack then did his usual gorge of the open bins of dog treats:

Overeaters Anonymous called, Mack.

Overeaters Anonymous called, Mack.

You’ll notice my husband pulling very hard on the leash, Mack trying to dig his heels into the smooth tile floor.

"To hell with both of you! I'm starving!"

“To hell with both of you! I’m starving!”

Mack is so much more easier to drag on tile.


At one point, I had a treat in my hand while taking a picture. Mack almost ate an iPhone for his birthday:



We ended up paying for all (most) of the treats he gobbled down and managed to win a bag of treats from a Plinko game they had up and running. We even bought him a new rope toy that came with an chunk of antler built into it.


Mack, exhausted from turning down bitches, willingly got into the car and napped the rest of the way home.

Happy Birthday, old man dog.


Categories: Dogs | Leave a comment

Mack’s Staycation

It may seem that Mack has it real easy, but if you ask him, he’d say that he gets just as burnt out as you or me. I mean c’mon….you sleep 8 hours, get up, woof down your food, shit, climb back up onto your couch and sleep 8 more hours, get up again, woof down your food, shit, shriek for an hour or two, chew on a toy, grumble through a walk around the block and climb back up onto your couch and sleep for 8 hours.

Modern Bulldog Life. It’s stressful.

Mack appreciates an occasional escape from the daily rigors of being a dead-beat father to Peterbilt. And one of his favorite places to stay is at my in-laws house.

As soon as the last mound of snow melted, my in-laws showed up on our doorstep, just in from Arizona, ready to spend the next 6 months in their Minnesota home. Within minutes of their arrival, they had already asked to dog-sit Mackie for a few days. Here’s how that conversation went:

In-Laws: “Hey guys! Good to see you! Long time no see!’

Us: “Good to see you guys, too! How was–”

-and then they rush over to Mack to say hi.

So on Sunday, my husband dropped Mackie off at his parents (or Mack’s grandparents) house so Mack could chill with them for a few days. As always, Mack could care less about you when you turn to leave. The minute he’s at his grandparent’s house, you’re now chopped liver. Not even so much as a good-bye glance when you head out the door. He’s already on to bigger and better things.

I like to think that to Mack, going to his grandparents house is a lot like a taking a weekend trip to a beach or some other relaxing place. I like to think that if there were ever a travel a brochure about staying at my in-laws that would be intended for a target audience of old, crotchety bulldogs, it would like a little like this. Enjoy:

travelbr1 travelbr2


After a few days, I decided that the in-laws were probably tired of being endlessly berated by a 4-legged creature.

Even though Mack loves his grandma and grandpa, Mack was sure happy to see me yesterday when I came to pick him up.

I’ve never received such a welcome. From the dog who’s typical first reaction to when I come home for the day is to shoot me a look and walk off in the opposite direction, I got the full 5-star treatment. Full-on nub-wagging, twirling, marching of the paws. Ears pinned and everything.The grandparents had to restrain him every time I went out to the Jeep to load up his stuff. By the time I was ready to load Mack up, he was running at full speed towards me, which is something that Mack reserves for only special occasions.

“Get me out of here!! These people never sleep! They’re always home!!!”, Mack seemed to say.

Oh, did I forget to mention that my in-laws have more energy, more plans and have bigger social circles that we do?

I suspect Mack had his fill of constant company, bright, sun-filled rooms and not being allowed on any couches, whatsoever. Because what kind of shit is that?!?!

Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you got, til it’s gone?

Mack may shriek when left by himself in his downstairs apartment, but that room also comes with his very own, scrubby-ass couch that he gets to lounge around on.

He may be left alone all day long while we’re at work, but our finished basement is ideal for sleeping: always dark, cool, quiet and comfortable.

Our ice cubes may be inferior, but we are fully stocked with dog treats.

Peterbilt may be totally annoying, but Peterbilt is totally annoying. I got nothing on that one.

Mack, feeling very happy about being at home and very sleep deprived, didn’t hesitate climb onto his ratty old couch and fall asleep when he got home.


“Oh, couch. How i’ve missed you”

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

A walk around the lake

Sunday was a perfect day for a walk around Theodore Wirth Lake in Minneapolis and we figured the bulldogs would be just dying to get out and run around. Well, Peterbilt anyways.

So we got Peterbilt all dolled up in his choke chain, dusted the cobwebs off of Mack truck and threw both of their asses in the Jeep.

The lake had several people already walking their dogs, walking with their kids and playing volleyball. A few kids were already running wild on the beach. Peterbilt could barely be contained the first 1/2 mile or so, pulling and zig-zagging around the trail, here and there, almost taking a jogger or two in the process. Mack employed his normal stalling tactics of smelling random patches of grass and peeing every 50 feet.

We all had a pretty good walk. Peterbilt ran in and out of the recently thawed lake, the cold water acting like rocket fuel, propelling him out of the water and sending him careening down the trail at full speed until the retractable leash reached its limit. This repeated itself about 4 times.


Mack’s highlight was when he found a pregnant woman eating string cheese on a bench and proceeded to panhandle her for food.

By the time we reached full circle, we found someone to take our portrait. Notice Peterbilt’s wide grin.


All and all, it was a good day. Many laughs. Many smells. Many dumps. Mack even jogged a little. Peterbilt would have loved another lap, but Mack was waving his white flag around so we have to give the old guy a break. He’s going to be 13 years old in just 10 days, you know.




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

God Made a Peterbilt

God Made a Peterbilt

House of Farts

God Made A Peterbilt

And one day God was bored and in need of entertainment. As he looked down on his wide eyed children, he spotted a couple named Justin and Sarah. God said to his angels “You guys wanna see something funny?” So God made a Peterbilt.


God said: “Things are going too well for these two. They haven’t enough hardship in their lives. I need a creature willing to wake up them up at 3 AM because his Kong stuck under a couch, 20140502-140841.jpgpee on their hardwood floors, sleep all day and wake up and bark at the neighbors having a nice quiet dinner in their own house across the street. Then stay up until midnight chewing on the loudest, most annoying squeak toy he can find.” So God made a Peterbilt.

God said:

“I need a being willing to eat Justin and Sarah’s shoes, shit the remnants…

View original post 393 more words

Categories: Dogs | Leave a comment

Blog at WordPress.com.