Posts Tagged With: Bulldog

“You’re Killing Me, Smalls.”

It still amazes me that such a tiny demon human can wreak so much havoc.

7 months old. The “golden age” of babyhood, so they say. Baby’s developing sense of humor, curiosity and inquisitive nature are in full force and boy is it a fun time. Except when it wasn’t, recently.

Peanut was (still is) such a good baby. Good sleeper (kind of), cute, happy and healthy. Always eager to try the next step, I started her on solids at 5 months old. Baby sweet potatoes. Baby carrots. Baby peaches. All met with a gooey, smiling face smeared with food. ‘What a good eater!’, I thought to myself.

And then it came to a screeching halt when she turned 6 months old. I started having a real time trying to feed her dinner. I’d get home. She’d start to fuss, I’d whip out her favorite, pureed carrots, slap a bib her and BOOM!….ready to go, right? Yeah no.

Her cute little nose turned up at the sight of carrots, meal time soon became a horrible shit show of screaming, tears, a messy child and mom cracking open the wine a bit too early.

“What IS this kid’s beef?”, I asked myself. “This kid is hungry but she’s not eating. I must be doing something wrong.”

“Probably!”, said Hubs with a grin, the smart assery not being withheld.

So I had Hubs try to feed her, thinking maybe she just hated my face.

Nope. Apparently she hates his face, too.

Golden age my ass.

For weeks we struggled with dinner and during the weekends, all meals throughout the day. I’d get 2 spoonfuls in of food in and the crying would begin. I’d have to resort to force feeding her during her loudest, open-mouthed wails. Meals typically went like this:

Me: “Okay, peanut! We’ve got some carrots tonight! You like carrots, right??”

Peanut: (staring back, suspiciously.)

Me: (getting about 3 spoonfuls in)

Peanut: (turning her head and starting to fuss, closed mouthed)

Me: “Oh, c’mon. You’ve barely started. C’mon! Say ‘ah’!”

Peanut (continuing to fuss)

Me: (getting a spoonful in when she opens her mouth to moan)

Peanut: “Pbbbbpbbb!” (yeah, that’s her razzing, spraying the food out back at me)

Me: “C’mon! Say ‘ah’! ‘Ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah ah!”

Peanut: (starts to dance to the beat)

Me: (eating her carrots)

Peanut: (starts playing with her hands)

Mack Truck: *fart*

Me: “You’re killing me, Smalls.'” (and I start to make her scrambled eggs for the 3rd night in a row)

The shittiest part? She’d eat for everyone else in the world except me. Daycare lady reported she couldn’t feed her fast enough during the day. Grandma said she eats just fine for her. Hell, I’m pretty sure that shifty homeless character that roams our neighborhood and remarks at how good of a watch dog Peterbilt must be (ha!) would have better luck at feeding her her strained peas. Cigarette in tattooed hand and all.

I felt ashamed. “I’m a joke of a mom!”, I’d say to myself. ‘I might as well get Mama June’s phone number so I can get pointers on how to integrate Mountain Dew into Peanut’s diet.’ As a mother, I’m supposed to be the one to keep her well fed, clean and happy but meal-times were the exact opposite of that. To add salt to the wound, she’d wake up hungry multiple times in the night. So now not only was I Suck-mom, I was a very sleep deprived Suck-mom.

I ran myself silly trying to figure out what was wrong. I tried using different high chairs (nope). Different bibs (still ripped them off). Not using a bib (lol). Finger foods (kid can’t live off of scrambled eggs and baby cheese puffs, despite what Mama June said). Buying a special high chair toy (she chucks it across the kitchen. Now a bulldog toy). Re-positioning her high chair to face a different direction (running out of ideas here).

I even (stupidly) tried introducing meats during this time. DO YOU KNOW WHAT JARRED BABY MEAT SMELLS LIKE? For those of you who don’t have kids, it smells an awful lot like wet cat food. And for those of you who have never owned a dog and a cat at the same time, cat food is like caviar for dogs, the holy grail of all foods. It’s stinky and they’re not supposed to have it, which makes it even more irresistible. All it did for me was create an audience of wide-eyed, drooling bulldogs around me and the high chair while Peanut wailed in frustration. Peterbilt with 6″ drool fangs, trying to lick the air and Mack licking the baby’s feet, probably imagining that they were cat-food flavored Popsicles.

I was about to accept the fact that mealtimes were just going to suck thoroughly until Peanut went off to college.

Last week, on whim, I gave her a taste of pears while preparing her dinner. She opened her mouth for more. And more. And more. And I opened a full container of pears which were inhaled. Once that was done, I had her finish off her carrots from the day before. Done. Cracked open a jar of baby beef. Woofed down. No tears. No crying. In fact, she was doing her little happy little babble noises and performing a primitive form of ‘wax on, wax off’ on her high chair table.

Holy crap. I figured it out! I have to prime the Peanut. Basically, start off each meal with a food she really enjoys (pears, yogurt, etc) and then once her appetite has been whetted, start with the veggies and meats. It’s worked every time since. We even have a baby food vocabulary built up:

Baby opens mouth, eats food, gulps, opens mouth in fast succession = Is good.

Baby casually eats = Meh.

Baby sprays out food at face = Rather not.

Baby spits out food and shudders = Um, yuck?

Added bonus? Her large supper allows her to sleep through the night. And I’ll drink to that.

Cheers. To the next hurdle. *Clink!*

Categories: baby, Being Married, Crappy Adulthood Problems, Farts, Funny, Pets | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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

Bulldog Haiku

Guilty Dog

Guilty Dog


Pee-soaked bath mats yay!

9 to 5 is a long time

for an anxious dog.


Categories: Dogs | Tags: , , , , | 14 Comments

Awkward Bulldog Photos

Both of my bulldogs are to the point that they avert their eyes when I bring out my iPhone. Their perky ears suddenly hang low and their cute faces droop with disappointment: “Mom’s been drinking again.” They hate it when I want to take their picture. It’s because they know I’m making fun of them in ways they can’t understand.

I’ve been chasing around my two clowns for the last 5-ish years and have snapped several thousand pictures of them both, most of them are for my own amusement. When I can’t sleep at night I take out my phone and flip through all of the stupid dog pictures and cackle to myself.

But… I’ve captured some gems over the years and I would like to share the best with you. Like Awkward Family Photos, these pictures are awkward, squirmingly embarrassing  and borderline incestual.

Peterbilt has fallen asleep in some pretty ridiculous places before, but this one takes the cake. This was when Peterbilt was still a puppy and was naive to the fact that Mack's asshole is the closest we will ever get to knowing what hell smells like.

Peterbilt has fallen asleep in some pretty ridiculous places before, but this one takes the cake. This was when Peterbilt was still a puppy and was naive to the fact that Mack’s asshole is the closest we will ever get to knowing what hell smells like.

Here's another beauty.  170 lbs of dog on one bed results in some bad touching

Here’s another beauty. 170 lbs of dog on one bed results in some “bad touching”

Mack suspects these photos are being used in ways that will soon ruin his street cred.

Mack suspects these photos are being used in ways that will soon ruin his street cred.

The Runner Up. Mack was laying on the ground when Peterbilt literally craweled under his head, went tits up and fell asleep. Mack feels like a creep.

The Runner Up. Mack was laying on the ground when Peterbilt literally crawled under his head, went tits up and fell asleep. Mack feels like a creep.

Gotta let The Junk get some air.

Gotta let The Junk get some air.

Title: "HALP!!" Mack has an aversion to physical affection.

Title: “HALP!!”
Mack has an aversion to physical affection.

Whoops! How did that get in there?!?

Whoops! How did that get in there?!?

Buddy gives Peterbilt a good old fashioned penis inspection. Peterbilt does not object.

Buddy gives Peterbilt a good old fashioned penis inspection. Peterbilt does not object.

Oh, how we love to make Mack feel objectified!

Oh, how we love to make Mack feel objectified!

Babushka Petuh mourns.

Babushka Petuh mourns.

I'm hugging Mack and Mack's pretending I'm not there and continues to watch CSI Miami. Typical male.

I’m hugging Mack and Mack’s pretending I’m not there and continues to watch CSI Miami. Typical male.



This one you have to see in a series. Photo 1: Mack is asking Justin to share his pizza and beer.

This one you have to see in a series. Photo 1: Mack is asking Justin to share his pizza and beer.

Photo 2: Mack, asking me to make Justin share his pizza and beer.

Photo 2: Mack, asking me to make Justin share his pizza and beer.

After 2 failed attempts, Mack resorts to a pouty look at Justin, who then tucks in his jowels.

After 2 failed attempts, Mack resorts to a pouty look at Justin, who then tucks in his jowels.

Photo 4: Hilarity ensues

Photo 4: Hilarity ensues

Photo 5: Close Up.

Photo 5: Close Up.

I caught Mack practicing his Cobra.

I caught Mack practicing his Cobra.










Peter, during his super lame bunny rabbit stage

Peter, during his super lame bunny rabbit stage

Categories: Dogs | Tags: , | Leave a comment

What can Brown do for you?

Our UPS delivery driver has created a monster.


It started about a year and a half ago. Justin and I were going to be married in a few months and the steady stream of wedding gifts had begun. I was in the front yard watering my geraniums. Peter was sharpening his fangs on stick when the UPS truck hauled ass past our house, pedal to the metal. Upon hearing the truck, Peter dropped his stick and starting chasing after the truck, like full on, fast as he can go, down the block. Shit. After my shoeless sprint in the street, I managed to catch up and threw him back in the front yard, this time with his invisible fence collar on. “Great. Now he’s chasing vehicles. Because he doesn’t have enough bad habits already”, I thought

The next day, around the same time, I was inside when I heard Peterbilt tear ass to the front door and sit at the window, silently and intently staring. Quivering, even. Then, after a minute, he slowly walked away. I looked outside, nothing was there.

This had process repeated itself a few times when I finally I brought it up to my husband, in an attempt to make conversation one evening during an awkwardly quiet dinner.

“Yeah, the UPS driver throws him milk bones sometimes when he drives by.” Justin also admitted that it even took him a while to figure out what was happening. Peterbilt normally gets to chill in the front yard by himself for 15 minutes or so when Justin gets home from work and that coincides with when UPS makes deliveries to our neighborhood. I laughed when Justin told me this. Peterbilt had a secret.


Shortly thereafter, I witnessed a few of the treat-throwings. The UPS driver wore a safari hat and when he’d fly down down the street, he’d tip his hat at me, smile, reach into his pocket, and flip me the bird. I keed, I keed. That’s what I would do if I was a UPS driver. No, he’d reach into his pocket and pull out a Peterbilt-size milk bone and chuck it into our yard. Peterbilt would gleefully run and quickly scarf down the treat, scouring the driveway for crumbs.. I’d wave to the guy and he’d drive off into the sunset like a lone, brown, safari cowboy on a diesel horse.

“That guy is cool”, I thought to myself. It was such a heartwarming thing to watch. Here’s a guy who probably spent a good $30 a month on large breed size milk bones, just to make a dog’s day brighter and bring a smile to their owner’s faces. And yes, I do realize the ulterior motive in this. Sonny (I named him this. He looks like a Sonny to me) doesn’t want his face eaten off by the Jones’s German Shepherd while he’s trying to deliver their Sky Mall eyebrow trimmer. Sonny likes having a nose. I get that. Give a dog a treat repeatedly and you have a friend for life. Makes sense.

Except in the case of Peterbilt.

As the package deliveries increased, so did the treats. The driver started leaving milk bones on the packages that would deliver when we weren’t home:


Equally as cute at the time, but then we’d get home from work, we’d open the front door and get mowed down by a 85 lb dog who had spent the last 2 hours staring at his treat though the window, panicking that some other random neighborhood dog would eat it before he would have a chance. I could picture Peterbilt, picturing those two assclown border collies running and chaotically barking into his yard, gulping down his treat, simultaneously take shits in his yard and then run away with the UPS man into the sunset to live happily ever after, all while he’s behind a pane of glass. The humiliation. The heartbreak.

Things declined from there. The summer came and went. We got married and the package deliveries significantly decreased. Fall came, and Justin started working on his car. He would order car parts from various places but most of those packages delivered with FedEx Ground and our FedEx driver delivered packages sans treats. This did not go over well. Not only did we get mowed down the same when we opened the door, we had a upset bulldog to deal with. He would scour the package and front step, no stone left unturned and would whine and whimper when the realization that there was never a treat set in. Peterbilt did not understand why one gray guy left treats but the other slightly darker gray guy did not. If fact, the darker gray guy was kind of a asshole. I call him Biff. For packages left by Biff at the front door, we started tossing out sympathy treats on the front porch when Peterbilt wasn’t looking. Yeah, my husband and I had succumbed to the sad bulldog face once again, but the worst of it still had yet to come.

Recently, Justin and I were in the driveway heading towards our car to go somewhere, I think a friend’s birthday party. We hadn’t even gotten in the car yet and saw the UPS truck come around the corner. My husband had been waiting for a package all week, so we opened up the garage and let Peterbilt outside to get his freebie treat. It had been a while since we had a UPS delivery.

Sonny saw us and walked up to us in the driveway to deliver the package. Peterbilt was a star-struck fan, twirling and play-posturing like he just met Paul McCartney. The UPS Guy, dug into his pocket and gave Peter his usual milk bone. We signed, said thank you and went to put the package in the garage. We called Peterbilt to come inside, but he wasn’t listening. We could actually feel what was going to happen next. The dog bolted from the driveway, across the street and jumped into the parked UPS Truck while our driver was in the back, sorting his packages. He ran into the back of the truck, and starting rummaging around in there for treats like “C’mon you stingy bastard!!! I know you got more where that came from!” We ran to the guy’s truck, apologized profusely, wrangled a spoiled rotten bulldog out of there and sheepishly walked back home. I could tell Sonny was annoyed, but he had no one to blame but himself. Give a bulldog an inch and he’ll take a mile.

So now every time a delivery truck, mail truck, Schwann’s truck, pick up truck, Prius or anything motorized drives by, we now have a bulldog, optimistically looking out to the window. He looks and acts well behaved behind that window, but beware. All it takes is lousy milk bone and that spoiled rotten monster will rear his white, wrinkly head. Handle with care.


Categories: Dogs | Tags: , , | 1 Comment

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