Posts Tagged With: Bulldogs

The Elmo on the Shelf

A baby, two jealous bulldogs and an annoying Sesame Street character. It sounds like the beginning of some really lame joke, but it’s actually our very own, brand new Christmas tradition called The Elmo on the Shelf.

Like The Elf on the Shelf, Elmo on the Shelf is also a thing that sits on a shelf of some sort. Except our tradition started after Christmas, is not at all magical and you only move it when the bulldogs find it.

So, we just celebrated our first Christmas as parents with our 10-month old daughter.  She was elated to find a small Elmo in with her Christmas presents, her favorite Sesame Street character. Elmo immediately became her favorite Christmas toy out of the bunch. Christmas was all about her hugging him, burying her face in his and doing that nails-on-the-chalkboard shrieking thing she does when she’s happy.

You know who else was excited about that little red Elmo? Mack.

At 14 years old, Mackie has a touch of the Doggie Dementia, which means his behavior is starting to revert back to a puppy-like stage. Which also means that Mack is not above stealing a prize Christmas toy away from an unsuspecting infant, for the sole purpose of ripping Elmo’s little head right off, purely for sport.

While Hubs and I were preparing a Christmas dinner for my mother (who was not at all thrilled at having someone else host Christmas for the first time in 25 years) I was also busy trying to gently wrestle Elmo (don’t want to tear it!) out of Mackie’s mouth. I tried coaxing Mack with treats, blowing in his face, flicking his nose, trying to pry open his jaws, all while hearing the tiny threads of Elmo’s legs pop one by one. Eventually he dropped it once it became a team effort of Hubs and I sticking our fingers in his mouth and screaming obscenities at him (all the while my oblivious mother was clamoring on about what time we should eat dinner next Christmas at her house, a year from now).

After that scenario replayed itself a few more times, Elmo got a Christmas bath in the washing machine, Mack was separated from the baby toys and I cracked open a new bottle of wine.

The next day or so we paid extra attention to make sure that Mack didn’t get a hold of Elmo, coming close several times. Just when it seemed that Mack had given up on Elmo, here comes Peterbilt trotting into the family room with Elmo in his mouth, ready to curl up in front of the fireplace to disembowel that poor, now slightly tattered, red muppet.

And that is how Elmo on the Shelf was born.

Elmo’s been sitting above our fireplace now for the last 48 hours. Fortunately for our daughter, she’s young enough where once something is out of sight, it’s out of mind as well. Not so much for the bulldogs, who have been looking woefully at our fireplace. Until we figure out how to keep those cold, calculating, murderous bulldogs from torturing a baby toy, Elmo is going into witness protection as an Elf on a Shelf.

 

 

Categories: Babies, Bulldogs, Crappy Adulthood Problems, Dogs, Farts, Funny, Old People, Pets | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

Really??? REALLY????

I woke up on Sunday morning fully expecting the day to be uneventful and secretly hoping to get a nap in at some point.

It certainely seemed to start off normal: I woke up around 8 AM to Mack sneezing in my face, his head eagerly perched on the edge of my bed with his nub wagging, hoping to get his breakfast. I got up, let Peterbilt and Mack outside to do their business. They both took their wizzes as fast as they could and raced back to the back door. I quickly opened the sliding glass door as they clamored over each other to be the first one in, both running to the refrigerator where we keep the dog food. That scene in Christmas Story played in my head where that gang of multiple, neighborhood mutts stampede into Ralphie’s kitchen and devour their Christmas turkey.  And Ralphy’s old man though he had problems…the next few minutes would prove his ornery ass WRONG.

Preparing the dog food, I spilled some of the kibble on the floor. This started WW3 between the hungry bulldogs as they growled and fought for their share. I started to yell at both dogs, mostly Peterbilt since he’s the bigger asshole of the two, and my husband ran into the kitchen and dove into the pile. Peter started to run off, with my husband chasing him down. Peter did a quick turn and my husband rolled his ankle. All we heard was a SNAP and him collapsing to the floor in pain, howling.

I ran over to assess the situation. Both bulldogs, over their food rage and clearly feeling guilty, shifted and paced nervously by my husband, who was holding his left foot and rolling around on the floor. Peterbilt even doused my husbands face in a few, sloppy, submissive kisses.

I helped Hubs back to our room, elevated his foot and grabbed an ice pack. The bulldogs hovered over him like nervous, untrained nurses, sniffing and resniffing my husband. Eventually within 5 minutes, things calmed down and they both forgot my husband was injured, going back to their default task of hovering around the pregnant lady. Sorry Hubs. It’s time to play second fiddle again.

After an hour, we decided to take my Hubs into urgent care where we waited 2 hours, surrounded by people with the flu, to be told what we already knew: a broken ankle bone.

Hubs is to wear a brace, use crutches and not put any weight on his left foot for 6-8 weeks.

Baby’s due date is in 2 weeks.

My doctor told me 1 week ago that she doesn’t want me on my feet as much because of the swelling in my legs and ankles.

Hubs started graduate school 2 weeks ago.

Great job everyone and a big thank you, Peterbilt, you fucking assclown. This couldn’t be timed anymore perfectly.

Do you know that bulldogs don’t care if you’re tired or injured? Even when said injury is a direct result of their misbehavior? Nope, much like small children, they want what they want and they want it NOW!

Why am I suddenly not getting walks?!?!?!

Why am I suddenly not getting walks?!?!?!

So now instead of spending my Sunday napping and assembling last minute baby gear, I’m on my feet, letting a belligerent, senile old bulldog outside before he revenge pees the kitchen rug, keeping the bone-snapping-ankle-crushing-maniac-bulldog from humping my maternity body pillow AGAIN and refilling Hub’s glass of juice for the third time.

A couple of very unlucky, Century link sales reps came knocking at our front door not to long after that and let’s just say…..they have probably black listed our address from all future sales calls. I’m the Bitch from Hell in the Tan house. Don’t go there.

So now I’ve got a needy husband, two shrieking bulldogs and baby girl is finding new and painful nooks and crannies to stick her legs into. And then there’s me, looking at the calendar and counting down the days until I can drink white wine again.

Grumpy and tired, I went to bed around 10 PM. As I’m drifting off, Hubs started to laugh. Laughing so hard he’s shaking the bed. “What.”, I said.

Hubs said to me, “I just love so you much.”

“Why?”, I asked.

He laughed ever harder and managed to compose himself after a while to say, “Because your fucking awesome! Here you are: full-term pregnant, taking care of my ass while I snap at you because I’m in pain, Mack’s shrieking for his Kong

Now, woman!

Now, woman!

and Peterbilt’s…..well…being Peterbilt…… and your still keeping this family glued together!”

Well now thanks a lot, Hubs. Because now I’m crying. Again.

February is going to be interesting.

Categories: Babies, Bulldogs, Crappy Adulthood Problems, Dogs, Pets, Pregnancy | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Our Christmas Miracle

Besides a healthy baby on the way and Mack and Pete’s ever growing tolerance for each other, our family had even more to be thankful for this past Christmas season.

A few weeks ago, Hubs and I decided Mack was ripe enough to toss his ass in the tub and give an old, pissed off bulldog something more to complain about. Mackie got a double shampooing, full-on brush treatment in the bathtub and a detailed wash between his toes, which he absolutely despises. He was good and pissed off by the time the bath was over.

Hubs and I split the bathing of the bulldogs in half, Hubs half being bigger than mine, of course. While Hubs lifts the dogs in and out of the tub, wrestles the bulldogs in the tub and washes them, I chase them around the bathroom and towel dry them the best I can.

Towel drying the bulldogs is a wrestling match all on its own. Mack usually takes a few laps around the bathroom to walk off the aggravation the bath causes. I’m toweling him off the whole way but it’s all I can do not to jump on his back and ride him like a bull.

I went to dry off Mack’s head, neck and ears. Knowing that I had just a few seconds of Mack holding still for me, I quickly and aggressively toweled off his head and ears, Mack fighting back by thrashing his head all around inside the towel. After a few minutes, I finally got Mack dried off enough to set him free, Mack making a bee line for our fuzzy area rug in front of the fire.

After a half an hour or so, we noticed Mack’s right side ear was puffed up. Like, REALLY swollen. His ear flap is normally about an eighth of an inch thick. Now it was an inch thick.

My knee jerk diagnoses was allergies, but Hubs was already on his iPhone Googling away. His diagnoses was spot on: Aural Hematoma.

Mack’s ear flap was bleeding internally, all from my asshole toweling methods. Even worse, every website and thread from dog owners said that aural hematomas were only corrected by surgery, since the bleeding only continues to the point where the ear basically explodes. A visual of Mack shaking his head off in pain, spraying blood in every crevice of our house played out in my head.

I felt awful. Not only did I injure my poor, fat ol’ puppy Mack, now it’s looking like I will have to hand over my Christmas bonus to a vet for the 2nd year in a row (see https://houseoffarts.wordpress.com/2014/01/10/why-i-havent-posted-in-a-few-weeks/  )

Even worse, a 13-year old geriatric bulldog will now have to go under for surgery, which is quite risky.

Distraught, we took Mack to the vet, where they confirmed that he would probably end up on the operating table but the doctor wanted to give it the good college try before doing so, given Mack’s dinosaur age status.

Mack’s ear was drained, then flipped over to flatten it against his head. A bandage was tightly wrapped around his head to keep the ear compressed, hoping the ear would start to heal on its own. The doctor again warned us that this would be a long shot and promised to get a quote for the surgery over to us right away.

Babushka Mack mourns for your soul.

Babushka Mack mourns for your soul.

We were told to remove the bandage in 5 days. After Day 4, Mack decided he’d had enough and removed it himself. One moment Mack was just sitting there, sporting his head wrap, not giving a fuck.

Mack, not givin' a fuck

Mack, not givin’ a fuck

The next, Mack was wearing nothing but a flesh-colored infinity scarf and a shit-eating grin:

This isn't the actual picture, but that shit-eating grin is pretty much the same.

This isn’t the actual picture, but that shit-eating grin is pretty much the same.

And his ear, was back to its inflammed state. Shit.

The next day, we brought Mack back to the vet. The doctor wanted to try draining his ear again, but this time taping it down to prevent a certain, crafty old bulldog from removing it. They also put him on a regimen of Prednisone to hopefully speed up the healing process. Which, by the way they had to run up bloodwork for. And which we found out, that Mack’s heart and kidney function are FUCKING OUTSTANDING for his advanced age. So that was our shred of good news.

5 more days went by of Mack, trying his damnedest to take his bandage off. Hubs and I started calling him Babushka Mack, made Yakov Smirnoff jokes and sarcastically asked Mack what he missed about the old country. Mack was not enthused.

Do not ill speak of Mother Russia.

Do not ill speak of Mother Russia.

Hell, Peterbilt even felt sympathy for his dickhead dad and even gave Mackie a lick on the face. It was awkward for all parties involved.

After 5 days, we brought Mack to the vet where they took him in back to remove the tape.

After 20 minutes or so, Mack came running full speed at us, away from the vet techinician……his ear back to normal appearance.

The doctor warned us to keep Mack from flapping his ears around, possibly undoing the healing, for the next 2-3 days.

And I am pleased to tell you that that was 2 weeks ago and Mackie is 100% healed! Hooray! No surgery!

We managed to skirt a risky and most likely painful dog surgery for our Christmas present and that gift beats the PANTS off of anything else we could have asked for. Including those As-Seen-On-TV Glow Candles I got. Thanks, Mom.

Because one minute you may want a red candle and the next, you may really want it to be blue.

Because one minute you may want a red candle and the next, you may really want it to be blue.

Categories: Being Married, Bulldogs, Crappy Adulthood Problems, Dogs, Pets, Potty Humor | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Pregnancy and Bulldogs

Help! I’ve been overcome by a team of midwife bulldogs.

I can’t do anything in my own house anymore without being watched by at least one set of brown, bloodshot eyes. I’m being constantly monitored by anxious bulldogs and although they are well intentioned, they are truly clueless.

As I enter my 8th month of pregnancy, I have found my energy starting to wane. A month ago I could work a 10 hour day and come home and still have enough energy to make dinner, dishes, do 3 loads of laundry, walk the dogs, put away 3 loads of laundry and stay fully awake for an episode of Game of Throne (Hodor!). Now, when I get home from work, I enter the house like someone just dumped me out of a wheel barrow. I make grunting noises when I take off my now too-small shoes. I waddle. I’m usually short of breath. I start wearing my ever-so-comfortable maternity sweatpants at 6 PM. I chant, “BOOM! Ba-ba!” with every step I make. I’m definitely slowing down.

The bulldogs have taken notice of this. The bulldogs are concerned. And now every single thing I do in the house is a fucking family affair.

This week, the bulldogs have come to the conclusion that I need an assistant with everything I do. For example, almost every morning for the past week, as I stared blurry-eyed into my closet, trying to piece together a reasonable outfit for work, Mack stood by my side, also peering into my closet, staring at my clothes with me, pretending like he knew what he was doing.

The  other morning, the whole fam damily was in the bathroom as I showered, including a half-asleep Hubs, trying to brush his teeth around two bulldogs laying on the bath mats, who were anxiously awaiting my grand exit from the shower. I contemplated ripping open the shower curtain with incredible zeal and doing my best sarcastic and naked “Ta Da!”, complete with jazz fingers for my audience. But eh, I didn’t. When I did open the curtain, they both averted their eyes. Peterbilt pretended to inspect the towel racks. Mack licked the side of the tub. My pregnant body is apparently too extreme for bulldogs.

Oh, but that’s not all.

Mack spends every waking moment tracking my whereabouts around the house. From the moment I get home from work, he’s following me around. When he loses track of me (which happens quite often with an almost deaf, 13yo bulldog) I can hear him looking for me, his toenails clacking on the hardwood floors, as he checks the kitchen, the office, then the bathroom and finally the bedroom where I’m laying in bed, getting my ugly eat on with a bucket mini brownies, watching back to back episodes of Restaurant Impossible on Netflix. There’s a lot of ugly they don’t tell you about before you get pregnant.

Peterbilt also wants constant tabs on my whereabouts and even puts my well-being ahead of his food, surprisingly.

The other day, the Hubs and I switched vehicles so he could take my Jeep in for an oil change. When Hubs got home, Peterbilt excitedly circled the Jeep numerous times in the garage, expecting my pregnant ass to roll and plop out of the SUV. Hubs said Pete was inconsolable for like 10 minutes and thoroughly inspected the Jeep and the garage until he finally gave up. All of this before he had a chance to be eat his beloved dinner.

It all started off very sweet but now it’s starting to be a burden. And it gets only worse as time goes by and my belly gets bigger.

In the past month or so, Mack has gone from sleeping downstairs on his beloved couch, to sleeping on a dog bed in the baby’s room, with a baby gate at the door, to now sleeping on the floor of our bedroom. Any attempt to separate him from me is met with loud, constant, belligerent, barking. And I can already tell where this is headed: he will want to sleep on our bed next. So I can get even less sleep.

Have you ever woken up to an audible bulldog fart at 3AM? It’s not funny. It’s not funny at all, actually. No, it’s putrid and the stench will rouse both Hubs and I from the deepest slumber, especially when that fart only has to travel 18 inches to get to your nose because Mack faces the door when he sleeps on the bed. Ass-to-face positioning always means a more concentrated poot. It’s bad enough I already wake up to every single fucking noise this house and its occupants emit during the overnight hours, let alone one of Mack’s face-melting farts.

There isn’t one thing that I’m able to do without supervision anymore and the lack of privacy is getting on my nerves. I always thought that my integrity would remain intact until labor, but the bulldogs constant interruption of even the most private moments is slowly chipping away at it.

With 8 weeks until the baby is estimated to arrive, I don’t have the heart to tell them that  they will have to sit and wait at home when it’s time for me to go to the hospital. I may have to come up with some sort of lie…..or some sort of faux-Sarah decoy fashioned out of pillows for them to fuss over while I’m gone.

Categories: Babies, Bulldogs, Dogs, Farts | Tags: , , , , , | 1 Comment

Double Trouble

2014 has been the year of change at House of Farts.

Ladies and gentlemen, after 4 long and work-intensive years, Mack and Peterbilt have decided to bury the hatchet and have agreed to coexist (somewhat) peacefully on the same level/room/area of the house. That’s right, no more keeping the bulldogs separated within the house.

This was decided recently by Mack. The older and more deaf Mack gets (and the more visibly pregnant I get) Mack is finding it harder and harder to leave my side. “Ok, Ok, I concede”, Mack told me one afternoon about 2 months ago. “I’ll acknowledge Peterbilt as my son. Now let’s all lay on the area rug and lick our paws.”

Peterbilt, less than enthused about now having to split our attention with his dickhead dad, agreed to treat his dad’s now constant presence with respect.

Yay! Right?? We can have a normal-ish family again! Eh, Yes and no. As much as we are happy to have everyone get along, having 170 lbs of bulldog to deal with versus 85 lbs at a time, is a lot of work!

Over the last several weeks, Hubs and I have noticed that there are as many PROS as CONS to our new living situation.

PRO:

1.) Less Shrieking.

Having both dogs in the kitchen as I make dinner is a lot quieter than having Peterbilt in the kitchen and Mack in the finished basement, shrieking with every pang of his broken heart at his exclusion. Now both bulldogs can stand by my feet and hold their breath as I chop carrots, hoping to God that one slips off the counter and falls to the floor.

CON:

1.) Higher fart content

Having both bulldogs in close proximity means more fart air to regular air, in parts per million. Tonight, we will be serving Dijon Chicken and baby carrots with hint of fart. Just dab some Vicks under your nose, dear, It’ll be alright.

 

"We heard there were carrots..."

“We heard there were carrots…”

PRO:

2.) Bigger fan base.

Now instead of one bulldog totally devoted to following me and watching my every move, I have two. The bulldogs totally give my location away every time, no matter where I am in the house. Are the bulldogs totally quiet? That means they’re laying with me on the bed sleeping. Do you hear thunderous noises? That’s the bulldogs following (trampling) me as i go downstairs to put in another load of laundry? Two bulldogs glumly laying outside the shut bathroom door? Well, you know I’m doing then. Painting my nails. Because ladies don’t poop.

CON:

If I don’t close the bathroom door all of the way, it means now two heads are poking inside to check on me instead of just one. I get very little privacy.

The good old days of only only bulldog head.

The good old days of only only bulldog head.

 

They’ve already figured out that they have Hubs and I evenly matched with a 2:2 ratio and have used this to their advantage already, using teamwork to knock a bag of dog treats off the table and to take out a 40 lb bag of kibble, even sharing the spoils. And our bedroom has been converted into “Bulldog HQ”. They’ve taken over that room as their area of choice for gnawing on their bones, Kongs and other toys. We kick twice as many dog possessions of our of bed now and It is almost guaranteed I will stub my toe on a half-chewed up antler on the way to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

 

We love it and are daunted by it at the same time. With the new workload, it makes me wonder how we will ever fit in time to take care of a newborn, but I guess that will all work itself out somehow.

 

In the meantime, Hubs and I thank God that he’s given us what we’ve asked for, for so long: a loving, little bulldog family. At least, that’s what we try to repeat in our heads while cleaning up 40 lbs of kibble and drool off of the floor.

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

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.

Anyways…..

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

Macaroni.

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.

HHHAAAIIII!!! WELCOME TO MY CABIN! *COUGH* *BURP*

HHHAAAIIII!!! WELCOME TO MY CABIN! *COUGH* *BURP*

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:

So.....close....

So…..close….

b5

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.

b7

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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.

Petuh.

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:

http://www.inarkansas.com/84984/baby-bunnies-in-your-yard-heres-what-to-do-about-them

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.

 

 

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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

travelbr3

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.

sleepy

“Oh, couch. How i’ve missed you”

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

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