C-A-T-P-O-O-P, Part Two

"Worried? Do I look worried to you?"

"O.K., I'm back now. Sorry about that, but I already live with three(!) cats, plus mom gives noms to Bob and Brin, so when I see a cat, I figure the least they can let me do is give it a chase, right?

But, back to my story. There I was, hanging out on the bed with Mom when she reached behind her and got her scissors. Now, I get the scissors a lot - to keep the hair out of my eyes, to get rid of super pesty mats and for when I get into the bad weeds that get wound in my fur, so I wasn't all that worried.

Then I hear a big 'snip' and WOW! I see a huge chunk of my hair in Mom's hand. Then she did it again and again. Holy moley --- Mom's gonna make me bald, just because of some cat poop!

She kept cutting and cutting, and I was getting pretty worried. Mom never went to dog groom school or anything...what if I look like a big ol' dork when she's done? How will I ever face the other dogs again? Or the cats?


Then she said she was done. She opened the door and told me to go find Dad. Man, what was Dad going to think? He said he liked my long hair.

Dad took one look at me and said he loved it! He kept touching my new, short hair while telling me how soft and fluffy I am now. He said I look bunches smaller and that my cut made my short hair look all bouncy. Hmmmm, maybe this isn't so bad after all.

Of course, you know there had to be one more insult. I had to go to the dog wash. Geez, I didn't even smell like cat poop anymore, but was that good enough? Nope - they had to make me smell like Cucumber Melon, or some other silly scent. I don't even get to smell like a dog.

So, what do you think? Mom says the pictures aren't the best because she's bad with a camera, but they'll have to do for now.

"Guess I should be glad I got to keep my tail and my leg fluff."

"Mom says it looks like I got a body wave in my hair now."

"Mom tried to find a hairy "before" pic for you to see how much she cut off."

"See? I'm not really all white. Down by my skin my hair
is light brown. You can see it lots better now that it's short."

"Yeah, I think I'm going to dry a lot faster
when I fall in the pool next time."

"So, that's my story. The biggest lesson I learned? Sometimes you have go through a little cat poop to make a big change in your life."

Don't forget to check out other great blogs on today's hop!

Update on the Strabies

It's been about three weeks since Brindle (henceforth known as "Brin") decided to join his buddy, Bob, in campaigning to become the newest members of our family.

"Hi, I'm Brin, and I've decided these peeps are O.K."

 

Turns out he is a super sweetheart with a cool, ultra-laid-back personality. All of our cats are pretty nonchalant about his visits, which are beginning to happen while the sun is still up --- unlike Bob, who still has a healthy enough respect for the white devil dog to wait until after sunset to make his appearance (which is why there's no Bob photo yet).

Trying to get a picture of him at his height is almost impossible,
because as soon as I crouch down, he's heading over for pets.

 Brin really enjoys being petted and, despite his super thin frame, he will regularly stop eating to come over and get some scritches. There are times when it seems that the food is a secondary consideration to having a little people company. This is not the case with Bob, who seems to be under the impression that every meal may well be his last. We've toyed with changing Bob's name to "Dyson", but he seems happy enough with Bob the Cat.

"I dig this table. Safe and close to the water hole."

Brin spends some time on one of the outdoor tables nearly every night, just chilling out. It makes our heart happy that he finds it to be a safe place where he can rest for a bit. You'll rarely catch Bob up there, as it's entirely too far from where we drop the food.

We've taken to calling them "The Strabies", a nonsensical word I made up as a contraction of "stray babies". I have no idea how this will ultimately play out. My husband (who also has a nickname - the Sta-Puff Marshmallow Man, because of the softness of his critter-loving heart) has a serious infatuation with Brin and mentioned that we might need to figure out some type of shelter for the winter. A section of yard that is double-fenced allows the Strabies pretty easy access while keeping them safe from dogs (including the Doodlebug) and might be a good spot for a cat house. Fortunately, Southern California winters are a long way from unbearable, and a long time from now. Today, the weather is fine, the Strabies know the yard is all theirs once the sun goes down (with the exception of Darby potty outings, but they've figured out the signs and know how to disappear when they hear his tags jingling), and we're in their corner.

The emergence of Mr. Hyde

There's no way to sugarcoat it: The Doodlebug has gone rogue.

My goofy, doofy mess of a boy has always had some issues. He has an unnaturally high sensitivity to any number of sounds, doesn't like being hugged and, generally, tends to find the world to be a bit too big for his liking. For the most part his issues are a bit annoying, but within the confines of our day-to-day life, no biggie. Until this past weekend, when he decided to add one more to his list: snapping.

Yes, my floppy dog snapped at someone. Actually, two "someones". Both times, they were people who were in our home who he was not familiar with, and on both occasions it happened when they reached out to pet him while I wasn't looking. To say that I'm appalled is an understatement. I've known Darby to many things over his six years but I've never, ever been concerned about him hurting someone --- and definitely not someone identified as a "friend". We've had people over many times before, both singularly and in groups and although he has been tentative with folks he didn't know, he has never behaved this poorly.

I'm taking it very hard, especially as a blogger who reads about the adventures of other, seemingly perfect pups who appear to glide around society like a southern belle at a perpetual debutante ball. I know Darby will never be one of those dogs, but he can't be this dog, either.

I've spent the past couple of days turning it over in my head. Is it because something changed in his doodle brain now that I'm home all the time? Is he picking up on my frustration with a recurring medical condition I have and trying to take it out on someone else? Did he sneak into the living room after we went to bed and watch part of Cujo (obviously missing the end) and think he's a role model?

After a short period of self-flagellation, which is almost as productive as it sounds, I've decided the trigger  doesn't matter nearly as much as rewiring his funky little brain so it doesn't happen again. For now, the little dude will have his security blanket leash attached to him when anyone who isn't positively bomb-proof comes over. For Darby, the leash has thus far been the equivalent of a Thundershirt, so we'll start there and work his way back to being the dog we expect him to be.

It goes without saying that if anyone else wants to 'fess up about a less-than-wonderful issue your dog has, you'll never find a more sympathetic audience than this corner of the blogosphere...

Focused or free association - how do you blog?

Gratuitous baby Darby photo. Just in case :)

Reading this wonderful post at Something Wagging This Way Comes reminded me of a few thoughts that have been tumbling around my brain of late.

I love writing about my critters and their various personalities, but there are about 27 other companion-animal things I like writing about, too. Do I need one blog about my pets, one for animal welfare issues, one about pet products and services that I may or may not use, one about pet-themed products for people and one for everything I couldn't manage to pigeonhole into any of the other blogs? Or is it cool that I sort of free-associate my blog with whatever pet-related theme that happens to pop into my head, leaving it to the reader to decide what is relevant or interesting, and trust that if they see something that isn't their cup of tea, they'll still check back in the future?

If you were to come to my house, the one theme you'd see is that there isn't one. The whole place is a mish-mash of styles, textures and colors, but to me it just looks like my house, a reflection of things we found cool enough to keep around, enjoying them for what they are, rather than for how well they fit together. Can my blog be like my house and still be an engaging blog? I know there are a bunch of people who say "no", that a blog must focus on a particular niche, but isn't blogging about companion animals a niche? It's not like I'm moving from pet themes to recounting last night's episode of True Blood, but it's also not as though every click on my blog guarantees you a story about the Doodlebug and his feline cohabitants, even if I think all things pet-related ultimately relate back to them.

I'm curious to hear the thoughts of my fellow bloggers. How focused is your focus?

Absolutely vacspazztic

"Does this look like the face
of a vacspazztic to you?"

One trait Darby and I share is our devotion to routine. I have a particular way of seeing that my trains run on time when I have tasks to complete, much like Darby in his attendance to matters of home and yard. We both enjoy the rhythm that accompanies completing our checklist item by item, partly because it ensures that we get done what we mean to get done and partly because our dedication to process means it's pretty easy to keep an eye on one another as we move through the day.

On the other hand, it also means that we can read each other like a book. When I see his tail hit a particular set, I know I have about seven seconds to redirect him before mayhem ensues and, likewise, when he sees me begin a pattern of activity, he knows what's coming next.

In some ways our connectedness works well --- I can keep him out of trouble before he has a chance to make a little, and he can depend on me to behave pretty much the same way every time I do something, which gives him the reassurance that all is well in Doodlebug-land.

Then there's vacuuming.

I have no idea what goes through his mind as I begin picking up his toys to toss in the toy basket (and yes, apparently the only time I'm inclined to actually pick up his toys is when I'm about to vacuum), but based on the distinct change in the set of his body, I'm guessing it's something along the lines of, "OHMYDOGOHMYDOGOHMYDOG!
IT'STIMEFORTHEBIGLOUDNOISYTHINGTHECATSHATETOCOMEOUTANDPLAY!!!!!"

The dude simply loses all sense of reason when it comes to the vacuum cleaner. He's not afraid of it (though he does have a distinct weirdness about cords, vacuum cords included), he doesn't really want to kill it and he doesn't want to touch it, but he loves nutting up about it, tearing up and down the hall, flying from room to room trying to stay one step ahead of it, but repeatedly needing to come back to where I am to see if I really am going to push the green monster to every room.

Like many other aspects of the Doodle's personality, this is the first time I've had a dog so thoroughly enchanted with flipping out over the vacuum cleaner, so much so that I think I need a new a new word to properly assign to it: vacspazztic.

Anyone else belong in this club? Let me know --- if there's enough of us, maybe we'll make membership cards.

Yep, they're digging it...

Darby doesn't hop onto his chair anymore, waiting to snub my goodbye kiss as I'm pressing to get out the door. He's figured out there's no reason to snub me, because I'm not going anywhere.

Weebs, too, has learned that her frantic scratches at the covers that used to occur approximately fifteen minutes before the alarm was scheduled to go off can wait until the sun has actually begun to rise. She's taken to spending more of her time out in the household with us, rather than sleeping away the day in the bedroom, waiting for me to return, as there's nowhere to return from.

Bad Kitty Bo is just happy to have another full-time servant, while Musette is far too polite to act as though she notices anything different at all.

Such is the nature of the household as I slip into week seven of unemployment. My worries for the future aside, the pets are undeniably pleased to have me home, particularly now that so much more cooking (and living) is taking place within the boundaries of their domain. They appreciate the extra cuddles in the morning, the extra hand to let them in and out of the back door, the extra voice saying, "Leave that alone!"

O.K., maybe not so much on that last one, but you get the drift.

I appreciate them being here for me, too. As much as I thought I knew, really knew, what it must be like for someone to be laid off from a job, there's nothing like firsthand experience to set your perspective straight. Having the critters be their usual pesty, dorky selves has proven to be immeasurably comforting, especially on those days when the world seems particularly cold. They pull me outside of myself when my wheels are  spinning a bit too long, reminding me there is still plenty in this world to laugh about --- and clean up after.

Though I'm unsure of what comes around the corner, I know wherever the path leads they'll remain steadfastly under my feet...or on my chair, or in the bathroom while I'm showering, or sniffing around the edges of my plate when my head's turned, or sucking out space on my pillow while I'm trying to sleep.

They're supportive like that.

How to enjoy a pool...

...when you don't like swimming!

Darby loves hanging on the edge of the pool, begging us to splash water in his face. This is his favorite back yard activity, hands-down, even if he regularly leans a bit too far over and falls in.

I snapped a few pics of his recent endeavors for your viewing pleasure!

He's already fallen in once, hence the wet back end...

"Dad, I'm waiting..."

"Whew, about time!"

"More, more more!"

"C'mon...I'm right here!"

"Biteyface!"

"Mom says all good dogs know, 'Go dry off on your towel!'"

"Back for more!"

And so it goes. Every pool adventure includes running the Doodlebug ragged around the edge, making him chase us from one side to the other in the hopes of getting splashed. It's not always my idea of perfection --- occasionally a girl would like to float around without distraction --- but there's just no way I can deny him such a simple pleasure.

My your summer find you with simple pleasures of your own in which to indulge.

Remembering Bosco

 

You were our first "family dog".

 Soft, sweet and loving, you were the perfect dog for young boys and young marriages.

 Best friend of kittens, chaser of birds and master of silliness.

July 25, 1995 - July 8, 2005

To this day, our hearts are fuller for having had you in our lives.

Thank you for sharing your life with us.

"He spoke through tears of 15 years how his dog and him 

traveled about.

The dog up and died,he up and died 

And after 20 years he still grieves"

~Mr. Bojangles

Ugh. Already with the popping?

High on the list of Darby's more neurotic endearing traits is his reaction to certain noises, especially those emitted by fireworks.

Fireworks? Don't like 'em...

Maybe spending his first "real" Fourth of July living a block away from the largest professional demonstration in town ruined him for life when it comes to things that pop, whiz or bang, particularly if such sounds occur at or after dusk. The noise level of that show was such that the first "bang" of the evening routinely set off car alarms in the neighborhood as the ground shook from the force of the rocket's red glare. Perhaps it was that the noise was followed by more whooshes and booms as the firepower exploded overhead, any explanation for which was far beyond anything his puppy brain could comprehend.

In the end it doesn't matter because all roads lead to Rome, or, in his case, to the guest room where he can cower between the bed and the wall, waiting for the world to be safe again. So imprinted is he by the trauma surrounding the Fourth that any loud popping or banging sound at night will metamorphose him from playing-in-the-yard dog to cowering, running for the back door dog. A car backfiring? He's outta there. Same goes for cargo doors slamming on semi trucks as they unload their bounty at the nearby convenience store, someone dropping a large tool on a concrete patio or the whir made by the blades of a helicopter as they patrol the neighborhood after dark. Darby may have never met Keyser Soze, but he will guarantee you that should Soze come to the house he'll be accompanied by some great and horrible noise that any creature worth his salt would do well to avoid. And even with all that, I know I'm lucky.

Lucky because of all the options at his disposal, Darby chooses to shut down. Yes, it's hard to watch him huddle in the back room, utterly inconsolable, but at least he's securely indoors with his family. So many other dogs (and cats) bolt in terror from their homes into the dangers of the night. They break gates, dig under/climb over/slip through fences, and in a few extreme cases break windows or sliding glass doors in their panic to escape the assault on their senses. It's often repeated that more pets are lost on July 4th than any other single day of the year. Darby may be scared, even terrified, but he's home and whether he comprehends it or not, he's safe.

With the fireworks stands now open for business the evening "pop" has begun again, leaving me with a dog who will avoid an evening potty trip if there's so much as a whistling sound after sunset. Last night someone several doors down felt the need to test out a few firecrackers, blissfully oblivious to the terror their fun instills in my pooch, and there's still a week left before the "big show".

Being well-versed in the drill, we'll be especially attentive to his needs over the next week or so. Should your pets need some extra love and reassurance during this period, we know you'll do the same.

Pool time!

After a truly unseasonably long spring (for these parts, anyway), the weather is finally beginning to resemble what we've come to associate with summer. For Darby, that means one thing: Swimming!!

Not that he actually swims, mind you. His passion is clinging to the edge of the pool and having us splash him with the water. He'll swim if he falls in (which happens on a fairly frequent basis), but his joy is running to whichever side of the pool he thinks we might be going, assuming his position on the edge and waiting for us to arrive to give him a little face-splash.

You know what they say: A tired dog is happy dog.

I love swimmin' with bow-legged women!
(with apologies to the movie Jaws)

A bowl-ed over Doodlebug

When we adopted Darby a few weeks after the death of our beloved sheltie, St. Bosco, we did what most pet owners do and repurposed as many of Bosco’s supplies as we could, including his food and water bowls. No point in buying a whole bunch of new stuff, right? The Doodlebug was small and everything he inherited was in great shape. Yes, he did try to go swimming in the water bowl…twice, if memory serves me correctly, but other than that, it was all good.

It wasn’t until a few years later that we noticed that perhaps Darby had outgrown his kibble dish. Although he grew to be almost the same size as our (supersized) sheltie, there is an obvious difference between the delicate, tapered muzzle of St. Bosco and the larger, squarer jaw line of the Doodlebug, particularly in regards to how well they navigate the inner regions of the dish in question. In the end the food is always eaten, so any discussion that maybe Doodle needed something better suited to his size seemed to vanish almost as quickly as his dinner. Until this weekend.

Darby's dirty dog dish.

As I caught sight of Darby retrieving his dinner from his dish, I called out to my husband.

“Dude, have you seen the way Darby’s eating? It’s like he can’t get his whole mouth in the bowl, so he’s using his lower jaw like a scoop while his nose hangs over the edge on the outside. I think his bowl is too small for him.”

“So,” he asked, “You want to buy him a new bowl?”

“No, I don’t think we have to buy something else. There’s got to be something here that will work. I just think he needs something that has a wider opening so he can eat more comfortably. What if we try one of the Fiestaware bowls? We’ve got bunches of those.”

And we do. Years ago, after I finally got the Fiestaware I’d been dreaming of for ages, my mother asked if there were items I was missing that she could get me for Christmas. Somehow “serving bowls” got translated to “cereal bowls” and I now have three times as many cereal bowls as I do anything else in Fiestaware-land. But I digress.

“Yeah, that should work,” he agreed. “I’ll change it out tomorrow.”

On Sunday, the spouse was as good as his word. When it came time for Darby’s afternoon kibs, he removed the old dish and served up Doodle’s meal in one of the more comfortable Fiestaware bowls.

New bowl for Doodle!

Darby walked over, looked at the bowl, smelled the food, then stepped back and looked at “Dad.”

Bowl. Dad. Bowl. Dad.

The Doodle slowly walked around the legs of the table next to his feeding area and came back to his new dish.

Bowl. Dad. Bowl. Dad.

It was during his second trip around the table that I flashed on what he was telling us.

“I am not touching that bowl. Even though I know that’s my dinner in there, I.am.not.touching.it. That’s the ‘you better stay out of the people food’ bowl that keeps the food I’m not supposed to eat. Even if the food smells good and I can reach it, it’s still the ‘no-no shamey-shamey’ bowl and I don’t get to eat it. You think you’re going to trick me by putting my food in your people bowl, but even though I’m hungry I will not touch that bowl. I am not shamey-shamey-baddog.”

So complete was my surprise at my incredible miscalculation, all I could do was laugh as my husband gathered up the “new” dish and dumped Darby’s kibs into the older, smaller model.

The Doodlebug finally got his meal, and I got a little reminder that no matter how dorky he acts on the outside, the wheels are always turning on the inside.

Getting my feet back under me

Looking forward

Before I go any further, I have to take a minute to thank Pup Love for her Facebook post last night about her struggles with writer's block. I felt better just knowing I'm not the only blogger out there who has been having issues getting my act together this month and that we can talk about it, and it's O.K. Thanks, Pup.

May turned out to be really challenging for me. I won't go into details here, as a lot of it has to do with personal, rather than pet, issues and I tend to live believing everyone has plenty of their own troubles to carry around without having to hear mine. I want readers to enjoy the moments they spend on my site and if I can't find my way to writing something interesting, inspiring or humorous I shy away from the keyboard until I can.

Though there will still be some rough patches in the coming days, I think I'm beginning to get my feet back under me. It's been wonderful to read so many of my favorite bloggers like Snoopy, Gus, Cleo, Riley, Nugget, Caren and Cody, Dakota and Hawk during my recent unproductive period. Know that your stories, photos, videos and Facebook comments frequently bring smiles to my face and remind me that cool, funny things happen all the time and that they'll happen tomorrow, too.


Enjoy the rest of your weekend. 

A tail of shame...

Good thing I'm cute!

One sure sign of the impending summer around here is that the wood doors on our house begin to shrink a bit. It’s great news for the front door, because now it opens fairly freely, rather than needing the extra yank to get it going in the morning, but the screen door in back is another story. Once that wee bit of shrinking takes place the latch that keeps it truly closed is just loose enough that the critters have at least a fifty-fifty shot of getting it open and dashing through it, which is exactly what Doodlebug did.

Since I’m deeply invested in my Bejeweled game (yes, I know, but at least it doesn’t end in the word “ville”) I assume he’s chasing a cat, or at least what he thinks is a cat before he realizes it isn’t anything cool after all, so I didn’t bother paying much attention to him. It’s not like he’s going anywhere, and once my game is over I can pretty easily round him up.

Only there was no need for that, as he is back at the door far sooner than I expected, with nary a bark crossing his lips during his excursion. When I open the door for him, he comes through it like the devil-cat is right on his tail, slinks to the computer room and promptly curls up in a ball on the floor, head down, tail tucked.

Great. Now I’m freaked, too, seeing as how this seems completely out of character for him. I hate being freaked out after 9 p.m. --- I’m tired and it’s dark, but it’s still early enough to make the 11 o’clock news if there’s really something scary out there, and I am not dressed for the 11 o’clock news.

Nothing.

I find nothing at all. And I really looked around, too. Put my shoes on and everything, because if I had stepped on a slug or an injured grasshopper or some other form of ick, there would be a new form of ick left behind by me for someone else to step in. Why risk it?

I come back in the house, more worried than anything else, because Doodle still has that look on his face like he’s about to be sold to the gypsies, which isn’t going to happen. Not this week, anyway, because he’s been good-dog-for-reals so far this week and we’re not about to trade out good-dog-for-reals after nearly six years of waiting for good-dog-for-reals to stop by.

My husband cracked the case, uttering the words that never cease to remind me that my next dog will be short-haired, if not hairless.

“I think you should check Darby’s butt.”

Sure enough, one peek under the tail explained it all. Never in my life have I met a dog more obsessed with having a spotless hiney than Darby. Should this dog have anything less than a perfect poop, he will see to it that anyone paying the smallest amount of attention knows about it. His head sinks low as he tucks his tail between his legs and engages in the skulk of shame, crawling back to us, whereupon he collapses on the patio looking for all the world like the saddest.dog.ever.

I’d find it far funnier if it didn’t mean I’d be spending the next several minutes, baby wipes in hand, muttering less than loving thoughts to him as I dig, clean or clip out the remnants of his toileting shame. Just like I did on this night.

Can’t believe I didn’t see it coming.

Poor Mew...

Musette thought she hit the big-time today. As I wandered out back with Darby following part two of what may be a five-part series on getting his coat cleaned out, there she was with a big ol' honking grasshopper between her jaws, looking about as pleased as a cat can look.

She waited for us to get settled in before she let him loose to continue her catch-and-release game with him. Being wounded, he didn't jump very far, which was all well and good with her since she's a bit on the senior side and wasn't interested in working all that hard to keep him close. She got off a good four or five pounces when *plonk* into the swimming pool he went.

She sat on the edge of the pool, clearly annoyed at the turn of events. Being the thoughtful mom I am, I called out my husband and asked him to fish out her toy and return it to her ('cause dog knows I'm not going near the thing --- I hate grasshoppers!). The spouse, long since past being surprised at how my mind works, obliged. He grabbed the pool brush and proceeded to fish out the offending bug, depositing him on the grass.

Naturally, this was followed by him coming over and picking up Mew to carry her to her "toy", and yes, even as I write it I know how ridiculous it sounds, but that's love for you.

One good hop and she was back on the case, pouncing and releasing, every fiber of her little being wrapped up in her moment of supreme huntress-ness. She was queen of the landscaped jungle.

*plonk*

Back into the pool went the grasshopper.

Musette wandered back to us, mewing ever so softly, hoping to convince us to once again help a girl out, but her luck ran out. The spouse fished the grasshopper out of the pool, but deposited it over the fence beyond her reach. We're betting some bird ate a hearty meal on her dime tonight.

As for Mew, here she sleeps in one of her favorite spots, dreaming of bugs to come...

Beset by cats

via Shutterstock

I’ve previously mentioned the two not-our-cats who tend to roam the backyard area of our home: “Bob”, the big orangie who I’m nearly positive is currently owned, albeit as an outdoor-only cat, but seems on a quest to become one of our family members and “Brindle”, a pretty much feral, although I think with time, food and love might someday let someone get a hand on him. Both of these cats have been around for years. They have limited interaction with our brood, thanks to Darby making a regular patrol of the area. Though I don’t think it’s in Darby’s DNA to ever actually hurt a cat, he does like seeing them flash across the yard as he chases them.

Now our not-our-cats population has increased by two. A couple of weeks ago a cat-sized hole developed in the back fence that separates us from our non-pet-owning neighbors. What once took a couple of coordinated leaps to migrate from their yard to ours is currently an easy stroll and some new cast members seem to be taking full advantage of the situation, much to my chagrin.

There’s now a medium-haired obviously unhomed cat who appears people skittish, though I’m betting not food skittish, if given half a chance, and a solid black shorthaired cat who seems on the younger side. The black cat may be owned since, like Bob, he appears to be in good flesh and coat. Regardless, apparently Bob has been sharing the news that we are the soft-touch family and our yard, once you figure out the dog’s schedule, is a pretty sweet place to hang, because these two have become the newest semi-fixtures.

Sigh.

I’m desperately hoping that once we get the fence replaced next week our newest additions will go back to wherever they were hanging out before finding the stroll-hole. Otherwise I’ll have some hard options ahead of me. My old cats are none too keen on sharing their lives with any additional inhabitants and Darby’s house-dog-not-yard-dog status means he’ll never be in the yard long enough to truly run them off. Taking them to Animal Control means all-but-certain-death, but leaving them here means I’ll eventually end up supplying grub, complete with having to create some sort of feed station for them (and don’t let my husband see that last part, ‘kay?) because I can’t take seeing suffering thrown-away cats. Granted, Bob and the black cat aren’t thrown away, but if you have food, they’re happy to dine al fresco and there’s no way you can feed the one truly in need without Bob eating first --- trust me on that.   

Never have I asked so much from a few pieces of wood nailed together…

In sickness and in health

As I’ve mentioned to my friends, I don’t get sick. I get injuries, usually from doing something that the logical side of my brain tells me I shouldn’t be doing, only to be drowned out by the stubborn, eight-year-old side of my personality whispering, “Go ahead, do it!! What’s the worst that can happen?” I also get ailments, most of which are the lingering results of having listened to said eight-year-old inner voice. But getting sick from the garden-variety viruses that creep upon the Earth? Not so much.

Until last week, anyway, when I was hit with the viral version of a freight train. One day I’m making plans for a romantic dinner to celebrate my (then) upcoming anniversary. The next, I’m making mental notes about which cat figurines go to which person in the event of my nearly certain demise. That’s how it works when a non-sickie like me finds myself besieged with illness --- I extrapolate it to its natural, if unrealistic, end.

Weebles embraced my incapacitated state as a personal holiday for hers truly. No longer was she alone in the bedroom, dozing peacefully, far from the rest of the four-footed co-inhabitants. She had herself a genuine slumber party going on around the clock with her favorite mom in the world. Weebs stayed in the bed every minute I was there. If I went to the bathroom, she was right there with me, making sure I was coming back to the bedroom for more downtime. To her, my being sick meant she got me all to herself and if she had to put up with a little coughing, sneezing and whining, she considered it well worth the price of admission.

Darby, having never been exposed to “sick mom” in his nearly six years on the planet, had no idea what to make of me or the situation at hand, so in his usual Doodlebug fashion, he winged it. He tried really, really hard to play the doting, sympathetic dog I’ve read so much about in other people’s accounts of dogs and family illnesses. He hopped on the bed and tried to convey something approaching sympathy for me…until it got too far past his breakfast time and I was abandoned for the joy and wonder of Stella & Chewy’s.

Once sated, the Doodle reappeared in the quarantine area, choosing to hang by the door, apparently “guarding” me from whatever hell-booger might find its way up the hall to my room. Turns out that got boring fast, so Darby switched to Plan B and put a little scratch behind his ear, just enough to make sure his tags jangled. Beyond keeping him identified and legal, the Doodle’s tags serve as his way of telling me when he needs out, should nature call outside of normal hours, and he knows that being overt with them is usually a sure-fire way to get me out of bed.

He was right. After fifteen minutes of “ching-ching-ching” tag audio-torture bursts, I got up. For a bit, anyway.

Several days later, I’ve finally recovered to the point where I can check back in with you all, share tales of things that crossed my mind while reclined in my sick bed and find out what’s been happening in your world. It’s good to be back with you.

Travels with Doodle

We don't travel much. A large part of the reason is that with three cats and a dog, it's tough for us to be gone. At one time we had my parents, who could come down and house-sit for us when we felt the need to get away, but with their ongoing health concerns that option is no longer available to us.

We could kennel Darby if we had to, but everything we know about his constitution says that would not be a good experience for him, plus we'd still have to hire someone to care for the cats. They cannot be boarded because I refuse to vaccinate their aging selves, firmly believing that they have all of the immunity they need from previous vaccinations. Until I find someone who can be a good live-in for us, our travel schedule is mainly limited to going north to see my parents, which we did this weekend.

The Doodlebug is always welcome at "grandma and grandpa's house". His bone-shaped puppy bag causes whines of delight when he sees it being pulled from the closet, because he knows an adventure is coming. Once he's packed, we leash him up and hit the road.

"Finish getting the gas, Dad, so we can GO!"

Going somewhere with Darby almost guarantees fun. His excitement manifests itself in small whines of delight, while sneaking up behind us for quick kisses of appreciation. The Doodle is not a terribly "kissy" dog, saving his unbridled love for moments like these.

We stop at the exact same Starbucks every time we go, it being conveniently located at the halfway point and possessing a nice outdoor seating area where we can hang with Doodlebug while swilling some caffeine. He's come to know this break in the schedule and now acts like the patio dignitary, checking out fellow highway travelers who might drop something edible while passing by.

At my parent's house, he makes himself completely at home, cruising the yard from end-to-end before settling in for some treats and conversation. Seeing him so calm and well-mannered, so pleased to be in the middle of the conversation pit on the patio, makes my heart happy.

All too soon it's time to make the trip home again. The cats are surely plotting our demise for having them indoors and servant-less for so long, and the trip home will take the same three hours as did the venture north. Doodle, knowing this leg of the journey well and tired from all of the fun of the day, settles into the backseat quickly, quiet other than the occasional snort of discontent from a bump in the road jostling his rest.

Darby, like the day itself, was picture-perfect.

Wordless Wednesday - Sprinkler head

 

"I cannot understand how adding soap is supposed to make this more fun."

~ Darby.

Worst.cat.mom.ever.

Who, you may ask, is deserving of such a lofty title? Why, that'd be me.

And how might I have earned such a unique place in my own blog? Well, for starters, I'm supposed to be a fairly observant pet owner (or she-servant, as I think the pets refer to me behind my back). Theoretically I keep a reasonable eye on them for signs of illness or distress, and to this day I'm still delusional enough to believe that I do a pretty good job of it.

So how did I miss seeing that Weeble's dewclaw had grown into her foot until this weekend? 

Mom done me wrong!

 
There she was, dozing on the bed, just like she pretty much always does in the mornings, what with her twelfth birthday just a few months away. I went in to rub her sleepy head and as she stretched out her leg  realized I was seeing an awfully large swath of claw on her left leg. It took another fifteen seconds or so to realize that the reason I was seeing so much was because her nail was completely exposed as it rounded back over her pad and disappeared into her skin.

Seeing her foot, I felt two inches tall.

How long did it take for this to happen? Why hadn't she complained more, or done more limping? Geez, try to stay in bed for ten minutes past 5 a.m. and she'll act like the house is on fire, but have a claw work its way back into her body and not a peep.

We tried to clip it on Saturday, in an effort to relieve the pressure of it all being attached, but the Weebs is a hideous patient and the claw is really pressed against her leg, so I only got about halfway through. On Sunday, we gave it another go. This time I was able to clip the claw itself, but when it came time to try and pull out the part that is embedded I chickened out, for lack of decent enough tools and hearing the conviction of her yowls as I put any real pressure on her foot. I decided I'd rather pay someone else than to further be the first-hand inflicter of pain --- someone who might actually know what they are doing and has access to drugs should they decide it's not good marketing if the folks in the waiting room think they've decided to reduce the cost of surgery by not using anesthesia.


She heads to the vet Tuesday afternoon, which will be a highly traumatic event for her (and apparently for me as well). Thus far, just for trying to clip the nail she has refused to sleep in her normal spot for the past two nights, such is her delicate little psyche.

By the time she gets home from the vet, she'll probably move into Darby's bedroom with him.

The Doodle and the mystery bones

I’ve never thought much the pool guy bringing Darby a treat every week when he arrives to perform the weekly maintenance on our cement pond. I’m guessing there are several houses on his route where he encounters dogs, so keeping treats in his pocket just makes sense. Darby adores Mr. Cantu with an unreserved abandon, going into complete “OMG OMG OMG!!!!! He’s Baaaacccccckkkkkk!! Hurry so we don’t miss him!!” meltdown when the truck pulls up on Fridays, flipping donuts on the carpet until his dad lets him out into the backyard to fawn all over his friend (and collect his weekly treat allowance). If there was ever a non-family member whom I’d consider to look after the Doodle, it would be Mr. Cantu. The two of them are quite besotted with each other, which is a pretty big deal for a dog who is easily stressed by strangers.

Lately, though, it appears that Mr. Cantu may have a rival for Darby’s affections. A couple of weeks ago I noticed the occasional Milk-Bone in the house. Knowing this is something we never purchase, I thought perhaps the neighbors (whom Darby has yet to love the way he loves Mr. Cantu) were trying to feed their way into his heart. I typically only notice the treats as I walk in the door at night and they tend to leave my train of thought as quickly as they leave my sight-line.

Eventually I got around to asking my husband about the mysterious Milk-Bones and their sudden, random appearance in our home.

“Where are these Milk-Bones coming from?”

“The mail carrier. She leaves them in the mailbox with our mail a couple of times a week.”  

“The mail carrier? Why is the mail-lady leaving dog treats in our mailbox?”

“I have no idea,” he replied. “Maybe she likes seeing Darby at the window. She can definitely hear him.”

See, I’d get it if we had one of the mailboxes that’s hanging right outside the door, where the mail carrier would come up close and personal-like to Darby every day, what with him stationing himself at the window every afternoon, just waiting for her truck to roll by so he can flip out (as is his wont to do). But you can literally park three cars end-to-end in our driveway before you get to where the mailbox is located. There’s no tactical advantage to leaving love treats for a pup who will never know you brought them.

Which leaves only one explanation: She likes him. Somehow the combination of floppiness, bark-howl and dedication to mail patrol makes Darby someone who appeals to her sensibilities, and in turn she’s appealed to the one thing that truly matters in his world: his stomach.

Newly aware that the Doodle has a new fan, we did the only thing that seemed right. We made some brownies and left a couple for her. In the mailbox, of course.