Pets: Not for the Faint-Hearted

I've held a lot of this in for a year, and this is NOT a pleasant or easy read. It is not funny, and there is detail I'm not sorry about sharing but isn't fun. This is your warning.

Today is the one year anniversary of Chewy's death.

That's a kind way of saying it: a euphemism, really, because Chewy didn't die naturally or in an accident. Chewy died because I made the decision to kill him, and I think I'll carry guilt for the rest of my life.

The time came for Thor in December 2016, and with him I waited too long. He'd been declining with cancer for a while, and by the time we brought him in there really was no choice. He was so ready to go the last few days he just slept with his head on my lap, asking for help. When the vet came in he sighed heavily with obvious relief, licked my hand to say goodbye, and relaxed. He was asleep in seconds and gone in less than a minute. I promised myself I wouldn't make any other pets suffer on my selfish behalf when it's time, because his last couple of weeks were miserable for him, and it was purely due to my inability to say goodbye.

A year later, in 2017, Chewy wasn't ready. His back legs mostly didn't work anymore (I had to use a towel-sling to get him outside to go potty), his voice had mostly given out, but overall he was pretty alert and perky, if immobile. As fall set in, though, he was starting to falter and his joints hurt some. He fell down the stairs almost daily: he'd try his damnedest to climb up to sleep in my office while I worked: it usually took a couple of tries and sometimes my help. I'd hear him thump his way back down, his back legs having failed him again, his poor belly and chin smacking each step down to the landing. It hurt: he'd lie there and pant for a long time before trying again. And he'd still try again EVERY GODDAMNED TIME. I tried to work from the living room as much as I could, but it wasn't enough.

Still, on his last day the weather was gorgeous (much like today...thanks dude) and he spent a long while standing or lying in the grass barking at things in the neighborhood. Just randomly joyfully barking, as though not a damn thing was wrong at all. He had cheeseburgers for lunch, as much puppy ice cream as he wanted, and napped in the sun with the kitten for a while before I took him in. The whole day I second guessed myself, because this was my dog again. he had a great day. He wasn't ready to go.

I made the decision to put him down before the deep cold hit his joints, before the trips down the stairs broke his neck, before he got stuck in the snow or ice just trying to go potty in the winter. I made the decision to kill my dog before he was emotionally ready to go, because I didn't want him to experience the decline I saw in Thor and have a miserable ending. I wanted him to go out when he'd had a good day. I'll never be sure that was the right thing to do. I played god and killed my pet before Death came for him.

He was 130lbs at the end: I couldn't pick him up. The day I brought him to the vet, I had to have help lifting him in and use a sling to bring him into the office. And he was so goddamned happy and cheerful, saying hi to everyone like normal.

When we took Thor in, my vet gave me the reality of faces of euthanasia. In Thor's case, we were lucky: everything went quietly and easily because he was so ready to go, but there are many variations of death, and luckily he'd told me other possible outcomes.

When the techs put Chewy's IV in, he wiggled and they'd missed the vein, so the sedative didn't work. He struggled to get up. They had to re-do the IV and the sedative. He watched me as it finally kicked in, obviously wondering what the fuck was going on here, and struggled more until his eyes half closed and his tongue stuck out of his mouth on the exam room's floor. He was too big for the blanket they put down, you see, and he couldn't relax enough to lay his head in my lap. I petted and talked to him without stopping, reassuring him and staying calm as my vet administered Pepto-pink death through a hypodermic into my dog's front leg.

I'll never use Pepto again.

Chewy struggled, flailed, drooled, twitched, and desperately tried to lift his head even mostly sedated as the drug reached his heart. He didn't go easily: he fought like a goddamned warrior right up until the end.

He wasn't ready. And even though a cold analytical view of his status and the immediate future of suffering still has me falling on the side that i did what was best for him, it doesn't FEEL like I did what was best for him.

And that's why pet stewardship is both awesome and fucking awful. You are their god. They are a part of your universe, but you are ALL of theirs, and it's the human's responsibility not only to do what's right and necessary no matter how awful it is (even when it sticks with you forever), but also to BE THERE for it.

There's an article going around in social media about a vet's take on owners who leave their pets alone to die. I get that it's awful and hard: I've seen both sides of the process and it's not always easy. I get that if you have a backup or truly can't control your grief, it's better to leave than stress them out more. But ultimately, I firmly believe you are the adult. You are the human, and taking on that life means you are responsible for it through to the end.

You suck it up and stay with them (and stay calm) because it's not about YOU. Comforting a loved one as they die is an act of compassion and love, and pets deserve that honor after dedicating their lives to you. It sucks. It's terrible, and exhausting, and it's really fucking hard to not start bawling when they're going, whether Death comes easy or not. It's also part of the gig. I get there by remembering advice I'd been given years ago, when I struggled with a different situation that threatened to overwhelm my ability to be present for someone else's crisis: stay in the love.

Focus on THEM: focus all your love and energy and comfort and petting and gratitude for their time with you on them.

Leaving this world showered in affection and reassurance and comfort from the person/people at the center of your universe can't be a bad thing: if that's all you can give your pets that's enough, even when their end comes before they're ready. After they're gone, by all means fall apart. I did.

I did today as I wrote this, because October is a time of endings and I'll remember his last day until I see him again. Han asked me recently where dogs go when they die, and can we visit them, and will we see them again (Evil piped in and said Heaven is another planet). Nothing like a 6 year old's perfectly reasonable questions (WHY DO I GET THEM? I'm the AUNT!) to get a girl thinking about what my boys are doing in their afterlives. I presume bunny-chasing and barking are high on the list.

I miss Thor and Chewy as horrendously as I am eternally grateful for my current furry monsters.
And someday I'll do this dance again. A long, long time from now.

Lo There.

Thank you Chewy, for spending most of your life here with us. We were lucky.  

When you see Thor, tell him I miss him, too. 

Dear 80's Just Say No Commercials - It's My Dog's Fault

Chewy is now a relatively perky old man on super pain-medication. That's right, my dog is now a drug addict. Awesome. I mean, he already drank out of the toilet and ate things better left unmentioned while outside and barked at invisible things - why not get him high too? (He learned it from the vet, by the way, not from me.)

Crap. You guys, I forgot to ask if starting these means he has to stay on them indefinitely or get DTs when he misses a dose. Oh my god...Great Pyrenees detoxing. NO. Just...no. 

Chewy loves his six pills twice a day for pain and antibiotics. (Not kidding: he does love them. He eats a giant dollop of peanut butter a couple times a day and feels better for a while after, so, to him peanut butter is FULL OF MAGIC. And really, is he wrong? I think not.) 

This doesn't stop his falling, but it does take enough of the aches and pains away that he perks up some when he's awake and has returned to his "I want you to think I'm ready to rip your face off, but really I'd just lick your face obsessively for a while, if I could be bothered to get off the ground which is WAY too much effort" bark-and-wheeze routine. The cottonwood in the back yard snowed all over the damn lawn, and for a couple of days he made sure all the fluffy seed fairies knew full well that he sees their nefarious floaty plans, dammit.  

It's been suggested to me that he needs an attachment on his collar. You know, like the whole St. Bernard whiskey-barrel thing? Do they make oxygen tanks that small, with a little snout-tube to help him take less wheeze-coughy breaths between barks? 

So, an improvement in day-to-day, but overall no major changes.That's both a blessing and not. Waiting for death is a patience game, and much like every other large life event it feels like everything else is on hold while I hang out and spend as much time as possible with my lumbering fluffball, until I can't anymore. 

In the meantime, it's supposed to be the surface of the goddamned SUN here on Saturday with fetid swampass humidity (fuck all of that) and I totally blame my ex, who's coming back from Dallas to visit and CLEARLY decided to torture me with Texas sweltering. 

But he's coming to visit his drug-addicted elderly dog, so, you know, mostly forgiven. 

You Houston girls, I miss you TONS. I do not miss 100+ temps. Feel free to visit this week too, because it's gonna feel just like home for you. 

Between Chewy and other icky life stresses, mostly I've been tired and not blogged. 

But we're still here, not writing. (Well, I'm not writing because I'm tired. Chewy's not writing because, and I'm being painfully honest here, he's a lazy ass who never bothered to learn to type and gives me pathetic excuses like "I don't have thumbs" or "all I'd write about is imaginary saber-toothed-bunnies anyway" or "hey is that cheese you're eating? I like cheese.")

Dear Death: I See You Here

This is not a funny post. Today was a bad day. My vet told me to do a good day/bad day jar for a couple of weeks, but I don't really need it.

Death is stalking my household.

Thanatos waits patiently in the shadowed corners of my living room while we watch movies and bark quietly at neighborhood kids or invisible monsters in the back yard. Badb is hanging out cross-legged on the floor under a desk in my office, casually flipping through books in my library, content but staying close.

If I'm lucky. Persephone is working on a new spot with Thor: one with enough toys that they can steal from each other again.

I know the sensation of Death lingering in my house. I've done this already.

We are getting to the point that "tired" is more than just sleeping between meals and an exhausting barking session. It's a look in the eyes, a distinct need for comfort that forces failing legs to keep trying to push 110lbs up the stairs so he can sleep near a person. It's the sad expression when I pick up the leash, and half-hearted attempt to get up only to lie next to the open door, because the urge to pee isn't strong enough to bother going out even though it's been nearly 12 hours.

He's not ready, but I think we're within a week or two now. Taking responsibility for another living creature is a double edged razor. The vet says the timing is up to me. What that really means is I'm no longer monitoring and caring for Chewy to provide him with quality of life, but quality of death. Some would argue there are many reasons to make that choice on his behalf - send him on before he suffers, the expense involved in waiting, the disruption to my life, moving on.

Responsibility is a heavy burden because it's SUPPOSED to be heavy. Who the hell am I to determine how much of his life to cut off? People who bring up the expense involved are talking a bout the vet bills, the pills, the time involved in waiting for him to struggle back inside twice a day. But the real expense is the waiting, the burden of choosing when to invite Death formally instead of letting her hang out, because at some point the suffering is just enough. But I am only a caretaker: Chewy will let me know when he hits that point. Thor did.

We, people, humans, are so afraid of Death visiting that we'll do damn near anything to avoid it. Dogs are different. They'll fight to survive until it's time, and when it's time they're just...ready. They've done their jobs here, they've loved and protected and forgiven, and they let you know they're ok.

My vet is truly a fantastic man. When we let Thor go, he warned me what might happen - convulsions, bodily fluids, scary and awful struggling against the soul slipping from the body. He told me so I wouldn't be surprised, so I could stay in the room and be a comfort instead of a basket case. NONE of that happened with him - in fact, he give a little sigh of relief and just slipped off his body like an uncomfortable jacket that's gotten too tight.

I want that for Chewy, too. I want an easy death that relieves him from his broken down body and gives him freedom to bark at ALL THE THINGS. I want Thanatos to give him quiet sleep, and Badb to take him on a long, leisurely walk. There's always the chance that won't happen, that his passing will be somehow scarring. I hope not.

I suppose I'll find out in the next couple of weeks, because I know this countdown.

He stole a loaf of bread today while I got coffee. He was so proud of reaching it I can't even be all that mad, even though it was MINE MINE MINE. Cheeseburgers and treats will be the order of the days ahead, and a lot of sitting in the grass so he can just hang out and do what he loves best - watching over the neighborhood. Until it's time to stop.

Yes, I could say Tuesday is the day and we could be done and save me the emotional stress of Death becoming my temporary roommate. But that's not my job here. I'm not afraid to wait with him. I'm not afraid to make the decision or lie with him on the floor in the vet's office, or let him go.

When it's time, I will ask Death to walk my dog gently, and kindly request no more visits for a long while. Until then, we're sitting in companionable quiet, listening to Chewy's quiet breathing while he dreams.

I Dub Thee "Herman the Moulien"* (pronunciation updated)

So I have a (perhaps foolish) goal to submit at least two pieces of writing every month for publication this year. Yeah, yeah, I know...but it's not a sparkler-and-champagne induced resolution thing like losing weight or some other random general "goal." 

I'd like to say I have a really specific goal, such as writing 1k words every day for a year. But reality is a salty bitch, and I flat out don't have that sort of drive for anything (it's a goal I've tried in the past). 

What I DO have is a 2014 Dragons calendar with fantastic and varied artwork, all of which inspires at least one short story. I have a list of essays/article possibilities. I have two regular outlets for contest submissions both quarterly and monthly. And I am armed with a very large spreadsheet to track all this shit so I can pretend i'm an organized soul. 

I am not organized...you should see my desk. 

Anyway, yesterday was 1/31, and therefore (of course) I was doing last-minute revisions and changes because I had a invite to submit an essay in my email last THURSDAY, and the Glimmer Train monthly contest due by last night with a story only 3/4 finished. 

Why do you care? You probably don't...I probably wouldn't were I you. However, I'm behind on the blog posts I want to write (oh YES there is a spreadsheet tab for those, too) and I'm just too damn worn out today to give you a real/entertaining/funny thing that's in any cohesive form. So, that's my explanation why the rest of this post is completely random shit that isn't big enough for a real post, so it's mishmashed into this one. (Screw you spellchecker: I vote that if "selfie" can live in the Oxford English Dictionary, so can "mishmashed" so there. And how. Neener.)

• My backyard looks like a Honduran jungle. This is not a euphemism for something dirty (I'm looking at YOU and your filthy mind, of which I wholly approve): I do not mean any part of my own person, but the actual fenced-in area behind my living space in which grass and some sort of weird weeds have attempted to swallow the dogs in the past week. Unfortunately, our lawn dude seems to have vanished. I'm afraid of toes and lawn mowers...also, I've never seen the Honduran jungle...so maybe I should correct that and say Mexican or Trini (I've seen those, and so am not a liar). 
• The visitor in our house who appears to have made its home UNDER the cabinet below the kitchen sink has not only eaten every fucking roach trap in the house and NOT died, as any polite rodent would do, but it also chewed into the bag of potatoes and ate some of one. Sigh. Bastard. 
• Herman (I don't know if it's a rat or a mouse or an alien...moulien? at this point, since the fucking thing eats roach poison and doesn't die but it avoids the mouse/rat bait like a damn champ) scared the shit out of my polar bear dog the other night. He tik-tik-tiked out to he kitchen at about 3am (DEMON hour, people) on the tile, there was some indiscriminate scrabbling (I couldn't tell which critter was trying to run, but I can imagine both the Moulien AND Chewy facing opposite directions in the kitchen, legs pumping like mad on the slippery tile and going absolutely nowhere), and eventually Chewy ran back into the bedroom. Of course he came to MY side of the bed, plopped his giant noggin on my pillow and breathed like a stalker all up in my face. I told him to go back to bed...he sighed heavily like I was a lazy bitch and don't I see he's TRYING to tattle here? and lay down on the floor next to my side of the bed. 
• Herman is still out there. I'm considering dipping the poison in peanut butter or nutella or something. Maybe potato slices, since he seems to enjoy russets. He's probably a Rodent of Unusual Size waiting to get my toes while I'm cooking one day. As if I don't have ENOUGH trouble with balance as I already am. 
• Yesterday, I spent most of my afternoon spelling the word "labyrinth" about seventeen thousand different ways seven different ways. Each was incorrect. The caption for the art I was using as inspiration was DIRECTLY in front of me on my desk while I wrote. The caption? "The Dragon's Labyrinth." Awesome. 
• Yesterday, I received one of the best compliments I've ever had about a paragraph I wrote. That's not a funny vignette: just a random moment in which I thought "huh, maybe I don't suck that bad at this" and it made my day. 

And on that note, I'm off to play Mario 3D while sports are happening on the TV. I'm only interested in the Superbowl outcome to find out whether Captain America or Star Lord lost the bet anyway.

*Husband says I should clarify. "Moulien" = mouw-lee-in (mouse/alien). Apparently the mental translation "moo-lee-in" also comes to mind, and makes even less sense than the gibberish I normally accomplish. 

I am not fired, and other Friday Shenangians.

I got sent home from work today at lunchtime.

No, I didn't get fired, no my mouth didn't get me in trouble, and no I didn't hit anyone OR start anything on fire.

Thanks a lot assholes, for knowing exactly what could get me sent home assuming the worst.

I got sent home because I've been hacking up my lungs all week, thanks to airplanes/toddlers/sick relatives/cold/typhoidsomethingorother. Let's be clear. I've been sick since New Year's Day. I've been on the mend, really, all this week,and have been at work all week.

I got sent home today because my cube-neighbor has the actual fever-ishy-flu, and since she's NOT in the office and I'm still coughing like the mucinex dudes are partying down in my lungs I was politely told to get out. I am typhoid Jess by default, and that's sort of amusing.

And so I did. Spent my afternoon napping (hey, they sent me home to "get well" right? Wellness = naps, people), until I got the MOST AWESOME EMAIL EVER from someone who randomly found my blog through Nora Roberts' blog. (No, I don't know Nora Roberts...believe me, if I did I'd drop it into almost every conversation because knowing her personally would almost be as cool as Dwayne Johnson or Gerard Butler showing up at my door.) Nora Roberts wrote a piece on her public blog about shitty trolling internet trolls who harass writers/artists, and I agreed with her "bite me" approach. Anyway, it's neither here nor there.

The neat bit for me, is that said random person found my blog via that comment, read some, and went to the effort of emailing me personally to say unbelievably kind things about my writing.

And that, people, made my whole goddamned week. 

Luckily, the Universe which provides me with random pick-me-ups also ensures appropriate humility:

Um, HELLO. Get your hand off that keyboard.

Have you ever tried to type around a Falcor head? It doesn't work well.

Can't you see I MUST SING?

I'll be sure to invite you to his opera debut. 

In the meantime, I'm recycling last year's Dragon calendar by using the art as writing prompts for 12 written scenes/short stories. Because why not add to the project list? 

The Trials and Tribulations of a Jedi Dog.

Chewy has been particularly unimpressed with us lately. 

Ok let's be honest: he's perfectly fine with Husband. He's less than thrilled with me. 

In the past week, he's burned his tongue off*, endured humiliating tortures, and been denied wintertime treats. All because he has the unfortunate happenstance of birth to be reincarnated as a giant Star Wars fluffball with four legs, no arms, and more importantly no thumbs. 

Episode IV: A Burnt Tongue

We left for dinner (because we're lazy and neither wanted to do dishes, therefore cooking was utterly out of the question) for a couple hours one evening, Husband forgot to put his Wasabi peas away. If you've never had them, Wasabi Peas are crunchy, shriveled pieces of hell masquerading as "healthy snacks." All that means is once you've burned out your sinus infection or allergies and your eyes stop watering, you'll stop snacking. 

When we returned, we found two perfectly sets of perfectly piled peas. Both had the wasabi carefully licked off, both appear to be fully intact peas. Apparently neither dog was impressed with the idea of a good nasal cavity stinging: they BOTH walked right past the piles like someone else left them. Secretly, you see, there are kobolds in my house who LOVE wasabi hell bites, and are just considerate enough to leave the healthy leftovers in easily vacuumed piles. 

One of 2 neatly piled peas...sans Wasabi.

Chewy's other pea pile...which he sniffed and left.

 I'm not terribly sorry about that incident, you know. Dogs should stay the fuck out of human snacks.

Episode V: The Wampa Strikes Back

I'm somewhat more guilty (a little) about this week's humiliation. If you didn't know, Great Pyrenees grow two coats: one almost like down close tot he skin to regulate body temperature (it's actually somewhat insulating against heat in the summer as well as heating in winter, which doesn't count in Texas since "winter" is a big fat fucking LIE). The second is the super-long, waterproof, leaf/dirt/salamander carrying outer coat, which pretty much 1) turns him into a polar bear and 2) leaves 5" long fine hair everywhere. Also, did I mention bugs and lizards? Both have hitched a ride from the yard into the house on Choo Choo Chewy.

Anyway, we finally broke down and bought a set of clippers after the last incident at the groomers (nobody wants to discuss THAT horrible event), and Husband spent about three hours Sunday shaving the fluff down to an acceptable length. As you can see, someone was less than thrilled with us.

I fucking HATE you right now.

 I don't feel guilty for hte shave...I DO feel guilty that after getting rid of the mats he inevitably grows behind his ears I talked Husband into grabbing theear wash and drops (Chewy gets chronic ear infections). My big teddy bear was comfortably snoozing with his ear exposed like a damn fool, and I washed AND dropped it before he could get away.

Afterward, he stayed 20 feet away from both of us, harrumphing in a corner and glaring accusingly at us both. FINALLY!! I'm always the bad guy, people: this is the first time Husband's received the death-of-1000-suns stare. It's about damn time.

We found six Wampas in this pile...and an arm.

 Episode VI: Return of the Dishbreaker

Remember how my fuckface dogs have broken almost every glass in my house, and we had to buy plastic cups? We have some coffee mugs left...so far. Yesterday, I came home to this:

I like your cocoa mug. I left it here so you'd know I WANT SOME.

Yup, that'd be my hot cocoa mug from the day before (my fault: I left it on the couch table). Notice the SPOON is still in it, the mug was carefully not dropped on the tile from the couch to the door, and Mr. "I like this smell" had fully licked clean any remnants from the bottom of the cup. Sigh. Do you see remorse there?

Yeah. Me neither. Welcome to my dog. 

We'd Gladly Eat YOU, You Know...

The boys are convinced they're starving  and totally unimpressed that I left them outside until AFTER their water and food bowls were filled.

I tried to get the licking-of-the-chops picture, but they were uncooperative.

Hey, is that water? I'm hungry. Can we come in now?

Fuck you. We're not doing the super creepy staring-while-licking-our-chops thing. NONCHALANT!

They're assholes (who dump brownies on the floor and throw up at 2am...it's been a rough week), but they're cute. 

All Your Blinkers Are Useless Here.

Things I've learned since moving to Texas:

• I have an accent. I am amused. Ya. Youbetcha.
• Kolaches. Look them up: they are not a sneeze, despite what you may be thinking. Weird...but I'm planning to try the bacon/egg/cheese version.
• Someone explain to me WHAT THE FUCK SKITTERED across my bathroom floor at 3am? 3am is the fucking DEMON HOUR, people. Demons skittering across my bathroom floor.  Do you know how precarious a nearly-blind-without-her-glasses woman's position is at 3am, naked and desperately trying to balance on the toilet to keep feet from touching the floor without peeing on the seat? Obviously this will become a skill, as I fear further invasions by Legion. I still don't know what the hell that was. Husband says it was a doghair ball: I say if the doghair balls start moving like fucking spiders across the tile I'm moving the fuck out. (Yes, we have various types of bug killing things in the house all over...where the dogs can't get to them). I'm still creeped out.
• Blogger's spell check doesn't recognize the validity of the word "doghair" as a single word. I protest, and as such will leave it in. Also, "creeped" is a word, goddammit.
• Blinkers are the pantyhose of the automotive world: forgotten bits of the car's wardrobe relegated to the back of the drawer with lonely socks and unsexy underwear.
• Seven inches = one car length while in traffic. Be goddamned sure your brakes work before entering the breach.
• There is absolutely NOTHING wrong with u-turns that block three lanes of heavy traffic: you are SO much more important than anyone else on the road.
• Car insurance is expensive in a state where the philosophy is "if you don't get out of my way, it's no problem for me to get another dent when I shove you. With my car."
• Correspondingly, I'm terrified to drive the Mustang here, and I'm tempted to put her in storage until we move again.
• One of my new co-workers has this on her computer background. She says the stares make her feel like Putin and Catsputin are monitoring her work, and so she focuses more. Indeed.
• You know my superpower for receiving personal information from random strangers? It took 2 days at the new job. That's a new record for me.

In other news, Chewy had a few big adventures in the past week. The day Lowes delivered our new appliances (because no goddamned rental units in this state have a washer, dryer, or refrigerator...sigh), the delivery dudes accidentally didn't close the back gate all the way.

Chewy, being the savvy guard dog he's turned out to be, quickly discovered during his routine edge-of-the-yard fence check. Chewy is FAR more concerned with ensuring the yard is appropriately secure. He reminds me of the vultures in Disney's Robin Hood, actually. He barrels out the door and makes a determined beeline to the far right corner of the yard, complete with WAWOO to the dogs in the neighbors' yards, grumbling and growling at any new smell that's appeared since his last patrol. He'll say hello to all neighborhood animals to the right of us (dog and cat), behind us (at least one dog), and to the left of us (five dogs and a pool)...in order...every time we go outside. He's loving his new role.

So when the delivery dudes left the gate unlocked, of course he had to check out the FRONT yard. Luckily, Husband noticed he was gone and found him flirting with the neighbor on the right (dog/cat). She and Husband got to chatting, and Chewy disappeared again. Turns out, he'd sauntered his fuzzy ass right through her front door, wandered through her house to the back patio, and was making out with the cat.

I'm unclear on the cat's feelings about the matter. Perhaps it should consult with Catsputin.

Update: This is my 300th post. I AM SPARTA!!!

Furballs Run My Household

Shit I've said to the dogs in the past week:

But my feet are so TASTY! It's exhausting...

• Stop licking your feet.
• NO HUMPING YOUR BROTHER!
• Thor, don't bite Chewy's face when he's coming back in. Wait until he's through the door, fucker, it's COLD out there.
• DO NOT EAT THAT POOP!
• Seriously, Thor, stop eating your goddamn feet.
• It's rude to stare at my plate.
• No, you can't have anything here (pointing at plate). MINE.
• NO LICKING MY FORK, ASSHOLE!
• Uh Oh!! (note this is immediately followed by two lumbering oafs barreling into our little kitchen to clean up whatever edible bits of tasty goodness I dropped on the floor).
• Thor, I can pee on my own. I don't need your help. Wait outside.
• Godammit, I said DO NOT push the door open!
• Sigh Fine. Get your nose out of my face...I saw you eat poop earlier.
• THOR!  (followed by a pointed look from me to the dog who's foot is in his mouth. Again. He generally drops it, sighs, and stares at me forlornly).
• Chewy! NO BLOWJOBS!! Leave your brother's junk alone, dude. That's gross.
• NO HUMPING!
• Biscuit!
• Chew! Get out of the way or I'll have Luke cut off your other arm.*
• Breakfast!**
• Dinner!**

*Chewy = giant white fluffball, with teeth. Although he's unlikely to save people in his ice cave to eat later (because it's really way too much work), he'd probably enjoy an ice cave of his own. Also, he's never met a Jedi, but I imagine he'd like them. The only people he dislikes are those who run through HIS backyard and disrupt his view of the frozen tundra.

That would be root beer all over my nose. It was yummy.

Seriously, if you STILL don't get this reference, all I can say is go have a Star Wars marathon. In the proper order: IV, V, VI, I, II, III (if you must...I hated II and III, to be honest. All that horrific WHINING by Hayden Christensen...ugh).

**Both of my dogs do actually know the words "Breakfast" and "dinner." It's the best way to get them to come a-runnin if they're dawdling during a pee break. They also know "biscuit," "bath," "ball", "Furface," "treats," "cheeseburgers," "ride/car/go," "walk," "dog park," "wipe your mouth" and "use your words." Sometimes their vocabulary is entertaining. Sometimes it's irritating as hell.

SyFy's Next Sharknado: CARNICORN!

Because who the fuck wouldn't watch a bad Saturday night movie with a flesh-eating-attack-unicorn?? People, it's goddamned genius: the ultimate symbol of innocence and purity ravaging a city with impalement carnagey death.  Somebody who's not me and can actually write scripts: get on that shit.

I wonder if the Snakipeder Army could defend against Carnicorn...hmm.

Also, the fundamental difference in my dogs' personalities are most evident during the early morning's first pee rituals. This is a daily occurrence and does not deviate by season, time of morning, weather, or my location (sometimes if it's cold or rainy or I'm lazy I just stand in the doorway and put them on the extendo-leash instead of going outside. Stop judging me.)

Thor: sidle quietly up to my right side from behind me (so I have to turn away from the door to put the leash on) and nimbly trot out the door. Sniff all the things in the entire radius of the leash's available square footage. Pull the leash-holder as hard as possible to eke out an additional foot or two to the sniff radius. Eat poop if available and tasty (this depends on which dog's turn it is to be first to pee in the morning, as fairness requires taking turns). Make seven back-and-forth passes in a line to find the ideal pee spot. Pee while watching everything in the area as a silent but alert awkward statue. Take final sniffs of the air in all four directions, just in case. Watch silently if a car/person walks by. Bark only if another dog is within line-of-sight. Return to the house for breakfast. Wait patiently for Chewy to finish fucking around so the bowls are filled. Eat breakfast while growling and keeping one eye on Chewy for any theft attempts. Retreat to the couch. Nap.

Chewy: lie in front of the sliding door like a large fluffy rug, wait for the leash to be attached. Fall through the open space in a clumsy trip down the step to the patio. WA-WOO loudly upon exiting the home, to formally announce the presence of THE MAN in the yard. Proceed with tail up in flag-formation to all areas of the leash radius and WA-WOO in all directions, including toward the house. Watch a leaf blow by: wa-woo at it. Pee. Wrap self around the fire-pit in the yard and look confusedly at the back door for help from leash-holder. Unwrap self from fire-pit. WA-WOO toward the neighbors' yard to announce FREEDOM. Squat and poop. Take a 1/2 step forward. Poop again. Another step: poop. Leave a line of turds as a potential trail back to the house. Check for squirrels/rabbits/shrews/ravens in all trees/bushes/under the step on the patio. WA-WOO at any creature disturbed by investigation. Should any person, truck, dog, or debris pass line of sight, dance in place, growl and bark as ferociously as possible while stepping in the fresh poop pile you just left behind for Thor to eat. WA-WOO repeatedly while cantering back to the patio and pushing leash-holder aside to barrel into the living room. Chase Thor in the room before the leash is unsnapped. Wreak havoc. Eat breakfast. Return to the window and WA-WOO at any changes in the yard since coming in. Nap.

Carpet Pooping...and Other Canine Adventures

As I'm sure you're aware (since for some reason my uterus post is the #1 read post on my blog, according to the internet gremlins who decided to count random pings from Eastern Europe as "read") I have no human babies. I have fabulous nieces and nephews whom I adore spoiling.

And two excessively large canines (whom I also adore spoiling, much to the frustration of my husband). I've posted about my demonic dogs before, because what entities other than children and pets can elicit the weird shit I say out loud?

Ok that's a lie...I say weird shit all the time out loud AND in my head. But I haven't yet said "STOP HUMPING!" to anyone other than my dogs.

I said YET.
Anyway, one day last week I got home an hour later than normal, and discovered a neatly piled poo on the carpet. I'm not sure if this was poop protest or simply too long without a potty break. I'm not even sure who did it, since they were both hiding (one under the table, one upstairs) when I got home. Sigh.

I suspect Chewy: there was JUST enough room between the poopy pile and the sliding glass door to allow for one 150 pound Great Pyrenees to lie against the glass and look out (as evidenced by the additional nose marks). Chewy is a master: he can poop on the carpet and leave it alone all day, but can't poop outside without dancing around in a ridiculous dog-poop-crouch-hop so he can bark at everything.

Leaves on the wind.

Ants.

Squirrels that live across the driveway (in the neighbor's crawlspace, which she bitches about every year at the association meeting but refuses to stop putting birdseed and squirrel food in her backyard like a demented Disney princess).

People four blocks away.

Did I mention wind?

In case you wondered, EVERYTHING is poised to attack at any given moment, and Chewy is ON THE ALERT. With wa-woos. And poop dancing.

Unless he's under the influence...


I'm busy with my drink here, people.



I don't have a problem...

In follow up to my post extolling the remarkable awesomeness of Cait's present, I need to point out the awesomeness of Zack. Who gave me a Witchking helmet ring, a knitted "zombie" coffee cozy, and this:


To be hung in my library/office. As a warning? Or an explanation...



Indeed, it IS perfect for me.

In other news, I managed to drop my toothbrush in the toilet Saturday morning. Ever have those moments where time slows down but you can't move any fucking faster? Yeah. I set it down on the sink. I promptly (in my normal clumsy manner) knocked it off said sink, and watched it flip in slow motion into the toilet bowl.

Stop judging me. I hadn't had coffee.
Of course I forgot to buy a new toothbrush when we were out causing trouble running errands this weekend.

Oh, I also tortured my dogs. I took them to the groomer (THE HORROR!). Because I'm fucking tired of the hairsplosion (the shepherd has been in mid-winter shed for 2 months, and he's already killed one vacuum). Thor thought the experience, complete with Furminator (which I envision as a giant robotic hair sucker that says "I'll be back" at the end of the appointment) was FABULOUS. He was all perky and excited when I picked them up, proud of his shiny coat and blue Petsmart kerchief.

Chewy was...less than thrilled. Great Pyrenees require daily grooming, and with the accident and everything else last fall going on I'll admit I'd gotten lax. He had some mats, and I opted to let the groomer just shave him instead of tormenting the poor dude with hours upon hours of de-knot-brushing.

Chewy is now naked.



I hate you Mom. I'm so embarrassed.





STILL NOT LOOKING AT YOU.



This coat doesn't even fit. My butt's cold! What's WRONG with you?

That was Saturday. He spent most of the day lying on the floor next to Husband, staring woefully at me with accusatory attitude and large, forlorn sighs. Luckily, biscuts have made things better. 

Indeed, you WON'T like me when I'm angry.

The boys are pissed of this week.

I can tell. The carpet by the upstairs bathroom has a brand-new-pee-spot EVERY GODDAMN NIGHT.

They're so mad, they're not even peeing on the tile.

Do you have any idea how much urine a 100 or 145 pound dog carries?

A. Lot. Sigh.



I may be the pee devil, but I'm cute. And currently POSSESSED.


And I'm not sure which one did it. All I know is they BOTH hide when I get home.



I don't know who you're yelling at, but it wasn't ME.

 UPDATED: I'd still rather deal with pee than eyeballs. That should've been the title of this post.

My Dogs: Too Lazy To Rip Each Other's Faces Off.

In case you were wondering, Thor wouldn't allow me to put the "Happy Fucking Birthday" hat on him. Apparently he has more pride than Chewy, who allowed it but only with a cranky face. This is not the same cranky face I get when it's time for nail clipping, ear cleaning, or bathing...but it's close.

The other night my fool furbabies were lying on opposite sides of the living room. Husband was gaming in his reclining chair with Chewy chilling under the footrest (so he couldn't close the chair and get up, of course) while I lazed about on the couch with Thor and caught up on Lost Girl (If you haven't seen this show yet, WATCH IT. It's funny and sexy...hello...main character is a Succubus...and all manner of awesomesauce). 

I dont' know what the hell was in the air, but much like brothers my two dogs occasionally pull the "I'M NOT TOUCHING YOU" shit with each other. Only with teeth. Chewy, our mild-mannered stuffed-animal-serial-eviscerator started it.

 Chewy leaves bodies on the floor.

And steals Thor's toys (in this case that used to be a turtle, but the shell is ripped open and he's mid-evisceration).

Usually Thor doesn't care (note his tongue sticking out).  

However, when he DOES care he reminds us all that German Shepherds have...very scary teeth. I've never been able to catch a good pic of Thor's teeth, but if you've seen ANY cop show with K-9 officers, you know what I mean. His lips curl up and he growls deep in his chest.

And Chewy stares back at him from across the room, growling. Occasionally they get up and have a scuffle (which can move furniture, since they're 100 and 145lbs). It should be noted that CHEWY ALWAYS LOSES, yet he usually starts the trouble. Sigh. When I get home from work and Chewy has a new scab on his head I know they got into it (again) and Thor (again) held Chewy's head in his mouth like "Dude, I could bite your face off, so leave me alone. Go find a toy to rip apart. I'm fucking sleeping!"

On Wednesday they were both too lazy to actually do anything except stare and smart off at each other.  So for two full hours Lost Girl had this really fucked up growling-dog undertone to the soundtrack. Later that night they cuddled on the guest bed together, so apparently the argument was over.

At least I haven't had to yell "THOR! STOP HUMPING YOUR BROTHER!" for a few weeks.

Things I Never Thought I'd Say Out Loud...

...until I had dogs.

• THOR! STOP humping your brother!
• Who peed on the bathroom floor?
• Dude...it's a buttless, headless monkey (much beloved/abused stuffed animal)...gross.
• Chewy, I know you have to eviscerate stuffed animals, but do you HAVE to get the guts all over the floor?
• Chewy, seriously, poop THEN wander around. You look retarded.
• DON'T STEP IN IT!! GODDAMMIT!!!
• NO HUMPING!
• Thunder is not the sky barking at you. Shut up.
• That leaf is not out to get you. Shut up.
• No, you can't rip that squirrel apart. Stay in the house.
• Oh my god, stop bitching. Your bath isn't that bad.
• Don't sniff (insert any guest's name here)'s crotch!
• Seriously, go wipe your mouth, you ishy drool machine.
• NOT ON MY LEG!!
• What the hell?? Who peed on the kitchen floor?? What's WRONG with you?
• Dude...I wouldn't do that. He's gonna bite your face off. (To Chewy while he's tormenting Thor).
• Sigh. Told you so. Come here, let's see if you still have both eyes. (To Chewy, after Thor lost his temper).
• Belly rubs!
• Don't swallow that plastic/fuzz/paper/shoe!
• Stop licking your feet!
• Put your head out the window and shush (to Thor, in the car)
• Thor, why do you rip the ears off of every chew toy?
• Get off my foot, you fat cow.
• Oh dear, what have you done? (This is anytime I come home to two cowering, remorseful, hiding dogs instead of wagging-happy dogs).
• Don't eat barf!
• Did you DROOL in my shoe? You bastard!
• DROP THAT SOCK!
• Aww, snuggle-puppy

UPDATED: My husband commented on Facebook (NOT my blog: bad form dude, bad form) with the following:

You forgot "stop licking your brothers junk" and "no you can't have the bottle yet, it's not empty".

Touche Sir, I indeed forgot those two. Along the same lines: "put that away, nobody wants to see your junk."

Chewy: Exhausted Hoarder

Chewy waited until Thor wasn't looking, stole the much-abused tennis ball, and climbed to his normal spot on the couch.

Where he promptly fell asleep, apparently exhausted from his efforts to again thieve toys from his brother.

Later he snored loud enough to wake himself up. Startled, he dropped the ball, barked incessantly, and searched the whole house for the horrible snoring monster that scared him.

Dogs: better than cable.