Mutts, Murder Plots and Mayhem

This dog is trying to kill me.

Here’s what happened:

This afternoon, while I was attempting to take a shower, Bubba flung himself against the bathroom door and burst in like a fur-covered barking, crying bomb.

I, of course, assumed there was something horrifying occurring so jumped from the shower and grabbed my pepper spray like a soap-covered, naked Ninja, preparing to face the peril.

“It’s too perilous!” Bubba barked and attempted to run around me in a circle (difficult in the close confines of our bathroom) then sat in front of the door, crying, and trying to prevent my departure.

Nonetheless, determined to protect our other pets, our Christmas presents, and our home in general from whatever danger drove Bubba to this desperate course of action, I threw on a towel and snuck out of the bathroom, pepper spray in hand.

(Side note: yes, as a matter of fact, I do take my pepper spray into the bathroom when I shower. Why? FOR JUST SUCH AN OCCASION, THAT'S WHY!!)

Anyway, as soon as I had the pepper spray cocked and ready to go, I began sneaking through the house, looking for intruders. Meanwhile, Bubba trailed me from room to room, circling me and letting out the occasional whine.

And you know what the problem was?

The cat was sleeping in the middle of the dog bed.

The fact that I did not, in that moment, pepper spray Bubba is a testament to my strength of character

I would like to explain WHY a sleeping cat is cause for such a frantic response but I have no idea. And I can’t ask Bubba because we are currently not speaking. However, my theory is that this had nothing to do with the cat and is instead part of some nefarious plot to scare me into a heart attack..

So, in sum, dogs are clearly uncomfortable letting sleeping cats lie, nudity seems to impair my Ninja skills, and Bubba is either trying to kill me or punish me for dressing him in Christmas clothing or both.

If I wake up dead tomorrow, you all know who to blame.

The Eyes Have It

Here’s the thing:

This dog may look sweet and innocent and totally harmless…

But make no mistake, she’s 6 ½ pounds of fur-covered steel.  

And you might think she looks hilarious when she’s all splayed out on her back like this:

But if you think that gives you free license to tickle her belly with reckless abandon, you better be prepared for an explosion of paws and nails and epic barking.

This, I can assure you, is information Opie wishes he had last Monday night when he tried the aforementioned tickling and she accidentally scratched him right across the eye.

“Is it bleeding?” He asked.

I really wanted to be helpful and reassuring but it was difficult because, as I’ve mentioned in previous blogs, I  have a weird eye phobia type issue and I just knew that if I looked down into an eyeball scratched to bloody shreds, I’d never get over it.

This explains why my cursory examination revealed nothing.  It does not, however, explain why, when we went to the ER 6 hours later because Opie couldn’t open his eye without wanting to scream, the ER doctor also found nothing.  I mean, presumably he’s used to seeing disturbing anatomical issues.  And he had a huge light and magnifying glass. But the doc said Opie’s cornea was fine and he just had a little scratch on the inside of his eyelid.

Which made me a slightly unsympathetic (and suspicious that he was trying to upstage my poison ivy) when Opie spent the next 5 hours lying in bed with an icepack on his face, moaning.

So you can imagine how guilty I felt when we finally got in to the actual ophthalmologist and she went “Ohhhh.”

In case you’re wondering, this is NEVER the sound you want your doctor to make when she is examining you (or your husband). And it is certainly NOT the sound your doctor makes when there is nothing wrong with your eye.

“She got you good,” the ophthalmologist told Opie. Then she started talking about corneal abrasions and epithelial scarring and a bunch of other stuff that I can’t remember because I was focusing all my mental energy on not throwing up in the trashcan.

“Can we get some painkillers?” I finally muttered.

But she wouldn’t prescribe Opie any because, as she explained in excruciating detail, the best way to gauge the healing process is to see how much the pain is decreasing throughout the night.

And I didn’t have the heart to tell her I was really hoping for some painkillers for ME.

Anyway, we got a bunch of other prescriptions to avoid infection and scarring and headed home.

“I’m going to drop you off so you can get settled and rest,” I told Opie.  “Then I’m going to go pick up your prescriptions.”

“Sounds good,” he agreed.

“Then,” I said with deceptive calm. “I’m going to drive to the ER and punch that doctor in the face about 50 times.”

Opie seemed to think this was in the “overreaction” category. Especially when I added. “Then I’m going to kick him in the shins. Then I’m going to demand our money back because that was the worst freaking, piece of crap medical diagnosis, I’ve ever heard in my life.”

And for the sake of the PG nature of this blog let’s all just pretend I really said “freaking” and “crap.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.” Opie said.

And he’s probably right…but maybe that’s how it should work.

In any case, I didn’t go assault the ER doctor but only because I really didn’t have any spare time.  

After all, we had to put drops and this disgusting antibiotic goo in Opie’s eye every hour for the next 24 hours—even setting the alarm to go off at hour intervals throughout the night—and all this eye medicating involved a lot of crying, moaning, and shouts to the heavens for help. 

Which doesn’t even include Opie’s reaction.

But now, after a week of treatment and 3 more visits to the ophthalmologist, his eye is on the mend and should heal with no ill effects. So, in sum, the ER doctor may one day be hunted down and punched in the face, I am the worst eye nurse in the history of the universe, and dog tickling is a dangerous sport.

M Is For Malacoid

Malacoid Adj. made of a soft or fleshy substances

If you thought the worms were bad, today’s word has me thinking of slugs.

That’s right, slugs.

We have one garden plot that is infested with crop-destroying, slime-leaving, hermaphrodite-being SLUGS. Last week, I went out one fine morning, fully intending to harvest some fresh baby spinach and what did I find? Devastation! A spinach wasteland of chewed plants and unearthed roots. All because a colony of slugs got there first and decided, in their evil little hearts that they wanted my spinach more than I did!

They're evil, I tell you, EVIL!

And for those of you who think I'm exaggerating their evilness, let me tell you that as the English research nerd that I am, (some things will never change), I immediately began looking up slugs and found that they can be an apophallating species. What is an apophallating species, you may wonder. A species in which the hermaphroditic creatures can become entangled during coitus and can only be separated when one chews off the penis of the other!

On an only slightly related note, I think this is the exact reason I should never research things on the internet. I always seem to find the most horrifying tidbit of information out there and also always feel compelled to share it....still, I think this proves my point about slugs being evil.

In any case, the rest of my research indicated that beer traps are a good start at slug removal. You take a little bowl, bury it to the rim in the affected area, fill it with beer and voila! The slugs slime their way in, get sluggish from drinking too much beer, and drown.

It seemed a little too good to be true but let's be honest, beer is a main staple of our kitchen. We may run out of bread, eggs, flour, or butter, but we ALWAYS have beer. Opie issued a few mild protests to the beer plan (Bud Light? You're feeding Bud Light to slugs?) but these were overcome with a much more impressive show of histrionics (Did you see the spinach? Did you? Do you think I can handle more of this devastation? DO YOU REALLY?). And a beer baiting we did go!

And I did catch 3 slugs...3 little slugs and one big Bub of a dog, drinking the beer and licking his chops.  Not exactly a screaming success.

Bub suggested that we should bait 10 or 12 beer traps and leave them all over the yard or, failing that, pour it directly in his bowl and he would knock the slugs into it later but that just didn’t seem appropriate. 

So, I headed back to the computer for more information. And, sadly. the best way to get rid of the little monsters is outright murder. Go out late at night and kill as many of them as you can, then turn over the soil the next day to kill their nasty little eggs.

So, now, every night Opie and I arm ourselves with flashlights, salt, and garden trowels and tiptoe around the entire yard looking for slugs (one of us with the unholy glee of a serial killer or die-hard vigilante intent on saving the poor defenseless spinach from the evil, gaping maws of the invading slug horde, the other with unenthusiastic acceptance that giving in to your new spouse's somewhat lunatic requests is less painful than logical resistance. I'll let you all guess which is which). We search under all the spinach leaves, along the rock border, and underneath the mulch. Whenever we find one, we dig it out with the garden trowel and--even now--I jump back and squeal in revulsion. We used to dump salt on top of them but I kept imagining them writhing in the throes of salt-induced agony and I couldn’t take it…I mean, sure they’re evil but torture is bad for my karma.  So now we chop their malacoid bodies in half. Which is a quicker death for them but is so revolting that it makes me squeal even more.

­­­

Can you imagine what the neighbors are thinking?  They see lights flashing around the yard, hear a loud thunk, then a girlish squeal….Kind of wondering how long it’s going to take them to call 911 to report a pair of lunatic intruders next door.

G Is For Galeanthropy

Galeanthropy –noun, the belief that one is a cat.

What’s really amazing to me about this is the fact that we, apparently, need a word for this situation.  There are enough people out there who believe that they are cats that a word has been created for it.

What’s even worse is that, in spite of the fact that we have flocks of these faux felines floating around, I haven’t met a single one.

More to the point, I now can’t stop wondering if there’s a word for a cat’s belief that he is a dog. Because I’m pretty sure that’s just one of the many problems that my cat,  Princeton P. Kitty, is suffering from.

Not only does he think he’s a dog, but a dog of questionable moral character.

See, the cat, unfortunately, is a liar.

This was made abundantly clear when Opie and I first started to get serious about our relationship and made the all-too-critical step of introducing our animals.

The thing is, when 2 dogs meet for the first time, there is a little struggle to see which one is dominant.  The submissive one frequently drops onto his back and shows his belly, demonstrating his submissive nature.  So, upon meeting Opie’s Rottweiler mix, Bubba, Prince took a few cheerful swipes at his head, then dropped to the floor and showed his belly.

But, as I mentioned, the cat is a liar.

He was not showing his belly as an act of submission but to lull Bubba into a false sense of security.  Because the second that Bubba would scamper over, thinking he was in charge, and put his nose down on Prince’s belly, Prince would smack Bubba in the face.

Which would have been bad enough if Prince had done it once…but he did it about 16 times.  And Bubba fell for it EVERY SINGLE TIME.

What, I wonder, is the word for THAT?

Can't you just tell this cat is plotting SOMETHING?

A Guard Dog He Was Not -- The Week of Peek Part 5

This is the story of the night Peek proved he's really not much of a guard dog...

Seriously, who wouldn't fear this dog?  He was 7 pounds of fur-covered steel!

  

So how’s this for drama? Last night I was in bed, reading, about to drift off to sleep when I heard the unmistakable sound of a door opening downstairs.

          Which I would have chalked off to imagination except my ridiculous animal jumped from the bed in the same instant and flew downstairs in a barking frenzy.

          In any case, I freaked out a little…after all, why would my doors be opening at 1:00 in the morning, particularly when I am POSITIVE I locked them before retiring to my room for the night?

          But ever the intrepid homeowner, I snuck to the stairs and yelled “Hello!”

          Which, in retrospect is kind of stupid. What kind of moron actually welcomes the crazed rapist into her home?

          Anyway, after I yelled, I heard more movement, more hysterical barking, and pondered what to do…I thought I would feel silly calling 911, I mean what if there was no one there? Then what? However, I quickly decided I would rather feel silly than feel dead so I made the call.

          You should all take a minute and feel a little twinge of pity for the 911 operator who had to deal with me. She was trying to calm me down and give me instructions, like to lock myself in my bedroom, and I was crying and telling her I had to go downstairs and get my dog.

          “I’m sure your dog will be fine,” she said. “Dogs can take care of themselves.”

           Which, honestly, just proved she had never met my dog.

          “My dog is a Chihuahua!” I yelled. “He’s a fat little Chihuahua that couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag!”  Then I began screaming his name in a style reminiscent of Stanley screaming for Stella in A Streetcar Named Desire.

          I’m sure that was lovely for the 911 operator.

          I’m sure she was also somewhat convinced that there was something seriously wrong with me because, again, my dog’s name is Peek-A-Boo.

          “Peek-A-Boo!”  I was yelling.  “Peek-A-Boo!”  Like I was trying to get the intruder to play toddler games with me.

          However, the operator stayed calm and managed to convince me that my family would not be pleased if I got myself killed running downstairs to check on my dog (and she’s right, while my folks would obviously be upset to lose me in any circumstance, meeting my demise my life in some unnecessary but some daring doggie rescue would add eight kinds of irritation to their grief.)
 

          But my attachment to this ridiculous animal goes somewhat beyond the normal, healthy range so I couldn’t abandon him, especially since I could still hear him running around and barking right in front of the door I'd heard opening. So I started sneaking down the stairs as quietly as I could.  And then I heard the door again, swinging shut this time.  I grabbed Peek and ran back upstairs, freaking out even more.

          And even though the police arrived moments later, I was already well on my way to hyperventilating and having a complete panic attack.  Meanwhile, the police searched the outside of the house, then tried to come in to look around and make sure no one was inside

          At which point Peek his true concern: No one, he insisted, was crossing the threshold of this house until he got his belly rubbed--preferably while being fed dog treats.  He jumped out of my arms, flung himself on the floor in front of the officers, rolled over and yipped at them over and over until one actually caved and petted him.

          And then the officer said “Really more of an ‘alarm dog’ than a guard dog, huh?”

          It was embarrassing.

          I mean, I don’t expect this animal to really go into attack mode or anything but I had just risked my own life to save him so couldn’t he at least pretend to care that strangers were meandering all over our home???

 

Peek Freaks -- The Week of Peek Part 4

         In case any of you thought that I was the only one who Peek-A-Boo tormented with his willful ways, here's a little story about the week my parents watched him.

 

Peek hiding in the closet, not out of fear but mainly to torment my parents.

 

 

 

 After a week of wandering around the Canadian wilderness with pre-teen children who consider farting the be-all, end-all in humor, I’m writing to appeal to you all for sympathy.

Not for myself, mind, but for the two people who really deserve sympathy concerning this whole experience.

          My parents.

          Now, I can hear some of you saying to yourselves, “Selves,” you are saying.  “I didn’t know Kimberly’s parents went to Canada with her.”

          They didn’t.

          They had the dubious honor of caring for my dog while I was gone, the infamous Peek-A-Boo.

          Pity my parents

          Pity Peek-A-Boo.

          Pity the poor neighbors who I suspect were constantly offered a slightly used long haired Chihuahua.

          You see, there is this little thing called separation anxiety that affects dogs when they feel they have been abandoned by their owners.  And this trip, yep, that just about did it for the Peekster.

          To be perfectly precise about it, Peek freaked.

          He started with his usual expression of doggy displeasure.  He chewed the used/dirty paper in his litter box and scattered the contents around the kitchen. This is what he does when he’s mad at me and I guess he thought my parents would quickly get the message.

          I don’t think he planned on my father stepping on a huge piece of Peek-A-Boo poo as he walked in the door.

          I’m glad I wasn’t there to witness this; I’m sure it wasn’t pretty.

          But did this deter my dog?

          Not even a little bit.

          In fact, after this ploy failed to get him the appropriate (in his mind) attention, he decided to up the ante.  He decided that pottying in the litter box wasn’t emotionally satisfying anymore.  He had some serious abandonment issues that needed to be addressed, he wanted to make sure the whole family was aware that he was unhappy.  So he began sneaking over to the sink in the middle of the night and peeing right in front of it.

          Picture my father shuffling (barefoot) over to the coffee pot first thing in the morning, sliding through a puddle of Peek-A-Boo pee.

          My dog is lucky to be alive.

          And let’s not even talk about the chewing…let’s not mention the silk plant, the two wicker baskets and the numerous shoes etc that Peek decided to sample in his quest for the best chew toy. Let’s just say when I got there to pick him up, the kitchen was this barren, desolate wasteland with nothing but the table and Peek’s crate.  Everything else had been removed after Peek decided to gnaw off a hunk or two.

          And then there were the fun hiding episodes in which he wriggled his fat little body around the accordion door and snuck to the back of the closet and stayed there snuggled in a bunch of shoes, chewing away, until my parents had searched the whole house in a desperate attempt to find him.

          Then, the day before I got home, Peek got out.  He escaped, he ran away and began tearing around the neighborhood, looking for me.  My mom was frantic; I had talked to her the day before and she had mentioned how terrible the dog was behaving.  I think she thought that I would be convinced one of them had finally snapped and killed him.  So everyone take a moment and picture my poor mother running through the neighborhood, dashing up and down the golf course screaming “Peek-A-Boo!  Peek-A-Boo!” at the top of her lungs.

          What the neighbors thought of this display is frightening to contemplate.

          NOTE:  Mom would like to interject that she now believes Peek-A-Boo is the stupidest name she has ever heard.  I told her it could have been worse, I could have named him Help.

          It’s amazing how a week with one slightly neurotic dog can really take the edge of your sense of humor.

Loyalty Not Always A Good Thing -- The Week of Peek Part 3

We had awful storms again last night in Oklahoma with more predicted for today and that got me thinking about how my crazy dog used to freak out during storms.   This entry was written a few months after I got Peek and during the first storm that we had that spring. I had never owned my own dog--nor had a child--so I wasn’t ready for the middle of the night wake up calls.

 

 

 

This dog is killing me.

 

Picture this: there I was last night, sleeping soundly with my loyal dog sacked out by my feet.  Dreaming, content…until I was rudely ripped awake by a deafening howl inches from my ear.

            To put it mildly, I was shocked.

            And, since it was just after 2:00 AM, I was more than a little disoriented.  I stumbled from bed, trying to figure out what in the heck was going on, flipped on the light, and saw my little Peek-A-Boo, sitting on a pillow, howling his fool head off.

            My first reaction, of course was to spend a few valuable seconds trying to decide where I was doing to hide when the neighbors broke down the door to kill us. (The dog would be on his own.) Then it hit me.  The dog was not doing a solo; he was howling a duet with a horrible siren outside—a tornado siren.

            My next step was to run to the living room and snap on the television.  According to the weather channel, there was no need for alarm.  The tornado was well to the north; my apartment was safe. 

            The dog, however, was unconvinced.  He was sure that we were in unbelievable jeopardy and he was determined to protect me at all costs.  So the rest of our night went like this:

            2:27 Return to bed.

            2:35 Thunderstorm starts.

            2:36 Peek decides he must protect hearth and home from thunderstorm so claws his way from beneath the blankets and over my body, flings tiny self from bed, races to window at top speed, barking and growling like a mad dog.

            2:38 Thunder is relatively unimpressed with dog’s theatrics, responds with earth-shaking crack and boom.

            2:39 Peek flees under the bed for safety.

            2:40 Peek realizes I haven’t made the journey with him and leaps back into bed, barking and running around in circles.

            2:41 Peek jumps back out of bed, stares up at me, barks again and dives back under the bed, clearly thinking I have just misunderstood his rather detailed warnings.

            2:42 I close my eyes and bury my head beneath the pillows.

            2:44 Peek decides I am the stupidest person in America, steels himself against terrifying storm, and creeps out from under bed to repeat entire warning process.  Flings self in and out of bed several times as example of proper storm precaution.

            2:46 Peek is shocked to discover that I still haven’t made the trek to safety and lodges verbal protest.

            2:48 Dog successfully dodges the socks flung at him, continues to bark.

            2:52 Dog adds howling to verbal protest.

            2:55 Battle of wills begins.  Peek continues to leap in and out of bed, howling; I continue to pretend I can’t hear him.

            3:11 Decision is made that sleeping on the floor is infinitely preferable to not sleeping at all.  I concede victory, throw blankets down in a rage and flop next to bed.

            3:12 Satisfied that I have finally come to my senses, Peek stops howling, licks my hand, and promptly falls into the content and self-righteous sleep of a guard dog.

This much loyalty I can do without.