A Dog Of His Own -- The Week of Peek Part 6

This is the message I sent out back when Opie and I first started getting serious and we introduced all the animals...

 

This is Peek's "You Want Me To Do WHAT?"face

 

Well, I thought I should let everyone know that Opie and I finally crossed that ever important first hurdle this weekend—the meeting of the pets.

Yes, you read that right.

Pets.

Not parents.  Not friends.  Pets.

Because, let’s be honest, if his 50 pound Rottweiler mix can’t get along with my two bundles of crazy, there’s probably no sense pursuing this relationship any further....ok, kidding, but it would make things more difficult--because I think we all know I'm not getting rid of MY babies.

The problem with the meeting was, of course, the simple fact about that my pets are clearly confused about their place in the universe.

Peek-A-Boo, for example, is completely unaware of the fact that he’s a dog.  He’s pretty sure that he’s just a fat little man trapped in a fur suit.

And while he’s certainly open to having a dog of his own, he clearly thought it was important to establish the following guidelines:

1.      No dogs on the furniture.  Which meant that although Peek had his fat little body splayed out on the couch with reckless abandon, the instant Bub so much as put a single toenail on the edge of a cushion, Peek sprang to vicious life—barking and growling and charging until he scared Bub off.

 

2.      No feeding people food to dogs—no matter what.  Which meant that if someone inadvertently dropped a crumb on the floor—heck if someone looked like they were thinking about dropping something that might be food on the floor,  Peek charged across the room, knocked Bubba out of the way, and heroically gobbled it up himself—all in the interest of keeping the dogs of the house human food free.

 I like to think it was this same heroic spirit that made him jump in front of Bubba and bury his face in Bubba’s food dish.  It’s not that he’s a food aggressive little pig of a dog, he was diligently making sure that there was nothing in Bubba’s bowl that could be misconstrued as people food.

3.      No playing dominance games with the dogs.  According the Dog Whisperer,  a person (even one trapped in a fur suit), should never play dominance games like tug-of-war with his dog.  Apparently, this can teach your dog that it’s ok to challenge your authority.  And while Peek has obviously been watching the Dog Whisperer behind my back, Bubba just has obviously has not. Because that poor dog was desperate to prove his dominance in a tug of war battle with pretty much any toy in the house.

Which honestly, is either really mean or really dumb of Bub because he weighs SEVEN TIMES what Peek weighs. Plus Peek is old and doesn’t have a lot of teeth…a tug of war battle would have ended with him being launched across the room like a rocket dog. 

A fact not lost on Peek AT ALL.  Bubba would come over, tail wagging, toy rope or duck or what have you in his mouth, nudge Peek with it a few times and Peek would just sit there staring at him like he was out of his tiny doggy mind.  “I don’t play dominance games with MY DOG,” he would say.  

He would, occasionally, bark hysterically at Bubba and chase him across the room until he dropped the toy in question—so he could steal the toy and pretend like it had been his all along--and then hide with it behind the couch where Bubba couldn't reach him.  But he would NOT play tug of war.

 The Dog Whisperer said not to.

I'm not going to lie, it was a little embarrassing.

And the cat, of course, made it even worse.

               He, too, seems unaware of his true species.   He clearly thinks he’s a dog…but a dog of questionable moral character.

               See, the cat, unfortunately, is a liar.

               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 Bubba, the cat 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.

Seriously, I think Opie’s just happy that I didn’t bring children to this relationship!

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.

Obedience Training -- The Week of Peek Part 2

This post is from my early and somewhat futile attempts to train Peek-A-Boo.

 

 

 

Peek at about 4 months old, ostensibly learning to "come when called." 

 

 

 

So I've been trying to train the ridiculous animal to come when called. This is not an easy task considering the ridiculous animal thinks he is in charge of the world, much less the strange woman screaming instructions at him.
 

Unfortunately, he proved his point early this morning.

As most of you know, my training methods are pretty simple: Bribe the dog with food.

We have it all worked out. I order him onto his little chair in the kitchen, hide a treat behind my back, yell COME HERE! Show him the food and he launches himself at me like a treat-seeking missile.

 

Early this morning, however, he decided to put a different spin on things. Apparently, I didn’t close the bedroom door all the way when we went to bed last night; so around 4:00 AM he woke up, bored, and decided to meander about the house. He wandered into the kitchen, saw the chair, and decided this would be the perfect time to reinforce the whole “come when called” business. He hopped up onto the chair and began barking his fool head off. Loosely translated, I think he was saying “Come here and give me a treat! A treat! A treat! Come here and give me a treat!”

 

I, understandably, was a bit discombobulated at the sudden outcry and pretty much stumbled into the kitchen, sure there was a burglar or some other reason for the barking explosion.

 

And, still on his chair, he stood up on his hind legs and did the treat dance.

My reply was so obscene that I won’t be including it here.

So, I returned to bed and the dog, clearly feeling misunderstood, began to sing a little treat song…"I'm a dog who needs to eat!  Come on, food lady, give me a treat!"

 

When that didn't work, he decided to mix things up a little by alternating the barking song with a little howling.  "TTTTRRRREEEEAAATTT!"  he howled.  "I need a tttttrrrreeeeaaattttt before I ddddiiiieeee!"  Then there was the whining/howl/barking como...and on and on and on.

 

Thus began the contest of wills….who could hold out longer? Who would give in first?

All I can say is, the dog’s stamina is amazing and I can now pinpoint the exact moment I lost total control of my own life.

The Week Of Peek -- A Tribute

As some of you know, Peek-A-Boo was my chihuahua.  And I hate that I have to say "was" but last night we finally had to put him to sleep.  I don't want to talk about how incredibly awful that was--I can't even write the words without crying.  But I freaking loved that dog with the fire of a thousand suns and since I'm sitting up, unable to go to sleep, I thought I'd use this time to create a tribute to him. 

Not a mushy, tear-jerker tribute--that wouldn't have been his style AT ALL--but just a collection of some of my favorite memories of him, saved from all the emails, notes, etc. that I've written about him through the years...so here begins A Week of Peek.

(This is the tuxedo I got him for my wedding)

 

 

 

And I’ll start with the first story I ever shared about him:

 

So, I brought my new puppy home on Monday…Peek-A-Boo the cutest long haired Chihuahua that you have ever seen!

 

How many of you guessed that this dog was going to make me even crazier than I already am?

 

I am a lunatic…I have had the dog a week and I have already rushed him to the vet twice.

 

The first time I called, I reported to the vet that he was acting “weird” and dashed over. When I got there the vet’s 7 year old daughter was in the waiting room, chattering, trying to pet my dog, and generally being completely annoying. The little girl asked me ten times if she could hold Peek; I said maybe when he calmed down…he (no doubt sensing my own feelings about the little monster) was gallantly trying to climb into my coat and hide. So the girl sat down next to me, and continued to try to pet my poor squirming pooch, all the while explaining the disgusting things she had been seeing all day.

 

Oh, how I wished for a pit bull.

 

In any case, eventually we went in to see the vet (the little girl came too, chattering away until Dr. Dad sensed my discomfort and gave her the boot) and I began explaining Peek-A-Boo’s weird symptoms.

 

“He’s acting weird,” I reported.

 

And the vet asked if he was lethargic, had diarrhea, or had been throwing up?

 

“No.”

 

“Panting excessively? Shaking? Refusing to eat?”

 

I shook my head.

 

“Foaming at the mouth? Howling at the moon?”

 

Ok, he didn’t really ask me those last two. But only because he was too busy staring at me like I was some sort of mental patient.

 

“What is he doing” He finally asked.

 

“I don’t know…just acting weird,” I said.

So he took Peek’s temperature, listened to his heart, took a stool sample…Guess what was wrong?

 

Nothing, that’s what.

 

A big fat nothing.

 

I’m sure my vet now thinks I am a paranoid, child-hating-yippy-dog-owning-pain-in-the-ass…

 

The second time (only one day after the first fiasco) I looked at Peek and thought his eye looked a little weird. I took a closer look, yep, definite weirdness.

 

I considered taking him to the vet, remembered the humiliation from the previous day and hesitated. I had my friend Martha come over for dinner, we considered the dog carefully. We compared pictures from the first day to the eye and decided there was a definite nasty growth, like a sty.

 

“Gross,” she said.“Take him to the vet!”

 

But I was still hesitant to call the vet because I was embarrassed by the previous day’s non-emergency (which cost me $185.00, although part of that was for his shots). So I waited until morning then called my parents, hoping for some advice.

 

Unfortunately, my parents find these little dramas in my life amusing.I hadn’t even gotten two sentences out when I heard my dad start laughing hysterically in the background, especially when I explained that I don’t want to alienate the vet by being a hypochondriac. That’s when my dad grabbed the phone and assured me that at $185.00 a session, the vet would be thrilled if I came in every day…twice
a day if I’m in the mood.

 

So, I went to the vet again. And the daughter was there again (seriously, can’t a vet afford some freaking daycare?); she tried to yank Peek right out of my arms and I almost bit her myself…

 

Luckily Dr. Dad walked in and called her off before I got past the growling stage…anyway, I showed him the eye…

 

And, this time, there WAS something wrong. He has an inflammation of the 3rd eyelid (whatever the hell that is!).

 

IT MAY REQUIRE SURGERY!!!!!

 

I have a sudden visual image of this dog as a money funnel; it’s not pretty.

But at least the vet can’t accuse me of being paranoid again…though, in retrospect, I probably should have kept that to myself because when I said “Well, at least this time you won’t think I’m insane,”he gave me an odd look…

 

I’m now trying to determine if the look meant “That’s not why I think you’re crazy” or if he now thinks I am paranoid,child-hating-yippy-dog-owning-pain-in-the-ass with Munchausen by Doggie Proxy Syndrome.

 

But the worst of it is, we have the option of medication before we try the surgery route…I have this nasty cream I am supposed to put in Peek-A-Boo’s eye 4 times a day…

 

And one thing I learned when I had Pink Eye last year is that I am not so good at putting stuff in eyes.

 

It has been hysterical. There’s been squirming…there’s been whimpering and sobbing…and Peek doesn’t like it either!

 

So my Dad called last night and told me he heard the vet is now able to finance a new home in the Bahamas, all because of this mysterious new patient…

 

I have a sneaking suspicion this puppy isn’t going to be the calming companion that all the dog books promise.

Not Exactly June Cleaver

This is from last year but seriously, my mom still rocks.

My mom has never been June Cleaver.
Don’t get me wrong; I think that’s a good thing! June was sweet and all but she was flustered with dirt on the countertop or the thought of dinner being late. If she had to raise three kids, work full time at her own career and help her husband keep the family business running, poor June’s perfectly coiffed head would have popped right off.

But my mom is stronger than June Cleaver could ever hope to be.

And the memory that really drives it home for me isn’t even from my childhood but from about 8 years ago when I got skin cancer.

Newsflash: This was not news I took well.

I had basal cell carcinoma not melanoma and my life was never in danger but I made one of the classic blunders: I researched basal cell carcinoma on the internet. Why I continue to do this is anyone’s guess; it doesn’t make me feel better. In fact, it usually makes me feel about a thousand times worse because the internet usually shows the worst case scenario—which, in the case of basal cell carcinoma, includes the phrase “mutilating disfigurement.” Add in the fact the tumor was right smack in the middle of my face and I think it’s easy to see why--after several glasses wine—I just started calling people and screaming “Mutilated! Going to be mutilated over here!”

But my mom never lost her cool. I was single then so she went with me to every doctor’s appointment, every consultation, and the surgery itself. “It’s going to be fine,” she said every time.

“They’re going to cut off HALF MY NOSE!” I shrieked.

June Cleaver probably would have cried and hugged me…and then I would have degenerated into even worse hysterics, possibly for days at a time.  My mom was stoic, “Not half your nose,” she disagreed. “Maybe a fourth. And not any of it that you actually USE. You’re going to be fine.”

Even after the surgery—on the horrible day I call the “unveiling” she was unflappable. We unwrapped the mummy-like mess that was my face and took a good long look.

“Looks good,” Mom said, as if she didn’t notice how the swelling had pulled my face—especially my nose—in all directions. Like my nostrils weren’t standing at attention like a pig’s.

“Good?” I shrieked. “Is this how you think it should look? Like I have a PIG NOSE? Do you think I started this whole procedure with a pig nose? Have I unknowingly had a pig nose my whole life or do you think the doctor just mixed me up with the pig nose patient down the hall?”

“It’s just the swelling,” Mom assured me, and threw Vicodin in my mouth with reckless abandon. “I’m sure it’ll go back to normal.”

I collapsed on the couch, muttering “pig nose!” and oinking at random intervals until finally succumbing to the narcotic’s sweet embrace. Then Mom smiled and said “If you’re ok, I think it’s time to take Peek-a-Boo for a walk.”

‘Odd,’ I thought. ‘Peek is litter box trained; he doesn’t really need to go out.’ But the great thing about Vicodin is how it keeps those kind of thoughts at an unexplored distance.

Then Mom wandered out the door.

I found out months later—after the swelling had gone down and my face became significantly less porcine—that she went outside to have hysterics of her own. She called my dad and let him have it. “It’s awful!” she reportedly said. “Call your lawyer because if it doesn’t get better we’re suing that doctor for everything he has…my baby is NEVER WORKING AGAIN, DO YOU HEAR ME?”

Then she got herself calmed back down, came in, smiled at me and said “I think it’s looking better already.”

My mother has never been June Cleaver…she’s an Amazon.

And she’s the strongest person I know.