What in the world is in Dog food? What ingredient do they add that makes a six month old puppy’s farts smell as if something has been lying dead in a vat of sulfur. I can hardly write because my eyes are tearing up. My dog is lying next to me on a blanket surrounded in a faint cloud of smoke from the gas that is escaping through his tiny puppy portal. We are sitting by the fire place which I am afraid to ignite given the hazardous conditions of my dog’s intestines.
I give my pup a special dog food that has the heading of Science. I was instructed by EDO’s to get a good brand of food to “help his coat” and “maintain a healthy diet” and “he will not have stinky poop”. No, just aromatic farts. Amaroidal.
I tried to find out what this dog food contained but there were no “specifics” on the bag. It just said Special Blend. I saw some bags that had the names of farm animals on them like chicken and lamb. But this was a special blend. Special. The word Special is very precarious. Often used as an adjective. Like Special Ed. Special refers to something that is different, peculiar, limited….Red– Lettered. Much like the color of the title of the bag of dog food I bought. I plucked a pellet of this special blend and brought it to my nose. This pebble had the scent of something that was at least three days old and hadn’t been refrigerated in weeks.
I’m a smeller. My eyesight is lagging, my hearing is weak, but my snoz tells all. When I shop for food I will pick items up and smell them for their freshness. I can smell if Tylenol has expired. I think I was a bloodhound in my former life. One time when I was shopping at a store in Seattle I encountered an ample assortment of cheese. Cheese from all over the world. Cheese in all sizes and shapes and fragrance. I love cheese. I must have spent an hour picking up various blends of cheeses and holding it to my face to take a whiff.
When I have come across a delightful cheese in my past I could never remember the brand or name, but I could remember the taste. And if I couldn’t sample the cheese I could remember the smell. (Well who can forget Stilton.) After I finished in this grocery I looked up and saw that a large man had been watching me the entire time sniffing a sharp Cheddar. I told him I was not shoplifting and to call off the security.
He smiled and commented on; “How he had never seen anyone smell cheese before”.
I said: “I know and they all stink”.
Then we continued our tete-a-tete in the check out line.
I know you are expecting this to end with my telling you “this was how I met my husband kind of scene”, but no, this was a very large infamous sports announcer on a local channel buying dog food….. and he had an odor much like the aged cheese bin. This guy , I had heard later, was involved with a large drug ring that resulted in a few incarcerations at Club Fed. I knew something smelled about him other than his cheap cologne. Maybe that’s the answer to my dog’s digestive woes. He needs puppy perfume. Chaniel No.5 or Pet-scada or Canine klein or Dog Dew…….Brut.
Needless to say none of these perfumes would hide the unhealthy bouquet radiating from within my puppy’s system. I may have to phone the Science food people to actually find out what the make up of their kibble – n-bit is. I’m sure every thing meets with the FDA ( food & dog association) standards but they really need to work on that smell.
I’d hate to have to write them a Scarlett letter.
spread the humor.
My puppy has a fetish. He loves the laundry. He particularly loves to grab a sock. Any sock will do. He will spend hours playing with an old Hanes or a Gold Toe. He steals them out of the basket when I’m not looking and when he feels daring he jumps half way into the dryer and actually surveys the clothing. Most the time I just let him take one sock, usually my sons. They are the largest. Unfortunately, Charly will not relinquish his home made toy and devours the sucker until it has more holes in it than Swiss cheese. Ergo we are a one- sock- footed family with lots of mismatches. We all decided to take the Holy socks and wad them into a ball. We keep adding new merchandise to the initially rolled “sockie” much like a rubber band ball. Only with stockings. I decided to keep an unwashed one in the center to hold his attention a little longer. You can always tell when a pup has something they are not suppose to have by the way they slink around corners like a spy at the airport. One day at the Whirlpool Charly confiscated an intimate article of clothing that belonged to my daughter. He ran down the hallway and out of sight with his new treasure with me calling after him. Leave! Drop! I cornered him in an adjacent room with his tuschie facing me and he turned his head to the side and dangling from his mouth was a Victoria Secret Thong. I didn’t even have to make a move in any direction because Charly bolted past me and went from room to room frolicking with his new foundations. ( you can find that antiquated definition under Bra History). I gave him the chase routine for ten minutes, then I gave up and grabbed my camera. I watched him play with this pink thing for over an hour. At one point he was on his back clenching the triangle part in his teeth and stretching the elastic waistband (?) with his legs as if he were using an exercise resistant tubing. I think he had it on low resistance to tone his flabby under-paws. Then he kicked it up to high speed and got his appendages tangled and looked like a bug caught in a spider’s web. When he jumped up on all fours he was carrying his front elbow in a sling and limping into the kitchen like he just got shot by a stray bullet. I tried to compose myself to retrieve the undergarment but there was no letting up from Charly’s jaws so I just kept snapping pictures and laughing. No, I was not laughing at the misfortune of my puppy’s tangle web he wove, I was laughing because I sent a text to my daughter at college with an attachment of the puppy and his trophy. She was so delighted she text back a stream of Hahahaha’s. I text her that I posted it on her Facebook.
Funny, she hasn’t text back……….
I have decided to give up. If someone out there would like to talk me out of it feel free. I’m tired. I’m tired of trying to better my life financially and getting kicked in the head while doing it. I think I’ll just move to Italy with my dog and we can both sit and stare endlessly at the beautiful scenery. I will be sipping a lovely Chianti from an unknown region and he will be gnawing on left over Oso-Buco. I will be alone with my dog under the Tuscan sun. Many women my age have repeatedly mentioned that they are afraid to be alone. They are afraid that they will lose their loved one and be left out in the cold. Alone. Not if you have a dog. A dog can replace anybody. They don’t sass you and criticize the dinner menu. They don’t slam doors in your face or leave their room in a state of havoc. They don’t wine about their acne after you have spent countless dollars on a Pro active solution. They don’t lose their car keys or misplace their wallet. They don’t have college friends over on a school night until three in the morning eating potato chips and slurping sodas. They don’t throw the soda cans into the regular garbage instead of the recycle. They just jump into the garbage and retrieve.
I think dog’s are irreplaceable , husbands can be replaced or become extinct. I didn’t realize that becoming the matriarch of the family I took on total responsibily for everything. I am suppose to be the gatekeeper, chauffeur, laundry lady, accountant, mediator, house cleaner, ATM, cook (?) and the World’s problem solver. Oh, and dream interpreter. I have days where I want to bask in the silence of the house filled with endless sighs from my puppy. Even Charly’s had enough. Although sometimes too much quiet is not a good thing. My husband has been traveling for the last two weeks and I have been raising doggie solo. I did take for granted the fact that my husband was the early riser and did the six a.m. poop patrol. He also manages to rouse my teenage zombie from his bed and get him off to school and make me a heaping cappuccino at the same time. I stand corrected. Husbands are a necessity, but can still be replaced by a live in maid. Now that I am solo for the last couple of weeks I do miss the help ,which at times I found intrusive. The children are gone all day and it’s me and Charly alone in 4400 square feet of emptiness. I found myself talking to him more and more. I forgo the one word commands and actually hold lengthy conversations with him. He’s a great listener. He should be, his ears are big enough. The one thing that has me concerned is the fact that I seem to be constantly mumbling to Charly. I disclose lot’s of information to him because I know it won’t go any farther. I move about from room to room picking up leftovers from my children’s daily pandemonium and in doing so I ramble on to my dog with my chief complaints. I think he hears so much from me that one day I actually thought I saw a speech balloon pop up from his bobble head with a sarcastic retort.
I guess being alone is the abyss. I understand why some people end up shuffling down to the mailbox in their New & Lingwood regal Red slippers muttering stock quotes. It could be worse: Muttering to a mutt in your five inch Marabou’s while he explores an acre to mark his spot. It’s O.K. They have a Peep-Toe…
I consider myself a spiritual person. I was brought up in an Irish Catholic home. My father was born on St. Patrick’s Day, attended Notre dame College and Notre Dame Law school. My parents were married at the Grotto on the Notre Dame campus. My cousin is the head priest at a prominent Cathedral in Seattle, his sister a nun, an uncle a Monsignor, and the piece de resistance, some distant relative is a Bishop. Our board is so loaded I think we have enough players to construct a narrow-minded Chess game. Checkmate. I believe in God. But I think there is a deity in disguise. My Dog. If you notice ,dog is God spelled backwards. After all dog’s are considered man’s best friend, they risk their lives for us, ( what, canine units?) they have comforted our souls, they are capable of the miracle of birth, and all dogs go to Heaven. I have yet to witness them walking on water but they do have a mean doggie paddle. The Dog’s name is used in vain in a few manners; Dog gone it! Dog blast it! Hot Diggity Dog. To err is human to forgive is Canine. I think my puppy is close to the divinity. He has the power to forgive unconditionally, he listens to your confessions without rebuttal, and he is constantly looking upward like the Penitent Dog… Charly runs to my side every time he hears me utter the words, OhGod help me. This is not in prayer form. This is in castigation whenever I grab the floor cleaner chasing a potty mishap. This has now become a standard thwarted command of some sort and makes him believe that he is a religious figure. His body language becomes his platform for the almighty or some ones Idol. He likes to lie next to me with his front paws extended and bobble head erect carrying his Cleopatra ears like a Sphinx guarding the Pyramid of Cheops. Licking his chops. Sometimes he jumps up in anticipation to grab a mighty morsel that misses the garbage as the plate is schlepped from the dinner table. He has actually maintained a bi-ped posture for about five seconds without any crutches to lean on. Charly looks like a little angel when he’s upright. It’s a haze of a white belly fur- comb-over with an undercoating of pink. Like Victoria Secret Pink. The way he dances in circles with his paws in the air as if he’s attending an MC Hammer Revival,well, it just brings you to your knees,… wiping up more accidents. I think Charly is spiritual. I think he feels the spirit. I think he feels the movement inside especially after he eats. I think my pup has an intrinsic closeness to the almighty because their names are a palindrome. What other animal can have that connection with a worshipped being? How about the many gods of Hinduism and all their appendages. An Octopus? Dog’s are a major part of the Kingdom. Thank God Aaron ran into Little Bo-Peep’s flock when it came to sacrifice time. Could you imagine what would happen to the dog population if Toto was the first thing Moses saw coming down from Mt. Saini. Maybe moses wasn’t really talking to God on the mountain, maybe he was up there rescuing a dog in a bush? “Here I am Dog”. Maybe Moses was dyslexic. Maybe what’s really written on those tablets are The Dog Command-ments. Thou shall not steel any unoccupied shoes.. Thou shall not covet thy neighbors lawn with poo-poo. I am your One and only owner their shalt not be any owners before me….
I was reading a blog about news and marketing and building your business. I don’t have any of those requirements on my blog. I’m not looking to make money although that would be a great bennie right now. The only market I may qualify for would be the Flea market. I could sell the fleas form Charly’s back to the Flea circus and possibly retire lavishly. I don’t understand how people build business on a web site. I don’t understand how to take an idea to the next lucrative level. My blog doesn’t contain information of a product or service to lure viewers to open their Coach wallets. I guess I could make Puppy CD’s of my dog mimicking the sounds of his squeaky toys. I could try to teach him to bark Mozart’s Symphony No.10 in G Major. Or growl something from the Mills Brothers. Puppy Mill. ouch. Maybe do some Flea-bag rap. Charly-Z, Poop-Dog, Lil Chi-hua-hua, Cay-nine-West, or better yet,PILES. Miles and miles of Piles. Maybe rap is getting outdated and I should turn to a healthier mode of capitalizing. Like a work out DVD. Sweatin’ with the Strays: Pilates with Pluto, Lassie’s Lat’s featuring Astro’s Abs,Golden Oldies with Golden Retrievers, Steel Biscuits, Dance your fat away with the Ballroom Hump, or Skinny Bitch Boot Camp. grrrouch. Sure I’m into making money. I’ll sell out my poochies performance. I can become a stage mongrel’s mommy. Yeah, and when the going gets tough and the agents don’t call and Charly’s down and out in Lavender Hills Lane he can resort to strip clubs. Chipendales, man’s best friend? Canines Cabaret, The Hound House,Bow-wow Bitch Club, or Humptown. Yeah plenty of pleated pants under the counter there. Beggin’ for Bones, yeah baby, grind it. I bet the Blog watchers are tagging now.
Nooooo I will not capitalize on my precious pupster…… unless he bites me again. Then I will sell him to the underground. If I knew where to find it. How does one locate the Underground? Who makes up the Underground? Are they underground? Because if they are and you know the way dogs like to dig up yards………………. Does China have an underground? When I was a kid and would go out to our deserted side lot that remained barren, because my dad enjoyed his scotch more than installing a pool. I would dig deep holes in this yard like I was on an archeological expedition hoping to uncover Lucy first or Atlantis. What I uncovered were different layers of dirt disguised in colors from dark to light. I asked my” always too busy mom in the kitchen”, why the light brown dirt was on the bottom layer and she retorted that: ” I was reaching China”. I believed that for a while. I kept shoveling that gold until I thought I would reach the underground or China, whichever popped up first. Then I got a little nervous because what if I encountered a chinaman during my excavation. I wondered if the hole was large enough to accommodate his pointed paddy hat. I wondered what we would talk about on our first meeting. I wondered if I dug enough of these holes and made numerous discoveries of a multitude of Chinamen………could they possible help me construct a pool?
What? If I had a dog I would’ve sent him out, working for saliva wages, but I would have the Dog Labor Relations on my back. Rotsa-Ruck.
I did it. I lost it with my pup. He bit me. I rolled up the Landenberg Herald and gave him a swat to that spotted behind. Then I went to confession. I could have grabbed Mr. Millan’s manual but it was to thick and too calming for my nature and could cause permanent damage. One EDO mentioned the “newspaper method” to me months ago as a training technique, but I felt it would tarnish my dog’s eighth amendment. Or my pup would speed dial the dog authorities and DSS ( dog social services) would be at my door. My dog nipped my leg and left his mark. It hurt. I have never hit anything except a tennis ball. I did thwack my sons tuschie one time although is was filtered by a hefty pull-up and puffy snow pants. His response was a stunned glare with a smirk, followed up with acute verbiage of: ” Ha! That didn’t even hurt”. I felt ridiculous and repented my punitive damages. My doggie however responded in a style that would meet with Barbara Woodhouse’s approval. He stopped mid canter and gave me the eagle eye. I gave it back like Eastwood in a Fist Full of Dollars. Only I held the Times in my right hand and a cappuccino in my left. (East meets West). I think we remained in this state for about five minutes ( three seconds in puppy time) waiting for someone to make a move. Usually in a face off or a gunfight at high noon someone draws first and the other reacts. In this scenerio if I drew first I would lose so I let the dog make the first move by just standing there. I watched him like the hawks outside our house circling for that field mouse. I waited more patiently than a Dingo eyeing Baby Roo in the Outback. I cocked my head just like Dirty Harry and did my own dog whispering: Do you feel lucky punk? Well do ya? You ask yourself was it one swat I gave or is there another one in the chamber…. After the stalemate I uttered a few words to Charly. Words direct in tone, stone cold, without emotion that will penetrate through his recently Q-tipped ears: ” You ever think of biting me again I will send you back to TrailerParksville. I will resume my life, pre-puppy, that encompassed socializing in upscale restaurants( sans barking), bathing regularly, freely coming and going without concern of my return time, getting properly dressed before seven a.m., wearing designer clothes again, (non chewable), leave my shoes out in plain view, donate those doggie toys to less fortunate puppies who can squeak til their hearts content, and sit at the dinner table in peace masticating a tender filet mignon with a reduced Cabernet sauce smothered with mushrooms. Oh I will I will..”
While in the midst of my soliloquy, Charly sauntered over to me and did a figure eight between my legs like a cat that requires affection. He was either repenting or feared for his life because his master had gone nuts and he now has to talk her off the ledge. Or maybe the one command of Trailer park sparked his interest. Whatever the case he made the first move which is something Mr. Millan mentions in his Whispering Heights. The secret to success.
Shhhhhhhhh….. don’t tell Charly, pass it on.
I found a solution to our puppy problems. I am going to divorce my husband of twenty years and marry the Dog Whisperer. I could not sleep New Years Eve because apparently at midnight on New Years Eve for some odd reason, people set off fire works. Duh. My puppy went berserk and barked at every snap, crackle, and pop. So I brought him out to the family room with me for a while to watch TV. We watched the Dog Whisperer. This was not a great deterrent of the fireworks, the exchange was incessant barking of TV dogs. The good part was that in five minutes of watching Cesar Millan’s dog techniques my puppy was asleep. It was like magic. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that he was exhausted and curled up next to a warm cuddly human. I, on the other hand, was so enthralled with this tail-wagger whisperer that I stayed tuned until 4 a.m. I was so captivated I ran for a puppy pad and pencil to take notes. I watched this man from Southern California transform the most surly , rotten to the core, devil incarnates, into truly man’s best friend. I tried waking my pup to take heed in this man’s approach to a dogs life. Charly just got up and moved to the end of the couch to resume his slumber. I thought about keeping his eyes open with a speculum and force him to pay attention to Cesar, maybe use a brain washing technique like they did in A Clockwork Orange. But Charly’s eyes are Big enough as it is plus he would report me to PETA. He has a puppy hotline. Speed dial. I had an epiphany at 3 a.m. I was going to call Cesar Millan to come to Pennsylvania and whisper sweet nothings into my puppy’s deaf ears. It wasn’t until the last show of the evening (?) or morning that the grandfather clause is disclosed on air. Only Southern California residents are eligible.
Fine. I contacted FED-EX for express delivery. A no go. No boxes with air holes. Could result in another PETA call. Ergo I was forced to utilize my notes from the program. They were sketchy but I jotted down key terms. I tried them in the morning after Charly got up. I tried the “claw” grip on the tummy to contain him until he tires. I tried the “stare down” deep into his big round eyes. I blinked first. I stopped yelling my commands because Mr. Millan says that you accomplish more with silence and calmness. Charly just jumped on you quieter. I became mute and started emulating Helen Keller in my directives which ended up in charades. Charly just stared at me and for a moment I think I saw his eyes roll just like my teenage sons whenever I say anything. I tried the “leash” technique when walking my dog, and offering him treats as we stroll through the neighborhood, Wo- mano-a-mano. I tried the “turning the hiney” technique when he encounters other dogs or people that cause distaste, but he just farts.
Cesar Millan says that Calmness is the Key. Cesar would never last in my house. A house where chaos rules. The only time this house is still is between the hours of midnight to six a.m. Maybe I’ll enroll Charly in a Yoga class. I’ve seen him in Lotus position while napping.
The Dog Whisperer needs to branch out to other states. Maybe I’ll order the tapes that he peddles after the show and have Charly do a little distance learning. He can view via telecourse. That way he can use the paws button for a potty break. Or Mute the Mongrel Murmurs when its snack time. Or fast forward to the info- mercials and buy his owner something to help her sleep.
I took my son and three of his friends to a local ski area to do some holiday snowboarding. Two mistakes. One, it was New Years Eve day and two; one of the boys has never been to a mountain with snow before. Normally I would not be so stupid to attempt this outing under those conditions, but my son received new snowboarding equipment for Christmas and his hounding was worse than my puppy’s. It took us over two hours to get to the ski resort, it could have been shorter but I got lost. I do not own a Garmin nor a Tom-Tom, I rely on Mapquest. Mapquest has served me well in Major cities, but I have come to find out it is useless in remote rural areas that don’t display street signs. You are better off using the methodology of our fore fathers; stop and ask directions. Oh wait, that’s right, Fathers don’t stop and ask for directions and, as I witnessed, neither do their sons. The mountain we were trying to locate is a man made snow resort settled somewhere in between two hills way down at the bottom of the Poconos. I grew up in the Pacific Northwest surrounded by the Olympic and Cascade Mountains. When my mother gave birth to her four children we were all breach wearing K2 skis. Growing up, our after school sport was fighting the chair lift line at Snoqualmie Pass. If we ever got lost anywhere in Seattle we just looked up and Mt. Rainier would point the way home. So when we moved to a small farm area in the southeast corner of Pennsylvania just above Delaware, I thought we would see a Plethora of white frosted peaks as we drove north. Nope. Never happened. I drove for hours and never saw snow. I saw more snow in the neighborhood I left behind just hours ago. I can never recall driving downhill to a ski resort. Needless to say being the only female in the car and the driver, I asked for directions. I flagged a guy at a stop light in some small town and asked for route 145. He kindly offered for us to “follow him. he’ll take us there.” I was thrilled until the boys in the back seat started in with Ted Bundy jokes.
We did end up at the ski area intact. I was not prepared for the next thing to come, it hit like a ton of bricks and made my hair stand on end and nearly caused me to return home. The Crowds. Acres of designer clad skiers and snowboarders. In my day we just had skiers. Now the generation of “Boardheads” have taken over the slopes in outfits that cost more than my car. Two of the boys with me had their own stuff and the other two had to rent. I calculated the time for all this to transpire from onset to actual lift off and these boys will be back in the car and on the road home before they finish one run. I tried to expedite as much as possible but I ran out of cash to bribe the people ahead of me. I did manage to cut short a few areas and get the boys geared up and on to the gist of the trip. Meanwhile back at the bar….that’s where I stayed. To keep warm of course. I sat there nursing a Bloody Mary while I studied for my nursing entrance exams. After a few hours I meandered over to the common area to get a larger table so the boys could sit and eat lunch comfortably. Right. Comfortably. To get a table in this cafeteria was like catching a cab during rush hour in Manhattan or getting a parking space at Target during the Holidays. I felt like a vulture as I watched and waited for a family to finish. I actually found myself bussing their trays in order to gain access to their table. The bad part was that once I got possession of this table and chairs, I was now the prey. It seemed that people thought just because I was sitting alone at a table for four I should relinquish my unused chairs. Like flies on my dogs doo-doo these snow people came and grabbed what they felt was rightfully theirs to sit upon. Apparently if your sitting solo that also makes you honorary storage person. Two burly men in racing togs stared at me, placed their baggage under my table and dashed out without a word. For all I know it could have been a bomb or contraband or worse yet, an abandoned puppy. I had teens walk over and start utilizing my table as closet space for their ROXY headbands. I had one woman come over and interrupt my studying while listening to my Ipod. She nudged my shoulder and asked”if she could use my I phone because her son lost theirs” and “you can only locate another I phone via another Iphone…” Right. I yanked the plugs out of my ears and gave her a look that would melt snow . Then, with a calm Clint Eastwood tone I informed her I had an Ipod TOUCH. She backed away in haste like she inhaled a bad smell.
I just realized where I’m taking my puppy to get socialized…….yeah, the slopes. He will bark and snap and growl at everyone passing by. He will tear apart every snow cap and ski bag left in a two foot radius. He will jump on tables and chew french fries until they become mashed potatoes. He will knock over hot cups of coffee onto dormant Ipods and cell phones. He will grab every goggle and run to bury it in the bunny hill. Yeah..just let those vultures try and take my chairs now. Maybe he’ll leave a little present on the seat. Oh Happy Holidays….