I may have crossed a line

But before I get to that, I must show you what horror I had to endure on Halloween. I'm pleased with myself that I've gotten the Halloween pictures up before Christmas (hold your applause).

Silas has wanted to be the Predator from the Alien vs. Predator movies for two years now. This year I finally got it together and found the mask and hands for him. Sidenote: Do NOT, ever, google 'child predator hands'. Google does not know you mean predator costume. Back to your regularly scheduled post. And we can all thank his father for letting him watch such a scary movie. You have no idea how many arguments have ensued in our household over this. His defense? "He doesn't know what he's watching". I beg to differ. Anyway, sorry, end of tangent.

So hold onto your hats, ladies and gents. This is the extremely scary and somewhat nauseating costume my six year old wanted:

He has the helmet with the dread locks on it, but chose not to wear it. I have no idea why. The poor thing was absolutely mortified when a little girl took one look at him, screamed, and ran to her mother. He pulled his mask off, fell to his knees, and told her "it's just me. I'm just a little boy. I won't hurt you".

Now on to the line I may have crossed.

I have put the dogs in pajamas.

I know. You don't have to say it. I'm just not sure if there's a way back from this.

I've painted the bully's toenails. I've put bows in the spaniel's ears. (are those apostrophe's right?) (Is that one?) Someone get me a punctuation teacher and have me a baby. That should solve both problems, don'tcha think?

At least they're cute pajamas, right?

I just don't understand...

...how anyone could abandon this adorable sweetheart.



She was dropped off at the vet for a slight respiratory infection and never retrieved. I can't fathom why. She's as fine a specimen of an English Bulldog as you'll find. Someone paid fat stacks for her and then just left her.





I'm sure there could be a myriad of reasons as to why she was left and I'm very sorry for the person who had to make that decision. I am, however, very glad they chose to leave her somewhere responsible instead of on the roadside.

So now, please welcome the eighty fifth fourth canine member of our household. Miss TrixieBelle Lollipop. Why yes! Silas did name her. How did you know? Trust me, the name fits in well as our other dogs are:

Gus, also known as, Gustopher, Gustafson and Gustafarian;

Penelope Pitstop, aka Nellie, Nellie Goat and Smelly Nellie with the big belly;

and Betty Boop, aka The Boop, Boop Boop a Doop, and The Big Booper.

So I believe she'll fit right in. I'll be applying for my kennel license tomorrow. If you have any experience with Bulldogs and have wisdom to share, I welcome it. Meanwhile, I leave you with some puppy butt. You're welcome.

CSI: West Virginia

My house looks like a crime scene! I came home last week to a front door that looked like this:





That's blood spatter all over my front door. I was all, ???? So I proceeded into the house, albeit a bit cautiously. This is what I found:



This is all over my house! On every wall, door, appliance and piece of furniture. SweetieDarling is at school, Silas is with me, and Sam is at work, so exactly whom has bled all over my house? The house doesn't appear to have been ransacked (well, anymore than it usually does) and there is nothing missing. Hmmm. Time for some sleuthing.

The first thing I notice is that the blood never extends over three feet high. So a little person has broken in and flung blood all over my walls? Probably not. All of the blood either looks like it's been painted on with a feather, or it's in round or oblong dots. So...after a quick consultation with Gil Grisson I determine that something bloody has been flung against the walls over, and over, and over again. My brilliance never ceases to dazzle, does it?

I finally (three or four hours later) figured out that the end of Gus' tail is bloody and when he wags it, he flings blood everywhere. Yeah. Ever tried to bandage the end of a dogs tail? Talk about a Sisyphean endeavor. Put it on, he chews it off. Put it back on, he wags it off. The dog has only recently discovered his tail. He will occasionally catch sight of it out of the corner of his eye and it surprises him every time. He will then chase it until he clamps the end of it between his teeth. This hurts so he yelps and lets go. Until he sees it again. Repeat ad infinitum.

I'm tired of wiping blood off the walls. I've done it every evening for a week. Someone tell me how to keep the dog from chewing his tail, I beg of you. I hope there's never a need for the police to luminol my house. I'll have some splainin' to do.

I can't make this stuff up

this picture has nothing to do with the post, I just liked it.

It's starting to get chilly here, finally. Before it gets too cold, I wanted to take my black Lab, Gus, to the lake. He absolutely loves to swim. So I gather the needed accoutrement's; treat sack, tennis ball, training buoy, and mace. And of course, my camera, which I never leave home without.


Silas and I leave the house and head toward the lake. Gus is off leash walking beside us. We live in a very rural area. Rural as in dirt roads, few neighbors, and lots of wildlife, hence the mace. I also live in an area in which it is actually possible to leave the house and have to walk uphill BOTH ways to get back home. Oh, the joys of living on a mountain and near a river.

The lake is approximately a mile from my house. Through the woods and down a series of dirt roads. When we get there, Gus immediately goes for the water, of course.

After about a half hour of swimming after tennis balls and buoys, he starts acting peculiar. He starts circling Silas and I, trying to herd us toward the water. Apparently, he thinks we're his sheep. He paces around the shore line and whines a bit. I try another throw to see if he'll be distracted from whatever has him upset. He doesn't even glance toward the splash. At this point my genius IQ kicks in and I think "hey, maybe we should leave. There's something here he doesn't like". I'm brilliant, poppets, I tell ya.

I gather our things and try to convince Silas we should leave. He's used to spending at least two hours at the lake so he was a bit peeved. He has this whole complicated routine that involves the gathering of sticks, digging of channels and building of dams that occurs at a precise place by the same stand of reeds each time we go. He was not pleased to have to shut down his jobsite early. I believe OSHA may have been called. By this point Gus was whining loudly and staring across the lake. He was in the point position (straight line nose to tail with one paw raised) toward this stand of reeds across the lake: (the road I have to take back home runs right behind this)

The dog's distress is becoming more visible by the second. His hackles are standing up and he's baring his teeth. I'm beginning to feel the first tendrils of fear. I'm out here alone save for this dog and my child, with no means to protect any of us. Sure I have the mace, but that's mainly for if a dog would charge Silas. Do you know how close you have to be to mace something? Too close for comfort.

I grab Silas' hand and haul him up. We take off like our hair was on fire and our asses was catchin'. * Gus keeps close behind all the while growling that deep rumble that lets everyone know he's serious. When I get around the bend I hear rustling and movement in the trees. We are now behind the spot that Gus was pointing toward. This is what he was trying to alert me to:

In case you can't tell, that's a BEAR! I know it's a crappy picture, but you try taking a picture while you're running backwards up a hill. I know you can't tell, but there were actually two bears. If you look toward the left of the one you can see, there's a reflection from the other one's eye.

Now this bear didn't really frighten me. He was a little guy and he's just trying to fatten up for winter. What frightened me is that I didn't know where momma bear was. And I know she wasn't far. All I could do was hope that she was in the woods and that we wouldn't run into her on the road. If we were to run into her on the road, I could hope that Gus would hold her off until I could get Silas away. Neither option was preferable.

We proceeded in an orderly manner away from the bear towards home. I tried not to upset Silas anymore than necessary to make him understand to HURRY! But don't run! I don't want him to be afraid of the woods or to be outside. At the same time, I don't want him to think it's ok to approach a bear in the wild like it's Yogi.

We made it home fine, a little shaken but not stirred. And I have bought an air horn for our next jaunt into the woods. And a big stick. And a tranquilizer gun.

*10 points for whoever can name the song that line came from

A Tragedy of Unspeakable Horror

Not really. I'm very dramatic. But it was tragic, none the less.



Would you consider this the face of a vicious killer? A terrible monster capable of horrendous acts? No? Neither did I. Until this:

(pretend there is a picture of a horribly mangled and dismembered laptop cord here. Humor me, the picture won't load)

Yes. That is the power cord to my laptop. Otherwise known as my lifeline. My connection to the internetz. And it died a horrible and lonely death in the jaws of that beast. *sniff* It was so young. So innocent. So much life left in it. I was trying to be nice and kind and help a poor scared puppy and it was sacrificed in the face of my selflessness. It was a very stormy night. Yes, thunderstorms in October, I know. The pup was scared senseless in her crate, so out of the kindness of my heart I let her sleep in the bedroom.

I'm passed out from xanax sleeping soundly when I hear this cacophonous yelping and whimpering. I jump out of bed to see the dog with my power cord hanging out of her jaws, getting herself a good shock. I debated letting her keep getting shocked for a while, but I thought that might fry my laptop, which was hooked up and charging. So I pulled the plug, and the pup disappeared under the bed. Smart move on her part. She knows I'm too old and fat to go under there after her, so I contented myself with stomping around grousing about how I'm certainly not paying $150 for a new cord because it wasn't my stupid dog that ate this one and somebody best be ordering me a new one toot suite.

After f-f-f-four d-d-days without my sweet elixir of life I'm so far into withdrawal I'm imagining bugs under my skin and hallucinating the UPS guy on the porch. When he finally did show up, I practically attacked him. And hot as he is, all I wanted was his package. Not that package, freak, my cord. So now I have it and all is right with the world once again. Me and my internetz are together and we all lived happily ever after. The end.

ps. this post about the Dude wrecking the car? Absolute truth, swear to Dog. Will send pictures of scars if requested.

The untimely demise of Katharine Hepburn

The following events occurred several weeks ago. I was just in too much pain to relive it by telling the story. As time is wont to do, it has made the pain fade somewhat. But never the memory.

My cutest puppy in the world, Katharine Hepburn, was killed accidentally. I was walking her in the yard when she saw a squirrel. Her collar had been loosened earlier, I suppose by playing with one of the labs. As spaniels do, she took off after the squirrel, slipping out of her collar. She ran directly under the rear wheels of Sam's truck as he was turning up the drive. To say we were devastated is an understatement. I got to hold her in my arms for her final minutes and tell her how much I loved her and what a wonderful dog she was and how so very, very sorry I was. And then I lost my shit.

And my mind. I saw her everywhere, curled up on my pillow, peeking out from under the bed, everywhere. I truly believe that her death was the catalyst that sent me right over the edge. That loosened my tenuous (at best) grip on sanity and/or reality. That sent me to the psychiatrist for medication I obviously needed before she died.

Once I stabilized a bit, I started looking for another dog. One just like her. Morbid as that sounds, it made perfect sense to me at the time. I had to have her back, somehow. I imposed upon the ever patient and understanding Candy to contact friends of hers who raise that breed. I went to every website that catered to Cavaliers looking for a tri-color female. It took me three years to find Katharine Hepburn, so my hopes were not high. While the breed itself isn't rare, the tri-color females are hard to get. (Well, I could have had my pick of many if I were willing to pay upwards of $2000. Distraught as I was, I retained some sense). As luck, or fate, or whatever stirring of the winds you chose to believe in had it, I found her.



Meet Betty Boop. She's snuggled in the paws of my ancient Rottie Athena, who is in desperate need of a pedicure. She is sweet and beautiful. She has many of the same mannerisms of her predecessor, but she isn't her. And I won't dishonor Katharine Hepburn's memory by pretending she is. But I will pour all of the love I had for Katharine Hepburn to her.

Those who have incurred my wrath

Updated to add that I was unaware of Mrs. Flinger's Brutally Honest Monday's when I wrote this.

I need for you to be brutally honest with me today. I'm going to tell you of two interactions with people who raised my ire. You tell me if a) I was justified in my reactions; b) I am a complete and utter social moron who should never be allowed in public again; or c) somewhere in the middle. Tell it like it is now. I'll only cry for a bit and I can't count on anyone else to be true.

Interaction 1:

Because of the isolated area we live in, my husband is convinced that we will get robbed if we don't get another home security system (aka "a big dog"). I reluctantly concur that he may have a point. We are the only house in our subdivision that hasn't been broken into, largely due, we think, to Maximus . The husband had this in mind when he made an appointment to look at some puppies at a nearby farm.

We arrived and spent about half an hour playing with the puppies and checking out the parents. Chatting with the gentleman revealed him to a registered nurse, his wife an elementary school teacher. Near the end of the visit, said wife arrived with their adorable two year old daughter. She was pregnant with their second.

While we're chatting, the little one decides to take off her shoes to feel the grass on her feet. Her mother told her to put them back on. When she didn't, the mother explained that she could get something in her foot and that this was her warning. The little one ignored her, as little ones are wont to do. With no indication that anything was amiss, the mother snatched the little girl up hard enough to snap her head back, whipped her around and hit her bottom, HARD.

I was gobsmacked. I really didn't think the behavior warranted such a forceful punishment. I closed my mouth, turned around and offered the gentleman my hand. I thanked him for his time and told him that we wouldn't be giving him a deposit on a puppy today. As this was a complete change of heart from two seconds ago, he was understandably taken aback. In answer to his questions, I told him I wasn't interested in an animal that had probably been abused. He was offended that I insinuated that he'd mistreat his animals. I said, "Good grief, man! Your wife just hit a baby, I can only imagine how the animals are treated."

He rightly pointed out that it's none of my concern how he raises his kid. I agreed that of course it's not, but when it's indicative of how the animal that I'm about to bring into my home, around my kid, has been treated, it becomes my business.

I took my leave in a huff. My husband was lagging behind, most likely mortified. I yelled back "don't you dare apologize for me!" because I just know that's what he was doing. I don't feel I was out of line. I made no judgement on the mother. She may have been having a bad day, we all do. But the fact remains that if you're willing to hit a baby, you probably won't hesitate to kick the dog.

So now, poppets, tell me. Complete and inappropriate over reaction? Justified concern? Could you possibly care less?

Tomorrow....interaction #2!!

The obligatory cutest puppy ever post

Apparently, there's an unwritten rule in the blogosphere that we must all do a cute puppy post. OK, I just made that up because I want to show you my cutest puppy. May I present Miss Katharine Hepburn:

In the manner of a true star, she will only answer to Katharine Hepburn. Not Katharine, not puppy, not damn you stupid dog. Only Katharine Hepburn. She is a very dainty 9 month old Cavalier King Charles Spaniel who (whom?) I rescued from a puppy mill. Oprah's got nothing on me! I got her when she was four months old and I believe she had been marked to be kept as a breeder. I won't go into gruesome detail here because I don't want to cry and you don't either. Suffice it to say that she is one lucky pup and the horrors of what I saw there will haunt my mind forever.

I had been looking for a tri-colored female CKCS for three years. The tri-colored are very hard to find. When I was lucky enough to find a reputable breeder who had one, they inevitably wanted between $1300 and $1850 depending on the lineage. Yeah, that's what I said! I have a friend who does search and rescue with her Shepherds who knew I was looking. She asked if I wanted to go with her group on a raid. While I am forever grateful that she thought of me, and for this happy little dog, I wish with all my heart I had never gone to that place. We saved 283 dogs that night. Twenty six were too far gone to help. The others are either placed in forever homes or being fostered. And that's all I have to say about that.

Katharine Hepburn is still a little timid. She is not aggressive at all. Actually, she's too submissive, but we're working on that. Given the abuse she has no doubt suffered, I think she's coming along magnificently and we're lucky to have her.