guard dog

After some recent and alarming incidents in the immediate vicinity of my office, I asked Big Boss Man if I could bring Big Guard Dog with me on nights and weekends.

Dear Big Boss Man:

I understand the answer is very likely no, but would it be ok if I brought in my Lab if I work evenings or weekends? He is nearly 11 years old, very friendly, had never had a accident, is short-haired and shaved so he will not shed, and he will never leave my ofice.

His answer: Your dog is welcome anytime.

Now, all that I wrote is true. But not totally truthful. This Addendum should have followed...

Dear Big Boss Man:

In the interests of full disclosure, I must provide you with this Addendum to yesterday's correspondence in which I described my dog as an older, quiet, mannerly old fella.

1. Jack is crazy.

2. Jack is immune to prescription and over-the-counter canine sedatives as well as Benadryl.
3. Jack has a paper fetish.

4. And a bit too fond of ladies' unmentionables...which I guess isn't really relevant here.
4. At nearly 11 years, he is regularly mistaken for an 11 month pup.

5. And so on.

6. And so on.

7. Ad infinitum.

8. However, you will be pleased to know that Jack shares an interest in the law. From appellate briefs
to basic research
to "Products Liability and the Search for Justice." Jack joined me on a "test" Saturday last week. And he did phenominally well. He nearly knocked over an accountant, but in a loving sort of way. After cursory sniffs around the place and deep Labby eyes longing to properly sniff out every single blessed office and every single blessed cubicle, he promptly passed out.

"Mamma, enough with the flashes!"

Eventually, he realized that the law ain't nearly as exciting as Hollywood would have one believe.

"Seriously?"

"This is what you do all day?"

"Yawn."

things that make me go hmmm

My floors got redone this weekend and, in the interests of not getting high-as-a-kite off the sanding and sealant fumes, the dogs and I are living with a friend for a few days. (They actually are decent houseguests.)

This friend lives in the woods. That's woods to me, not necessarily woods to most of you. And when I say "woods," well, I really mean "formerly dense forest razed to make room for yet another tract of architecturally bland McMansions inhabited by a lot of inconspicuous consumers who pour gallons of poison over their perfetly manicured lawns before retreating to snack on organic corn chips and organic lemonade sweetened with organic cane sugar."


Personally, I think the perfectly manicured lawn-fountain-statues look is lovely...if one means it ironically. Give me the wild - or at least individualistic - look any day! Does anyone honestly think that a reproduction of a Greco-Roman statue next to the garage automatically vests one with class?


Answer: Evidently, and Italian-Americans are disproportionately afflicted.


The problem with plunking down a home with Palette 2 countertops/cabinets/flooring in the kitchen and Palette 5 vanity/tiles/hardware in the master bath in said forest is that forests tend to be inhabited by all manner of forest-y denizens.

Who knew?


I was trying to relax in the tub yesterday afternoon when I heard Coco going crazy at the back door. No matter. Could be an errant leaf. Then Jack started going crazy. Not his 'big boy' bark, which is enough to produce a puddle between your feet, but enough of a "you should see this, mamma!" bark that, with a great sigh, made me leave my nice cool bath. A feral, small, sleek, perfectly black kittycat was making her way around the yard. No sooner had I sighed and sunk back into my bath than I heard more commotion. This time, a deer. A young male, judging by his antlers. Clearly up to no good what with his snacking on birdseed and such.

My point?

Cats and deer? Cause for major alarm. Fireworks? Not a peep.

I don't get it either.

argh.

This has happened at least a dozen times over the past five years. And I don't get it.

We - me, Jack, Coco - will be walking in the city. Lots of people like to stop and say hi. We like that! But a few people feel compelled to insinuate that I am making some kind of a social comment by having a big handsome fit white boy and a little, so-ugly-she-is-cute, not very fit*, black girl. One an expensive breeder purchase, one a $30 rescue dog. "What, you'll pay for a white dog but not a black dog?! Huh? Huh?" One happy and confident and lovin' life and one who isn't quite sure about life...but she will bark at it.

We're just on a walk, people! No one is "oppressing" anyone else. I judiciously avoid try very hard to avoid giving unsolicited social commentary...and I don't even know how I could use the dogs to illustrate issues on which I would opine.

The worst was Coco's Halloween costume...that one got me cussed at.

At a very crowded fundraiser for a shelter. With as many children at the party as dogs! Who does that?

I would point out that it has always been someone of a specific race and gender making these not-too-kind comments. But specifying that race and gender would, I'm sure, strike some as sexi-racist. Raci-sexist. Nothing sexi about racism!

People are ridiculous. Entirely too much "that offends me as a X" and entirely not enough common sense or manners.

Will adding a black-and-white pup next make it all better? Because Harlequin Great Danes make me smile.

* She came to me at 30lbs! Minpins are supposed to weigh 8-10. She is down to 15, so don't yell at me for having a fat dog :)

Photo from Mid-Atlantic Great Dane Rescue League.

***

Usefulness of the day: Do not put your actual home address as "home" in your GPS. Use the address of a nearby business instead. If your GPS is stolen, do you really want the thief knowing where you sleep at night?

sewing update 1

Someone chided me for not posting pictures so here they are!

The machine. It belonged to a woman's father who was a tailor. Included with the machine was a box packed with very old sewing stuff. Buckets of vintage threads on what looked like hand-carved spools, bags of sharp tools and brushes, some kind of a ruler and clamp contraption that I'm guessing is as to a shirt as a vise is to a carpentry project, vintage cigar boxes of buttons, more than 100 zippers, and more stuff I don't even know how to describe. All of it promptly freecycled. As I combed through this cool vintage stuff, all perfectly labeled in the handwriting of someone who actually learned penmanship, I imagined the father would have been good friends with my cobbler, who is 95 years old, blind as a bat, perpetually high as a kite from all the polish fumes...and who does an impeccable job on my shoes for a good price.

And the fabric that started it all. "That is going to be an obnoxious bedspread," my mother said. "Perfect! I replied. "Matches your daughter's personality!" I used to be painfully shy. Then I learned to overcompensate. Then overcompensation became natural. Then I needed a matching bedspread.

About a year ago I discovered Heather Bailey fabrics, swooned, and dashed over to etsy for anything in her prints. The photo of these pre-cut squares caught my eye and didn't let go until check-out. I suffer from twin problems: poor impulse control and the mistaken belief that I am crafty. Which is why I am not allowed in Michael's anymore. I am chock-full of grand sweeping ideals, but the follow-though and actual requisite skills don't exist.

I laid out the squares last summer to hand-sew. Then, after threading a needle, I got distracted by some shiny object bored. And that was the end of that. Until a sewing machine landed in my car trunk.

I love it when things land in my life.

Exhibit A.

Exhibit B.

I posted on freecycle yesterday, offering a homemade meal or resume editing for a sewing lesson. Reason 436 why I heart freecycle: a dozen ladies offered to come over, give some demos, and have me start the quilt as they watch and correct.

If you have Johnson & Johnson stock, buy. Band-Aid sales are going to dramatically increase.

***
Usefulness of the day: Can't find (or broke) your camera cord? Pop out the memory card: there is usually a drive on your computer that will take it. To get the pictures, go Start>Computer>Devices with removable storage. The card should be listed there.

When the dogs' "other mommy" - my former Roommate - moved out, we agreed a joint custody arrangement was best for everyone. Then former Roommate decided that the dogs were better with me and, while she takes Coco for the occassional overnight, ol' Frick and Frack are basically mine.

Lord, help me.

The difference really isn't significant. When we lived together, former Roommate traveled a great deal. As in, at least 3 weeks out of the month. As we lived together for about five years - in which I went from being terrified of all dogs to debating adding a third! - the natural progression was that we became co-owners. And, by circumstance, I was (very happily) doing at least 90% of the parenting. She decided to keep it that way.

But it is handy to have an extra set of, well, hands, at the dog park.
As you can tell, certain boys know exactly where we are headed.

And all I have to say about this is that in my car, all dogs are properly restrained in the rear. But what fun are rules on a sunny Saturday morning?

dog safety kit

With all the things Jack (and, to a lesser degree, Coco) has managed to scarf down, you'd think I'd have my act together with a box full of doggie first aid. Nope. But I put one together this weekend after a wee little incident involving Jack and raw bread dough on Easter.

1. Put the ASPCA's pet poison control hotline in your phone. The number is (888) 426-4435 and there is usually a $65 fee. I can't say enough about their hotline; having called it so many times I half-expect them to answer, wearily, "hello, Jack's mom." A vet - not a trained operator - answers quickly, you take care of billing after you get the dog stabilized, and you can call back as many times as you want for the same case.

2. Know the fastest way to a vet ER. Program it into your GPS and have it plugged into your phone.

Drugs

Depending on what the toxin is, contact a vet before administering! Some substances are more dangerous if vomited - acidic, alkaline, and petroleum products, for example.

3. Have fresh hydrogen peroxide (3% USP) on hand to induce vomiting...from experience, I can say that "tickling" the back of the throat does not work!

4. Activated charcoal tablets to absorb toxins

5. Benadryl pills (anti-histamine only)

6. Milk of Magnesia to counteract acids

7. White vinegar to counteract alkalines

8. OTC vet anti-anxiety/sedative

Tools

9. Scissors

10. Good tweezers

11. Turkey baster

12. Needleless syringe (same kind you might find attached to pediatric cough syrup)

13. Eyedropper

14. Rectal thermometer

15. Muzzle

16. Duct tape

17. Penlight

18. Q-tips

19. Tablespoons

20. Large Ziploc bags for storing any samples


Other supplies

20. Beach towels

21. Paper towels

22. Sterile gauze

23. Athletic bandages

24. Blanket or dropcloth for transport

25. Disposable gloves


Food and drink

26. Canned yummy food for giving drugs, such as wet dog food. Peanut butter and sprayable Cheez-Whiz is good, too.

27. Shelf-stable liquid for giving drugs, such as canned milk or broth. Instant mashed potatoes also works.

28. Canned pumpkin. Not pumpkin pie filling, but plain pumpkin. Good for constipation.

29. Bread. Try to keep a loaf on hand.

30. Ice. Try to keep ice in the freezer.



Whew! That's a lot of stuff. Most people have the majority of these items in the house, but it can be very convenient to have them all in one place.



Storytime! Most of our vet emergencies have been real. The time Jack ate 34 sticks of Miracle Grow...or a box of chocolate Ex-Lax...or when Coco ate a Starbucks espresso brownie, thereby turning a $3 treat into a $600 overnight ER trip. But, once, Jack faked a back injury.


I had a friend staying with me for a few weeks and, apparently, Jack felt he wasn't getting enough attention. On New Year's Day, he was on my bed on the fourth floor of a rowhome, crying. The darn dog acted as if he was paralyzed or seriously injured. "How the heck do I get a 120lb dog off a bed, down 4 flights of stairs, down the block, and into the car?" I wondered. I called the ER, who told me they did not have an ambulance service but did give me the number of the Dog Charmer.


Dog. Charmer.


I can't make this up, people! The Dog Charmer came over, whispered into Jack's ear, and within minutes he was limping heavily and whimpering all the way into the car.


Then, after blood work and X-rays and CT scans and the entire vet student night staff of the hospital standing around him trying to figure out what was wrong...a cat walked by. Jack leapt off a high exam table, flew down the hall, stopped, turned, locked eyes with me, and grinned the biggest grin of his life.


Ok, boy. You got what you wanted: more than a dozen caring, concerned people fussing all over you for hours. Never, ever underestimate this dog. When he wants quiet snuggly time and kisses, he will cozy up to me, whimper, and show me where the breeder removed his dewclaws. When he was 6 weeks old.


Ever see those signs in convenience stores, "do not accept checks from this person" with a name and a photo? Yeah, there is still a picture of Jack in the ER nurses' station labeled "FAKER."


He went by a similar-sounding nickname for a few months after that.


Still does.

It's a small world!

Three years ago, I hired a new dog walker.

Our old one was amazing and wonderful and almost insanely concerned about the dogs' well-being. She was a corporate attorney who got tired of The Man, started a dog walking business, and quickly realized the dog parents are - to put it politely - more challenging than corporate clients. She went back to law but kept me as her sole client as she grew quite attached to Jack and Coco. Coco cried when she left each day...and Coco has never cried for anyone. Eventually, though, her schedule didn't allow consistent walks and she reluctantly told me to find a new walker.

I really liked the new walker, K, and she did a wonderful job. I've had walkers who start out great and then, slowly, the 30 min walk becomes 20 min becomes a quick walk around the block. Not so with K. She actually walked them for an extra 10-20 min every day and totally loved on them. (I know because I borrowed a friend's nannycam a few times...) K was awesome, the dogs were happy, and I was happy.

Who wouldn't love these two?

Then, in early 2008, she just didn't show up one day and didn't respond to my (super-nice, "are you ok?") messages - both completely out of character for her. Then she didn't show the next day. Or the next. Or respond to any messagees. By now, I was quite concerned. She was a young, pretty woman who, I knew, did a lot of jogging in a park. I even considered calling the police, but there was no mention of a missing woman in the news, so I dropped it. The weeks went on and I sent a final message asking her to return my house key and to let me know if I owed her any money. No response.

Now, I'm a pretty good dog mamma. I always pay promptly and give a nice Christmas bonus. I give a 2-hour range of when I'd like the sitter to visit...I don't care if the walker is running late and comes at 2pm instead of noon. When the sitter has to stay overnight, I leave out a bottle of wine with a note detailing where the DVDs and bubble bath are kept. K and I even maintained a non-dog related semi-friendship, meeting for coffee here and there. So I was confused. Had I done something wrong?

I began to imagine scenarios. An illicit love affair. Fled from creditors. Bipolar disorder. Joined a cult. A few months later, I was bored and did a search on her email address. Lo and behold, she was apparently a wedding planner in Central America. Whew. Not dead. Just...flaky.

Flash foward to now. I have two apartments that I am trying to rent. And K responded to a for-rent ad. No doubt it was her - she has an unusual name and it was her email address.

Guess she is back in town.

I had a birthday.

I've really never celebrated my birthday. Not my thing. Maybe when I hit 30 I'll throw a big bash.

I start the day by calling my parents at the crack o'dawn to wish them a very happy aniversary of the day of my birth, a.k.a the best day of their lives.

For the past few years, my "party" has been an afternoon pedicure, then, later, dinner, drinks, and desert with a single close friend. I really wanted to go to one particular restaurant - right across from where I wanted my desert - but getting reservations on a Saturday night was impossible. I morphed into shameless dirty slimeball trial lawyer mode and tried to sweet talk my way in to something around 7pm...they weren't having it.

We went to one of our favorite places instead, where I got fried green tomatoes and my new go-to drink: Grey Goose, soda, and (lots of) olives.

Ended the night with basil gelato. Man, do I have weird tastes.

Good times!

***

For fluffier popcorn with fewer unpopped kernels, soak the dry kernels in water for about 10 minutes and let dry.

sometimes...

...I love Jack best when he is all squished up and tiny.

a bone to pick

At the non-insignificant risk of sounding like your friendly neighborhood crazy dog lady, I sometimes forget that Jack is, well, a dog. And I have concurrence on this: two former roommates actually admitted to thinking, for just a split second, something like "well, if you can't pick me up from the airport, Jack can."

Seriously. This dog has been known to hold a grudge for days where he refuses to make eye contact with whomever embarrassed or offended him. That's not normal canine behavior. I can attempt to drown bathe Coco and still find her clamoring to sit on my lap 10 minutes later.

Anyway. Because he does so many human-like things - operating a toaster oven, faking a back injury, unlocking child-proofed cabinets - I am amused when he does typical dog stuff.

Like burying a bone.

I have never known him to bury anything. I have a suspicion there is a nest of my unmentionables somewhere in the house - to be waved around when a male walks through the door - but haven't found it. (Fun fact: approximately 71% of the city's plumbers, electricians, and contractors know my bra size.)

There he goes! It was dark and I was confused for a good few minutes as to what he was doing.

Wonderful use of that big block head.
Good job patting down the dirt, too.

Unfortunately, for all his hard work...

I dug that bone right back up when he was inside. Not leaving food items so close to the house when furry whiskered creatures with tails (don't make me say the word) are waking from hibernation.

***

Usefulness of the day: Use plain yogurt where you would use mayo or sour cream. Tuna salad is wonderful if you substitute a blend of yogurt and a little mayo for mayo!

when min pins smile

She doesn't smile at bunny ears.

Or t-r-e-a-t-s.

Or piles of warm laundry.

Or Pug-O-Ween parades (we sneak in as pugs.)

Or Christmas!

So when I catch her in a rare smile, I race to grab a phone or camera.

It can be a little tricky - when she is in full-on panic mode, she looks happy. Exhibit A.

And Exhibit B.

Here is what makes her smile...for real:

The weed whacker.

Sun.

And electric blankets cranked to "H."

That's all.