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Happy Anniversary! To Me.

January 27, 2006

Okay, guess what. So, my site’s two year anniversary is, like, nowish. Approximately now. I started posting in January of 2004, and now, look! It is January of 2006. That’s kind of exciting, isn’t it? Two whole years of my rambling/complaining/whining, from my first ever entry, all the way up to…you know. Whatever I wrote last.

I was trying to think of an appropriate way to celebrate this event, when all of a sudden, I was struck by inspiration, in the form of an old song on the radio. And my mind said: yes. That would entertain me. Probably it would entertain nobody else, but I, myself, would find this funny.

And SO. Because I am an enormous, huge nerd, I have decided to provide you all with a recap of what all I’ve written about over the last two years. And I have decided to do this in the style of Billy Joel’s We Didn’t Start The Fire. I apologize to everyone involved.

But please – feel free to sing along, and join me in celebrating this, the anniversary of my enormous dorkitude. And, on a more serious note, thank you all so much for your support, your kind emails and hilarious comments, and of course, above all – thanks for reading.

Here we go. (Yeah, again: so sorry.)

Leigh Didn’t Start The Fire

Killer doorknobs, Tash and Bo, sleep talking, naked toe
Traffic ticket, exercise, Morgan Fairchild hurt my eyes.

Puglsey, Gimmme, purple flag, business trips and men in drag,
Dinner parties, all the time, have another glass of wine;

Lunch with Her, an IUD, taking down the Christmas tree,
Ziz and Dukay, Millionaires, tumbling down a flight of stairs;

What We Do On Tuesday Nights, elf costumes and rental tights,
Dishwasher and pantry door, broken boots and 24...

Leigh didn’t start the fire;
Look at what I’m writing, I’m not that exciting.
Leigh didn’t start the fire;
(No, this isn’t clever, but let’s see you do better.)

Birthday parties, trim the tree, Hannah, Al, and Miss AB,
Doggie stitches, wardrobe glitches, Flickr pictures here.

I’m a nerd, angry bird, made up words and flying turd.
Ceiling fan, attention span, think I’ll drink a beer.

Smackdown, getting old, Monkey, monkey, centerfold,
Fucking culture, Ice Storm, holding someone else’s porn,

EAT ME, HBO, Ghost stories and angry Bo,
Office crafts and injured feet, running naked down the street

Leigh didn’t start the fire;
God, I’m such a whiner, when the problem’s minor.
Leigh didn’t start the fire;
I am not refraining from prolonged complaining.

Books on tape, headband, Bon Jovi Cover Band,
Harry Potter, law school, eight dogs, the Amish rule,

Stupid capelets, paint the floor, maybe I will drink some more,
Love quiz, IT IS OAK, Six Feet Under, I just broke,

Chasing dogs, chasing sharks, plus the way that Gimmme barks (?),
Online shopping, updates, stationery, bookplates,

Switching firms, fucking bump, Bo’s retaliation dump,
God bless the Ikea store, these aren’t the droids you’re looking for!

Leigh didn’t start the fire;
Did you ever notice just how long this song is?
Leigh didn’t start the fire;
Plus it's all about me, and that's kind of cocky.

Broken washer, Satan/Stan, golden showers, that’s my man,
Scary hotels, fireworks, unexpected legal perks,

Eating With the Enemy, You = Not helping me,
Robyn and the Kiefer Twins, Cracker challenge, Sarah wins.

“Bo, don’t you want your bone?”, vacation in disaster zone,
Phil is doing great today, what else do I have to say?

Leigh didn’t start the fire;
I’m not kidding here, this song last twenty years.
Leigh didn’t start the fire;
I swear to God and Danza, there’s just one more stanza:

Growltalking, Sinking! In!, Satan/Stan are back again,
New shoes, R2, R. Kelly, Dump 2.
Jesus, this is really long, ‘member the McDonald’s song?
Matthew Sweet and Halloween, Pugsley's scared and Bo is mean
We are almost at the end, passing time and passing wind,
Winnie, Gimmme has no eyes, wintry mix and puking guys,
Crispin Glover mows the grass, Information, Turbo Tax,

Leigh didn't start the fire;
The song's finally finished,
And my brain's diminished.
Leigh didn't start the fire;
But now that I am done,
I'll just write on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on...

Thank you all for two awesome years!

(And if you want to do something to celebrate, I'd suggest that you either give to Mir's 3-day, or adopt the adorable great dane named Gavin from this page; he's in Athens, and I have heard that he is wonderful. And, that is all. Kisses, y'all!)

Posted by doxie in | permalink | Comments (96)

Everything Falls Apart

January 23, 2006

...provided that it is anywhere close to me. I don't know what my problem was this weekend, but apparently, I have caught some brand of funk that causes all things within my vicinity to disintegrate before my very eyes. Everything is breaking. House! Appliances! Dogs! Self! Every damn thing.

As for the house, the most interesting (well, relatively speaking) item to go was the pantry door. Now, that door is old, and it's been creaky for a while, but I really had not anticipated the spectacular door explosion that was in store for me. I thought it might just...I don't know. Sag gently to the ground one day, crumpling under the weight of its years in a sort of quiet, dignified submission. Kind of like the leaf book. It would go gently into that good night, and then we would bury it in the garden with the 1/3 of a bird I one time found in the bushes. (You do not want to know which 1/3.)

Anyway, So, that is what I thought. That was wrong, though.

In the end, the door decided to forego Freddie's example and instead opted to rage, rage against the dying of the light, because one second I was walking across the kitchen, having just put away some cans; the next second, I was jumping through the fucking CEILING as an enormous CRASH CLATTER BAM pierced the silence, frightening the dogs into a howling hysteria, and sending the contents of the pantry flying around the room with a Poltergeist-like enthusiasm. Turns out: doors do not crumple. They do not float gently to the floor. NO. They fall off their hinges and leap across the room in an attempt to flatten your ass. And they do this dramatically. And loudly.

Actually, now that I think about it, it was kind of like being fly-swatted. I have a feeling the door was aiming for somewhere between one and four dogs, who have spent countless hours scratching at its base, whimpering forlornly and chanting, "That is where the food lives! That is where the food lives!"

Yes, one to four dogs were probably the intended target. Missed, though.

Unsurprisingly, I have been whining about the door at length, to pretty much everyone, because it's going to be a massive pain in the ass to fix the thing. The holes are stripped, and so we're going to have to drill new holes for new screws and get a new plate-attaching thing, too, and yes, that is not THAT complicated, but in my world, anything involving an electric drill qualifies as an actual Project. And in my world, a Project cannot be performed without a minimum of seventy-four people. Most of whom are only there for the free Project Beer. One of whom actually knows what to do. And that one person is never, ever me.

So, while waiting for the team to assemble and drill new holes and whatnot, the door is now propped inside the doorway, with a handwritten sign warning everyone "NOT TOUCH DOOR FALLS BAM" because I couldn't find a pen and had to write it in the nub of a crayon. And that was all I could manage before the Burnt Sienna ran out. But I think it's descriptive. And onomatopoeic!

So, door. That was one thing. But the door's death leap was not half as exciting as when I myself fell apart before everyone's very eyes, because y'all, remember my fucking toe?

Well, it healed, and it doesn't hurt anymore or anything, but apparently...well. Apparently, it was not quite finished healing, I guess. Apparently, when I smooshed it in the door, the toenail got broken way down at the base. This I did not know. And this Dukay did not know. This was a little secret that my toe was keeping from everyone.

So, I've been tooling around with (what I thought to be) a complete toe, la de da, whatever. Until the other night, I was sitting in front of the fire, and I took off my boots and my socks, and I was rubbing some lotion onto my legs, when all of a sudden: my toenail fell off. The whole thing. Pop!

Dukay just happened to be watching me at the time.

"Ew," I said.

"AHHHHHHHHHHH," he shrieked, running hysterically from the room, arms flailing in the air.

He fell into a fetal position in the hallway, shuddering, and covered his eyes with his hands.


"Yeah," I said. "I guess it was, like, broken down there. That's gross, though, huh? Doesn't hurt."


"Well, it's the toe I smooshed that time," I explained. "I think it's oka--"


"It's not vitamins, it's smoo..."


Eventually, I was able to convince poor Dukay that toenails don't typically fall off as a result of not getting enough calcium (although, hell. Maybe they do. If so: Shh!), and calmed him down to the degree that he was willing to join me again in the den. For the rest of the evening, though, he continued to send sidelong, shuddering glances at my foot.

"It's a naked toe," he whispered, scandalized. "I mean, it's...bald. That is the most disturbing thing I have ever seen."

"It is not that disturbing," I told him. "Come on. You've seen worse things! It's just a little t--"

"I cannot look away," he whispered. "O, the horror. The horror."

If you want to send Dukay into a full-body shudder, complete with screwed-up terror face, touch him with your little bald toe. Watch him squirm. Enjoy! I do!

Anyway. So those are two of the things that have fallen apart. Also acting suspiciously: the dishwasher, Gimmme's right foot, and the rear left window of my car. I suspect plotting. I suspect complicated planning sessions, including spreadsheets and synchronized watches, that take place while I am at work. And I am pretty sure that the door is masterminding it all.

Hope y'all are doing better that this, and that you don't lose any appendages as a result of reading. I am a dangerous woman! I cannot insure your safety! I can only promise not to touch you with my creepy, bald toe. And if I do, you have my permission to rage, rage against the side of my head.

Have a good week, everyone!


Speaking of toes (you know. Sure), our friend Mir has committed to walking for three days on her own [toes], in the Boston Breast Cancer 3-Day. It's a great cause, and if you can, I hope y'all will support her. I suspect it will result in good karma, and I have it on good authority that sponsors are generally not flattened to death by their own pantry doors.


P.P.S. Again: Also, for those of y'all who have emailed asking whether I've eaten the dogs or something, because how come do I not have any pictures up this week, huh? what, do you not love them anymore?, etc.: indeed, they have not been eaten (yet), and I have posted some new pictures (including some older pictures I came across; say hi to the Chaos!) on flickr; I'll be posting even more tonight or...you know. At some point. And then you can get your fill of doggie goodness, and the world will be a slightly better place.

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (50)

Placeholders are boring

January 12, 2006

And this one is no exception. Sorry!

See, we were back to the blank screen. And we can't have that. So here I am, all up to remedy that shit and everything, but...uh. I am absolutely exhausted. I'm not thinking straight, and I am totally incapable of entertaining anyone at the moment.

I've been working long hours lately (I know!), doing law things and writing important papers and making angry legal arguments and sometimes attending meetings that are south of the airport at 7 in the morning, which is very early, and the airport is very far away, and just...I mean, life's been pretty damn boring, y'all. I have some stories to tell y'all (because, of course I do) but I just can't seem to write them out in any type of coherent manner right now. I have written and deleted this entry about six times. (This boggles the mind, because the end product doesn't not suck, if you get my double negative meaning). But if things aren't making any sense to me, I promise, they would read like Swahili to y'all (this assumes you don't speak Swahili. Maybe you do! I do not). The last deleted attempt actually included the word "honestlyness."

Y'all, "honestlyness" is not a word. It does not even resemble a word. It is not even a word in Swahili.

In a positive (shut up! It is positive to ME) note, I have taken many fascinating pictures of the dogs, particularly Bo with his mouth open (why? WHY? Why does the dog talk all the time?), like, for example, this one:


(hee!), but I know. That really isn't cutting it. I know! And also, I really have no intention of turning this into a blog that contains nothing but pictures of Bo's molars, so I had probably best stop this behavior directly and place a moratorium on dog photos for at least, oh, twenty minutes.

So, please bear in mind that I am currently operating on about seven hours of sleep over the past three-day period. And sadly, things are not likely to improve, because I'm working on a Big Thing at the office, plus I have about ninety things going on outside the office, and the end result is that I am sleepy and confused. My brain has crawled somewhere deep into the recesses of my skull, and this means that my body is operating only on stray cells and air. Nobody is driving this bus, is what I am saying.

But this makes me slaphappy. At this point, all manner of things are funny to me. "Honestlyness" is funny to me. The word "boob" is funny to me. "Everybody Loves Raymond" is funny to me. I really kind of need to go to bed.

However. Because everything is funny to me right now (honestlyness!), I will share with you what has happened during the last two nights. Because at the moment, it is funny to me. When everything clears here and I actually do some sleeping for more than a two hour stretch and then wake up and reread all of this, I am sure it will seem stupid and I will be ashamed. But, still. It is better than blank. That is what I am telling myself.

But, anyway. See, I talk in my sleep. I do it all the time (not as frequently as Dukay, who recently woke me up at 4 to ask me a question about Cuba, but we are not talking about Dukay right now), but I still do it, on occasion, just the same.

Only, when I talk in my sleep, Dukay doesn't wake up; I do. I wake my own self up. I wake up, hear myself saying something, and then I have to sit there and ponder just exactly what the fuck I am talking about: "Why am I so concerned about the VCR?" "Since when am I in love with Adrian Brody?" "But I don't even know any hobbits!" This is what I think about in the dark.

So, it should have come as no real surprise when I awoke two nights ago to find myself sitting up at bed, pointing angrily at a sleepy and disgusted Bo.

"That fucking dictionary," I hollered. "It just thinks it's SO SMART."

Apparently, I'm mad. At the dictionary. I think I must be jealous of its knowledge. Webster, you SUCK!

(Which reminds me: know who I saw downtown a few weeks ago? Webster! The actual guy who played Webster, the precocious eight-or-whatever year old that was actually, like, forty-three. I have since been told that everyone in Atlanta sees him all the time, but for a very little (hee!) while, I felt special. He is actually bigger than he looks on television, which is supposedly the exact opposite of every other personality on the planet, but there you go. My very small brush with fame. Which is kind of related to the dictionary, see?)

(Seriously, see...?)

Uh. Anyway. But, so that was two nights ago, right? And, at the time, I thought that was probably the strangest thing I'd ever said in my sleep. Until, last night, when I woke up to find myself happily proclaiming to all that Eureka!: "I am the inventor of the portable iron lung!"

I was kind of proud of myself, too. A portable iron lung! So much more convenient than those old iron ones. They were heavy and restrictive. But now, your iron lung is a lung on the go! You can take it anywhere, and I envision an ad campaign that is much like those we see for tampons or false hair ("Wait, I can still play tennis? No kidding? WHAT? I can go swimming? Seriously? God! I just feel so free!").

A portable iron lung, y'all. It is a happy day for science.

But, unfortunately, not for the dictionary. The dictionary is a cocky son of a bitch. And I mean that in all honestlyness.

Hope y'all are doing well! I'll be back soon, and I swear to Christ that it will be [somewhat] more entertaining.

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (52)

The Sound and the Fury (of Bo)

January 04, 2006


Yes. Let me tell you how THIS happened.

The year 2006 did not start well for poor Mister Bo. Mister Bo would like to kindly invite 2006 to go fuck itself.

See, for New Years, we all went up to my parents' lakehouse. And I decided to only take Bo with us, seeing as there would be a multitude of people, as well as another dog, and the other three dachshunds don't...well, they don't do so great with "people." Or "other dogs." Actually, they suck at that. They suck quite a bit.

The basic rundown is this: Gimmme is blind, and highly alarmed by the sound of unfamiliar voices, and will sit there and bark, confused (bark?), for hours. Tasha is allergic to everything, including smoke and air and human beings (I am not kidding), and will sputter and cough herself into an asthma attack when new people come into the house. And Pugsley? Poor little sweet, darling Pugsley? Pugsley will bite the everloving shit out of all of y'all. People freak him OUT. He hates EVERYTHING. He will BITE it. And then he wants kisses.

So, through the magical process of "elimination" and "limiting bloodshed," Bo got to go. And Bo was excited. But sadly for all, this turned out to be a dubious honor.

First of all, as the only dog in attendance for the first several hours, Bo had to suffer numerous indignities. These included being held by everyone (BO HATES), as well as wearing peoples' hats:


And then, my friend Sieg showed up with her dog, a darling black lab named Ella. And y'all, Ella is a sweetheart. Ella does not bite (Bo) or pee on the floor (Bo) or hold insanely long grudges because of perceived wrongs (Bo). Ella is a good dog.

So, naturally, Bo hated her immediately. But he scared the SHIT out of her.


Still, they were getting along pretty well, until Ella discovered a bone which Bo had left, ignored and abandoned, on his dog bed. This was a bone which Bo could not be bothered to chew. Which six different people had placed next to him, all, "Go on, Bo! Have a bone!" Bo was not in the mood for bone. Bo could not be bothered with bone.

Until, of course, Ella found it. And actually, she'd had the damn thing for over an hour before he even noticed, chewing happily like a good dog, occasionally taking a break to fetch the paper or someone's slippers, sitting on command, and an assortment of other things that good dogs do (frankly, I wouldn't know. This is called "conjecture").

But suddenly, from across the room: Bo saw her. And Bo recognized His Bone. And somewhere, somewhere deep inside of his pea-sized brain, synapses fired, and weighing his options, he decided: I shall attack.

In less than a split second, he was out of Dukay's lap, flying across the room, and inserting his fucking HEAD into the fucking MOUTH of a fucking BLACK LAB, growling and snapping all the way, defending what was rightfully Bo's, CONVINCED that this would somehow, some way, END WELL.


Ella freaked, predictably, and nipped back at Bo, who was, by this point, firmly embedded inside her mouth, and then she ran from the room in unrestrained horror.

And that is when the screaming started.

We were all on our feet by this point. There were a grand total of 15 people in the house, and many in separate rooms, but everybody came running like the place was on fire when they heard the sounds of PIERCING, PIERCING screams emitting from a small brown dog, who was lying on his back, feet bicycling in the air, yelping in an octave generally reserved for either "fatal accidents" or "Mariah Carey."

I swooped down to him immediately, and gathered his little, shaking brown form into my arms. He kept screaming. I pet his head; I made soothing sounds and smoothed his ears. He kept screaming. Desperate, Ziz gave him a piece of sausage.

He shut up immediately. "Yum," he said. "Bo like sausage!"

There was some blood, and Ziz and I took Bo upstairs and cleaned his little wounds -- two small puncture marks barely visible under his brown fur. He continued to whine in protest, but all things considered, he seemed relatively unbothered by his injuries. His chief complaint, we would soon learn, was with me.

Bo was furious with me. Furious. And his rage knew no bounds.

Apparently, Bo -- somewhere in his pea-sized brain, which we have already established is not awesome at "logic" -- decided that I was the cause of his suffering. I invited the big black dog; therefore, I was responsible for Bo being nipped upon sticking his fucking head into big black dog's enormous, gaping mouth. Obviously, my fault. My fault entirely.

And I was punished accordingly. Bo would not sit next to me. He would not give me little Bo kisses. He walked in circles around the room, sitting with everyone present; when he'd get to me, he'd turn his nose into the air, and strut past my feet. He hated me.

This continued for the bulk of the weekend. Bo wanted nothing to do with me, and honestly, I was a little heartbroken. "I didn't bite you!" I kept saying. "It was her! Go hate on Ella! Go hate someone else! I cleaned your wounds!" But Bo was having none of it.

We got home on Monday, and the bitterness continued. He slept at the foot of the bed. He squirmed away when I tried to pick him up. In fact, because I was so worried about him, I left work early on Tuesday to check on my Little Brown Mass of Anger. And I found him sitting listlessly on the sofa. He still wouldn't come to me; he still wouldn't talk, Bo-style, when I asked him questions. I noticed a little swelling around his jaw, and so I decided that we'd head off to the vet.

(The Vet. Y'all, I have a tab there. You think that I am kidding. I'm...not. Seriously, this is where my money goes.)

So off we went. We got there, and I explained to the vet that Bo maybe...you know, bit off a little more than he could chew, and that ONE of us learned an important lesson this New Year's, ha ha, that being NOT to attack dogs that are roughly seven times your own size, but seriously, dude, I'm totally a responsible dog owner. Just clean him up, give the dog some antibiotics to fight any evil dog-bite infection like rabies or Ebola, and we'll be on our way.

And all was going well, until the vet started poking around on the wound on Bo's lower jaw. It looked small and minimal, and had generated a series of "Bo is kind of a pussy, Leigh, no seriously, it's a scratch" jokes all weekend long, so I was like, "Yeah, he's been this huge whiny bitch, but it's, like, NOTHING," and the vet agreed, until she trimmed some of the hair and turned Bo over and then: hello.

There was a fucking hole in Bo's jaw. A perfectly round hole. A tooth hole. You could see daylight through this hole. You could see Bo's gums through this hole.

I shrieked. The vet said: "Man, that's gotta hurt." Bo whimpered in agreement.

This is when I started to cry. My poor Mister Bo, walking around with a goddamn fucking HOLE in his little JAW, glaring at me as I encouraged him to "walk it off, man." Trying miserably to eat his little hard food when each individual chew tortured his tiny mouth. Yes. I cried like my heart would break. Some mom I am.

"I wouldn't have seen it, either," the vet assurred me. "It was all under his hair, and all held together by his fur and everything. It really did look just like a little scrape."

I was unconvinced. More importantly, Bo was unconvinced.

"You have failed me," he glared. "My hatred knows no bounds. You are now my sworn enemy."

The vet told me that Bo would need stitches; however, in order to get these stitches, he'd need to be put under. It's not that major of an event; all of my dogs get their teeth cleaned every February (it's dental care month!), and they have to put them under for that, so his new appointment would just be a few weeks earlier than usual. They'd stitch him up, give him his yearly dog shots, and clean his teeth, all in one swoop. No biggie.

"It's no biggie," the vet said.

"Oh, it is a very biggie," Bo glared.

So this morning, Bo and I went to the vet, where I dropped his miserable little self off for stitches and his annual cleaning. And then I proceeded to call the vet every six minutes to make sure he hadn't ODed on the anesthesia or something, because PEOPLE, I WAS KIND OF FREAKED OUT. Finally, the vet was like, "Look. Leigh. I will call if something goes wrong. Which it will not. And I will call when we are through. Which we will be. Now please. Go do something else."

So I worked, distractedly, all morning. Finally, at 1 p.m., the vet called.

"He's waking up now," she said. "He did great. He has one stitch."

"One...wait, one? One stitch?"

"One stitch."

I felt strangely shamed by this. One stitch? For all that drama? I changed the subject.

"Was he a good boy?" I asked her.

There was a pause.

"Well," she finally answered, "Um. No. He's actually...yeah, he's glaring at me right now."

That's my baby. Bo was going to be okay.

I still had some things to do at work, though, so my father and sister went to collect Bo from the vet. The doctor met them at the door.

"Listen," she said. "This isn't...unusual, or anything, but, um. He's having hallucinations. Just ignore him."

"Hallucinations?" Dad asked.

"Yeah," the vet said. "It's a side effect of the anesthesia. See?"

At this point, Bo started barking hysterically at something in the corner.

"It'll go away," she assured him.

"Great," said my dad.

By the time I got home, Bo was sitting, angry, on my parents' sofa, staring furiously at an invisible intruder underneath my father's chair.

"He's being doing this for a while," Dad explained, bored.

I noticed the cone collar on the table.

"Is he supposed to wear that?" I asked, incredulous. Bo barked at something in the ceiling.

"Only if he starts fucking with his stitches -- or, actually, his stitch," my sister said, glancing at my perplexed, acid-tripping dachshund. She shook her head wearily. "Seriously, dude, he's been doing this all afternoon. It's driving us up a wall."

So I took Bo's drugged and delirious self back to my house, where he barked at doors, walls, and the fireplace for a good twenty-minute stretch. Then he settled onto the ground, gazing in corners, and looking highly suspicious of everything within a five-foot radius.

At this point, I did what any responsible pet owner would do. I put on his collar cone.

And...okay. Look. I'm sorry. I know he wasn't fucking with his stitches (wait, excuse me: his STITCH), but -- DUDE. It's a cone collar! A collar cone! I've never ever seen one in real life! I don't even know what they're called! The temptation for a photo op was just too great, and really, I am a weak woman. Which is why the world now has this:


(Frankly, I think the world is a better place for it. Hallucinating dogs in cones? Seriously? Where can we get more of those?! Those are better than movies. I could watch that shit for hours!)

Fortunately (for Bo), however, I'm not entirely evil. After the pictures were snapped, I took off the collar. Dukay, who IS entirely evil, protested, but I explained that the collar was clearly killing Bo's spirit. And, Bo's spirit being drugged beyond all belief as it was, I felt we shouldn't screw with the matter any further. Plus, he'd had a bad day; he'd gotten stitches (no, sorry: he'd gotten A STITCH), and that pretty much sucks, no matter how mean and mom-hating you may be. So off it went, and needless to say, Bo was glad. Bo...was not a fan of the collar. Even when high out of his gourd, convinced that the walls were talking and all the colors were singing Dylan songs, Bo knew that the collar was just not his groove, man.

Now, several hours later, he's sitting curled up next to me, at the end of his little hard day. At the moment, he's stopped hallucinating, and has put aside his blind rage long enough for a small snuggle while I scratch his bitsy little head. And so, for now, crisis averted, we can get back to life as we know it -- a little smarter, maybe, and a little poorer (anesthesia is not free, it turns out), for the whole damn experience.

So, welcome, 2006. And here's hoping all of us have a lot less stitches (or, excuse me: STITCH) in our collective futures. And to that end, let's all take a lesson from Bo, and keep our heads out of places they simply shouldn't be.


Posted by doxie in The Dogs (Or, Poop) | permalink | Comments (71)

Haaaaaaaappy New Year!

January 03, 2006

First of all, to all of y'all who possibly thought that Bo was acutally yawning in that last picture, as opposed to singing, as I so specifically informed you, I present Exhibit B:

Bo and Dig wonder: Is this burning? An eternal flame?
Or should I just call a doctor?

Anyway. I hope all of your holidays were happy, and that everyone had a good New Year's Eve and all. Our holidays were all awesome. For Christmas, Dukay got me a new guitar. And, that was...well, it was funny, actually, because I have never actually played a guitar. Not one chord (I recently learned that they were called chords)! But Dukay can play pretty much anything, and I have always, always wanted to learn how. And I was jealous. So he got me a gorgeous, shiny, inlaid gee-tar of my very own, and he's going to give me lessons!

People! Isn't that an awesome gift? Isn't it ever so thoughtful? Yes, it is.

And, from the Parents of Doxie, was received the brand new shiny high-powered camera of power. And, um, we all know what that means.

Yeah. Photo entries. Coming your way! Sorry!

But, silver lining, because! Now, you get to see the only existing photograph of Bo: Man Of Action!

Bo ears busy!

See? That made it all worthwhile.

I can't really show you any pictures of the New Year's Eve festivities, but you can take my word for it that things were off the hook, as the kids like to say. When you have a party that involves one guest uttering the phrase, "Reindeer are the dolphins of the land," and who also puts on his wife's dress before jumping dramatically into the lake at precisely 1:11 a.m. (he was going to do it at 12:21 in homage to the Mayan calendar, but then he remembered that 1:11 means something, too, so 1:11 works), and where said houseguest also stays up until 7 a.m. cleaning the kitchen, going so far as to fashion a trap for any vermin, a fact which he then must share with his wife, waking her at 7 to whisper, "I cleaned up everything, and I even left a trap for vermin," prompting her to inform the others upon waking, and whereupon a search was performed, and lo:

Trap For Vermin

..and also in attendance are dogs butts and embroidered pants:

Butts and pants, butts and pants!

...and also you have procured fireworks with names like, "THE PATRIOT ACT!!!" or "SHOWERS OF LIBERTY!!!", which contain, we have been led to understand, "THE MAXIMUM POWDER ALLOWED BY LAW:"

MAXIMUM. POWDER. Allowedbylaw.

...well, THEN, PEOPLE, RIGHT THEN: you may have had an awesome New Year.

And Bo is fucking exhausted.


Hope everyone has a safe and happy 2006!

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (28)