Miss Doxie: Hellooo?
Mother of Miss Doxie: YOU are NOT my DAUGHTER anyMORE.
Miss Doxie: What? Why? What'd I do? Did you find out about the New Orleans thing?!
Mother of Miss Doxie: WHAT NEW ORLEANS THING.
Miss Doxie: Um. Nothing. I was...talking to an invisible person right then. Anyway, what did I do?
Mother of Miss Doxie: What did you DO? What do you THINK--
Miss Doxie: Ohhhh. So, Bo.
Mother of Miss Doxie: YES BO.
Miss Doxie: Sigh. What happened?
Mother of Miss Doxie: I took him to the vet. Like you ASKED. As a FAVOR to you, while you are off doing whatever the hell it is that you DO all day...
Miss Doxie: That would be "being an attorney," but you know. Continue.
Mother of Miss Doxie: ...AND, you failed to mention that Bo? Upon being taken to the vet? Would engage in retaliatory action.
Miss Doxie: Oh, shit...
Mother of Miss Doxie: EXACTLY.
Miss Doxie: I forgot. Yeah, he gets pissed.
Mother of Miss Doxie: No, not so much "pissed..."
Miss Doxie: Really? Oh, you totally got off easy!
Mother of Miss Doxie: WHAT?
Miss Doxie: Nothing! Nothing, I was talking to...a client. Anyway. Go on.
Mother of Miss Doxie: It was like performance art. I hate you.
Miss Doxie: What happened, exactly?
Mother of Miss Doxie: So, the vet was checking his tooth, to see which one was bothering him. And the vet found it, and he looked at it, and then he turned to talk to me about it...
Miss Doxie: Oooh, you don't turn your back on Bo. Much like the ocean.
Mother of Miss Doxie: ...AAAAAND, that was when Bo turned around, and violently expelled the contents of his anal glands all over...oh, everything in the world.
Miss Doxie: Oh, eewwwwww.
Mother of Miss Doxie: HE'D BEEN SAVING UP.
Miss Doxie: Oh, he's like a fucking camel with those things.
Mother of Miss Doxie: SO WE NOTICED.
Miss Doxie: And, he only uses them for evil! Like an octopus, escaping a pred--
Mother of Miss Doxie: MAY I FINISH.
Miss Doxie: Um. Yes.
Mother of Miss Doxie: So, ALL HELL breaks loose, and we had to open the door for oxygen...
Miss Doxie: Oh, dude. You never open the door.
Mother of Miss Doxie: LIKE I WAS SAYING, WE HAD TO OPEN THE DOOR FOR OXYGEN...
Miss Doxie: And he made a run for Cuba?
Mother of Miss Doxie: Fortunately, he only made it to the front lobby.
Miss Doxie: Close enough.
Mother of Miss Doxie: Where he proceeded to take a TREMENDOUS SHIT, directly in front of the reception desk, and in plain view of all of the horrified people in the waiting room.
Miss Doxie: Um. Hee?
Mother of Miss Doxie: You are SO FUCKING DISOWNED.
Miss Doxie: Hee. Hee! Oh, I'm sorry. He does that.
Mother of Miss Doxie: He does that? He uses poop as a political statement? Like a bumper sticker or campaign contribution?
Miss Doxie: Where Bo is concerned, those are words to live by.
Mother of Miss Doxie: Well, I cannot even believe you didn't warn me about this.
Miss Doxie: I'm sorry! I thought you'd...assume, or something. Knowing Bo and all.
Mother of Miss Doxie: Right. Right, I'm going to guess that your dog is going to violently expel the contents of his bowels all over creation before making a calculated escape attempt, thereby transforming the vet's office into a well-lit episode of Prison Break.
Miss Doxie: Please, like that is unheard of with this creature. You've known of his evil for eight years, Mom.
Mother of Miss Doxie: Still. I think you need to warn people. Get him a customized collar or something. Something like, "WARNING: POOPS WHEN LIVID."
Miss Doxie: Maybe I can get it on one of those Med-Alert bracelets! Or, it would make an awesome tee shirt.
Mother of Miss Doxie: It's the least you could do! Think of the children.
Miss Doxie: I know, I know. Listen, I'm sorry. I'll bring you a nice bottle of wine, okay?
Mother of Miss Doxie: Hmph.
Miss Doxie: And, like...some disinfectant?
Mother of Miss Doxie: Hmm. Okay.
Miss Doxie: So, am I still disowned?
Mother of Miss Doxie: That's going to depend on what kind of wine you bring.
Miss Doxie: So noted.
Mother of Miss Doxie: And whatever the hell it is that you did in New Orleans.
Who Died And Made It Wednesday?
(The title of this entry was way funnier when I wrote it yesterday. Which was Tuesday. But now it is 12:51, and it's not funny anymore. And, I guess I could fix it, but...wait, are those druids on tv right now? GOTTA GO.)
Hi, y'all! So, hey, remember that time I did Bad Limerick Wednesday, and waxed poeticish about choosing to spend the night with four wiener dogs, and how that did not exactly turn out well? And remember also how when I did that, I apologized profusely and said y'all could come to my house and steal all my liquor?
Maybe? Or has everyone blocked it from their collective consciousness? Because, I would not blame you.
But, um. Guess what anyway! I am about to assault you all anew, with even more bad poetry about the dogs. Because, this is what happens when I am stuck in traffic for too long: I start to rhyme. I do not really know why, exactly. I think it has something to do with rocking to the rhythm of crazy, which I have also discussed here on a previous occasion.
(Which, now that I think about it...you guys? Please do not tell anyone what I put on this website. Turns out, I am maybe a little bit crazypants. Shh!)
So, anyway. Rhyming! And all about an evening we had not too long ago. Don't y'all shoot me too much.
Also, be warned that this poem is kind of gross, but apparently, I can't just come out and embrace scatological humor; I have to rhyme it. And, y'all, that probably has a deep meaning. Possibly even deeper than, "If I rhyme, maybe my mom will not notice that this poem is kind of about poop."
Why I Will Not Spend The Night Out Ever Again
Or: Medieval Times, You Are On The LIST.
One evening not too long ago,
My friends all decided to go
A very long way
So that we could pay
To see a ridiculous show.
But Dukay and I are not bright.
Because, on this ill-fated night,
We left wieners alone
In my once-pleasant home,
As if that could turn out all right.
But we put down food for the boys,
Plus water and blankets and toys,
And three little beds
For their three evil heads.
(We even played music for noise!)
And just before leaving them all,
We lay piddle pads down, wall to wall.
(A crucial precaution,
Because just one dachshund
Can piss like a tropical squall.)
But as I was closing the door,
I saw Bo staring up from the floor;
And his eyes said to me,
"If you leave, it shall be
A clear declaration of war."
"DANGER, WILL ROBINSON!" said
The voice that lives inside my head.
But I chose to ignore,
And so I closed the door,
While inside, Bo thought, ""Oh, she's dead."
But I put that thought out of my mind,
And then, with my friends, tried to find
The famed destination
With our reservation
For drama and dinner, combined.
Maybe you already know,
But in Georgia, not too long ago,
Something opened which we
Had discovered with glee:
The Medieval Times Dinner Show.
And though we were all rather vague
About what might occur on the stage,
We all said, hell yes,
It'd be a success
If we didn't catch head lice or plague.
While certainly, back in our youth,
We learned things "medieval," in truth,
Now, all we know
Is, "It was long ago,
In castle somewhere in...Duluth."
And so, we drove halfway to Gaul,
To this place that was sure to enthrall;
When at last, it appears!
Tucked next to a Sears.
That "castle" is part of a mall.
We were met by a wench once inside,
Who pointed towards doors on one side;
She said, with a yawn,
"Yeah, the horse show is on."
"Horses?" we asked, horrified.
We went through the doors, most unsure
And though it may seem immature,
We all recoiled and cried
Upon walking inside:
That whole place smelled just like manure.
For, dressed in medieval costume,
The horses performed 'round the room,
Pausing just to emit
A great mountain of shit
And then the horse show would resume.
Spam looked at us all, quite pale faced;
and said, "Maybe it's personal taste,
But I do deeply feel
That one should eat his meal
Some distance from animal waste."
But the show was about to begin,
So we sighed and we all settled in;.
And I think it is best,
If I sum up the rest,
By saying we won't go again.
(I will say we wondered out loud
Why no forks or knives are allowed,
And yet they brought me
a "Ye Olde Daiquiri"
That would make a historian proud.)
(And also, y'all? Jousting is boring
When there's not going to be any goring.
Which made me say the words,
"It's like wrestling, for nerds!"
Over the sounds of our snoring.)
Finally, it was all done
And we left to find actual fun.
As we scavenged for food,
I remembered my brood,
And wondered what all Bo had done.
After many more hours had passed,
We went home to the doggies at last.
We thought they'd be sleeping,
So we went in creeping,
But that plan was given up fast.
'Cause I'd had all the poop I was able.
I'd eaten with turds in a stable.
So I was not of the mind
To come home an find
Bo shitting on my coffee table.
But sure enough, it was adorned,
With Boris, Most Wrongfully Scorned,
Who finished his work,
And jumped down with a smirk,
That clearly said, "Bitch, you were warned."
Then he sauntered right out of the den,
Across piddle pads laid end to end;
For all my protection,
He'd found an exception
And now he was rubbing it in.
And I stood there, shocked and unstable,
When I suddenly thought of a fable:
While I've heard it told,
"It's a dish best served cold,"
Bo served his revenge at the table.
As I later sat scrubbing the den,
I mused on the wages of sin;
Between befouled stables
And pooped-upon tables,
Y'all go out -- I'm staying in.
Hee. Yay! And, in case you wanted the short, non-stanza version of that story: Bo pooped on the coffee table one time. Then I had a conniption fit. The end.
P.S.: Medieval Times smells like horse poop.
In other, non-rhyming news, tomorrow is Valentine's Day! Which is one of my favorite holidays, for no particular reason whatsoever. It just is.
Although, now that I think about it, Valentine's Day probably should make me all bitter, and should remind me of the countless February 14ths spent in middle or high school. Every year, the school set up booths where the boys bought carnations for a dollar, and the money would go to a good cause, such as "buying more glitter pens for homecoming." When a boy bought a carnation, he would write down a girl's name, and the carnation would be secretly affixed to her locker while we were all in class.
So, at the end of every class period, I'd be filled with a secret, burning hope that maybe, maybe THIS year, there would be a carnation on my locker! And I would hold my breath as I walked down the hall, heart pounding, hoping hoping hoping, until I'd finally turn the corner, and see...
Nothing. No carnation; just a shiny, blank locker, reflecting my fizzling disappointment, and reminding me that, ONCE AGAIN, NOBODY LOVES ME.
NOT THAT I AM BITTER. But honestly, do y'all know that in all my many years, nobody ever put one of those fucking carnations on my locker? Not one! Even when I had boyfriends, the little degenerates didn't get me any carnations. And, hello! This is some kind of travesty! A travesty which apparently I forgot about for the last twelve years, but now that I remember it? Dude! That carnation thing sucked! We should start a petition!
But, you know. Despite all that crushing disappointment and heartbreak, I still turned into a grown-up person with a job, who can operate some machinery with a minimum of death. And also, I ended up with a very cute boyfriend who brings me flowers that are much nicer than wilted old carnations. HA.
So, hey! Kids out there who are sad about not getting carnations? Listen to me! I am about to go all after-school-special on you, and say, buck up, little camper! Do not lose hope! Because, things will get better. And also, I heard somewhere that carnations give you genital warts, so...whew! Well done, escaping from that.
...I think I am done talking about carnations now.
Now, uh, because this entry has apparently turned into an experiment in how many words I can actually type in one sitting, I am going to stop writing now, before we get into the horror of middle school dances, which would be the logical progression from my last rant, an then I might start hating Valentine's Day, and we don't want that. No! Especially because, I have got something for you!
So, I just redesigned my entire shop, and added a whole bunch of new stuff, including a lot of original paintings (fancy!); however, because I've been so busy lately, I never managed to order the Valentine's cards I'd been designing. So I thought, hey! I can make it so you can download them! And then y'all can print them out yourselves, and have free Valentines! That is called sharing.
You can get the cards by following the "Free Valentines!" link from the homepage, or you can go straight to the new free downloads page. Print them out on letter size paper (use cardstock if you want them to be all card-like, but I bet you'd figured that out) and give them to someone adorable. It may not be a carnation, but it's a hell of a lot better than shitting on their coffee table.
Happy Valentine's Day, y'all! Everybody have a good one!
Oh, but look -- one last thing, because I just checked my email, and there was this from Dukay, with the subject line, BO SAY HI. And, so he does:
Bo got some teeths! Maybe he poop on table later.
And I would also like to mention that I am a generous and saintly person, because I cropped Cookie out of this picture, the reason being that she is clutching a glass of wine in one hand, and a large bottle of Rebel Yell in the other, and this picture was taken before lunchtime, and I care about her reputation.
Even though she's a big old drunk. Happy Valentine's to you!
We Wish You A Merry Christmas
All of us here at the Doxie residence are, at this very moment, wishing you a very, very happy holiday, and a happy new year.
Or, to be perfectly honest, I guess I should say that wishing you a very, very happy holiday and happy new year is what we would be doing, were some of us not completely preoccupied by rubbing our heads against the new fake fur throw, while moaning in unbridled ecstacy:
YES YES YES
And then, upon being caught, looking at us all, WHAT? EVERYBODY starts moaning when they rub themselves against throw blankets purchased on sale at Target. It's the discount! The discount feels so good!
Or, in the alternative, maybe we are just too busy being really fucking petrified of the faux-fur throw from Target, because holy CHRIST, have you seen what it's done to Gimmme?!
COME SAVE PUGSLEY FROM SCARY BLANKET PLEASE.
Or, finally, maybe some of us are not currently sending any holiday wishes to anyone because some of us are so totally bored of Christmas already, like, sigh. When are we going to start celebrating something interesting? Like some holiday where we get to sacrifice virgins? Because, Bo could totally get behind that sort of thing.
SIGH. Bo just want some virgins.
But. hello! The one of us who is not rubbing herself in ecstacy against a polyester blend, who is not reeling in terror from same polyester creation, and who is not lounging around in supreme boredom and issuing heavy sighs of been-there-done-that every sixteen seconds, hereby wishes you a very, very happy holiday, and a wonderful new year. Thank all of y'all for your generosity and support; I've appreciated all of it so much, and I sincerely thank you for reading, for commenting, for emailing, and just for thinking about us when we needed it.
So, very warm wishes to all of y'all! Now, jump in bed and cover your head, 'cause Santa Claus is coming tonight!
Maybe Santa bring Bo some virgins!
Merry Christmas, everyone!
Miss Truvy, I promise that my personal tragedy will not interfere with my ability to do good hair.
Thank you all so very much for all of your kind comments, e-mails, messages, cards, calls, and everything else I've received over the last several days. I have read and appreciated every message, and I am just overwhelmed by the many people who have taken the time to send a little bit of love and comfort our way. It really has meant more to us that you know, and I have been so touched by your generosity. And, for everyone else who wrote to me about losing their own pets, or who is going through their own tragedy, my sympathy is with you, and I hope you are surrounded by people who are as wonderful as all of y'all are.
I've been okay. It was, of course, hardest in the beginning; on Sunday, I would randomly transform into a screaming M'Lynn from Steel Magnolias, grabbing whomever happened to be nearby, and screaming, "I can jog all the way to Texas and back, but my dog can't! She never could! I'm so mad I don't know what to do! I wanna know why! I wanna know whyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!" etc., ad nauseum.
I also succeeded in essentially locking my own self out of this website for a few days; even though I knew everyone was leaving nice comments, and I wanted to read those nice comments, I would come over and see the "Goodbye, Girl," and break the hell down. It was one of the last things I ever said to Tasha, and reading those words up there just killed me all anew. In retrospect, I should have named the entry something with less locking-Leigh-out capability, such as "There is a lot of wine in the refrigerator right now." That is the sort of thing I should be keeping in mind. Think positive!
I have realized that the fact that Tasha's death was so sudden is both a curse and a blessing. From my own perspective, it was horrible. I am still reeling from the idea that she really, really didn't make it. I think it truly sunk in yesterday, when the pet mortuary (yes) called me to finalize her "arrangements," and to see if I'd picked out an urn. That was stark and real and awful, and I think the weight of the thing hit me then. But Tasha's death was just so wholly unexpected, and so totally out of the blue; on Saturday morning, I had four dogs. By the time the sun went down, my little girl was gone, and I was left with three. I didn't see it coming, and it took my breath away.
But, on the other hand, I am so very, very thankful that Tasha did not suffer. On Friday, she was seemingly healthy; she ate her food, she sniffed the bushes outside, and she watched television on the couch, curled up next to me while I packaged up some orders. I was eating potato chips, and every time I dropped one, she'd spelunk into the depths of the couch to retrieve it. She seemed fine, and I don't think she was in pain.
Hell, even on the day she died, she didn't seem that sick until the very end; we decided to take her to the vet as a precaution. Her cough sounded a little different; she seemed to be wheezing, and she was holding her head in an odd way. Little things -- and things that are not unheard of in a dog with asthma -- but enough to convince me that we needed to take her in. Within several hours, she did not have the strength to lift her head. Shortly after that, her little heart just stopped beating. And though the doctors were able to revive her, the lack of oxygen to her brain had resulted in severe brain damage. Looking into Tasha's eyes, I could tell that she was already gone, and so we did what had to be done.
Putting Tasha to sleep was probably the hardest thing I have had to do. And I hate that her illness and death happened so quickly, but at the same time, I am so glad that it happened so quickly. Tasha did not suffer for long. She did not have to endure lengthy treatments, and she never had to spend the night alone and scared at the animal hospital. Even though it was harder on us to have her taken so quickly, it was much easier on her, and she was the one who mattered. She gave me seven wonderful years, and I am thankful for every second.
But, it's still hard. Because I apparently enjoy torturing myself, I cannot stop going over the past few days in my mind, trying to remember something I'd overlooked, a sign that she was sick, and that she needed my help. For the first few days, I was convinced that if I'd only done something differently, that would have saved her, and that Tasha's death was all my fault. But I am slowly beginning to realize -- having spoken to the veterinarian who cared for her on the day she died, and her regular veterinarian -- that there was really nothing I could have done. On Saturday, as I cried over my little girl, the vet put her hand on my back and said, "She didn't tell you. You couldn't know, if she didn't tell you." And logically, I am beginning to see how that's right. But it does not stop me from wondering.
And, it sure as fuck has not stopped me from one bit of the insanity I have now developed for the other dogs. I am convinced that they are all about to up and die from Mad Cow disease, malaria, rickets, ebola, or any flavor of other obscure disease, and I have analyzed every cough, sneeze, growl, bark, and whimper until I am about to drive them all insane. Seriously, they are about to rise up and KILL me. I can't stop picking them up, poking all over their little mad, brown bodies, checking their gums for color and their little noses for cold-and-wet, before depositing them hesitantly on the floor again. Now, when they see me coming, they scatter like cockroaches, screaming, "FOR LOVE OF GOD DOGS ARE FINE! STOP POKE! STOP POKE US!"
But don't worry -- they are not completely miserable, because I am also spoiling the holy fuck out of them all. This is arguably a Bad Thing, but I don't remotely care. On the night Tasha died, my family went into full-on-crisis mode; mom and dad went to the store and purchased me ice cream, potato chips, frozen pizzas, and five bottles of wine. I also sent Dukay shopping, with explicit instructions to bring back every single dog treat and bone available in the metro area. Which he did, and the remaining three dogs have lived in an orgasmic, bone-chewing land since Saturday. And their enviable position has become even more enviable when you also take into account the new dog bed I have purchased them, as well as the new faux-fur blanket they have received in order to maximize their snoogly comfort on the sofa. The remaining dogs cannot believe their good luck. They love this whole mourning/death thing! Someone should die DAILY! And if the treats start to subside, they'll just shoot Pugsley, and then helloooooo, bacon!
So, the dogs are fine. They're fucking GREAT. And I am getting better. As many of y'all know, it's just hard to lose a pet. But I am trying to keep my perspective -- I still have my awesome parents, wonderful sister, cute-bottomed boyfriend, and three really bad, rapidly-getting-fatter doxies. My family is healthy and whole. In the grand scheme of things, I know that this is a little tragedy, and I am incredibly lucky.
But, as it turns out, I am even luckier than I thought. When Tasha died, one of the things that made me the most upset was just how pointless it was. I mean, no, the death of a pet doesn't often have a purpose, and it's not like most dachshunds are out there dying for their country or in protest of our environmental policies or things like that, but still. There wasn't any "why" to the whole nastiness, and there was no way that it could be turned into something positive. You know? Like, if your dog dies of some odd disease that has symptoms X, Y, and Z, you can tell people to watch out for those symptoms, and maybe other dogs will be saved. With Tasha, I can't do that. I can't tell people how to prevent their own dogs from dying, and that only made things seem even more awful.
But, as I said, it turns out that I am incredibly lucky. Because, several days ago, a missdoxie.com reader donated $5,000 to Dachshund Rescue in memory of Tasha. And immediately after that, DRNA sent me a list of other donations y'all have made in memory of my girl. I read all of this, and I burst into tears. Because now, Tasha's death will have a silver lining, and other doggies will be helped because of her. It's the only thing that makes any of this okay.
So when I start missing my girl, and when I first wake up in the morning and remember that she is gone, this is what I think about: I think about how, somewhere out there, is a dachshund who has lived a shitty life. But now, thanks to several wonderful people, and in honor of my little Tasha, that little guy is going to be saved, and he is going to get to live in a home with people who wil love him, and give him bacon, and scratch him in just the right place behind his little ears. He's going to have a chance to be happy, and Tasha played a part in giving him that chance. Knowing that makes everything so much better. It doesn't quite answer the "whyyyyyyyyyyyyy?" question that the M'Lynn in me keeps screaming, but it helps a lot. And then, as M'Lynn would also say, life goes on. And sure enough, it does.
So, thank you so much to everyone. I will be back soon with tales of the three bad dogs (I am officially the only female in the household now; ergo, I am totally fucked), Christmas shopping, and my white-hot hatred for that song about the fucking Christmas shoes (which makes me scream "HURRY UP AND DIE, WOMAN!" at the radio every time it comes on). But I wanted to close this chapter first, to say goodbye to our little lady, and to tell all of you how much I appreciated your support and your generosity. And of course, I also want to encourage all of y'all to give to DRNA this holiday (or really, to any other animal rescue organization you like), in honor of any four-legged creature that has touched your life. Even if the donation is small, it still makes a huge difference for everyone. I know what a huge difference it made for me.
Thank you all, for all of your support, and kindness, and sympathy. You're all wonderful, and I love you more than my luggage.
Oh, y'all. Tasha didn't make it. She died a few hours ago.
I did get to pet her and rub her little head before she went. And I got to be with her up until the end, and I got to whisper and talk to her, until the vet told me she was really gone.
I am so stunned, and so sad. Thank all of y'all for the good wishes for our little girl, and please think some good thoughts for her tonight. And give your own dogs some extra kisses from all of us.
Just wanted to pop in and tell y'all that the update will be out tomorrow, probably, but that we've been dealing with a bit of a crisis over here; Tasha started having some trouble breathing, and so we took her to the emergency vet. Who made us wait for an hour before she waltzed in, took one look at the dog and WIGGED, and promptly sent us to the hardcore, people-running-around-and-saying-STAT! STAT! emergency vet, where Tasha is now in the ICU, diagnosed with doggie pneumonia. Her prognosis is fair, which is apparently better than "bad", but they've got her in an oxygen bed-thing, and she's just about the most pathetic little brown creature you've ever seen in all your life.
Honestly, this is the craziest -- and scariest -- thing that's ever happed to any of the dogs. Because yesterday, she was totally fine, running around, chewing on her toys, and humping the sofa cushions like a normal wiener thing. Today, she's the boy in a bubble. Or, girl. Or, girl dog in a bubble, I guess, but you know what I am driving at.
Anyway, so, we've been pretty occupied with this since early this morning, and will be for a while. The next 24 hours are supposed to be the most important, so we're mostly just waiting to see how she responds to the meds. If she improves (and let us all hope that she improves), I'll try to get the guide finished up tomorrow. In the meantime, y'all please think good thoughts about the little lady, and hope she gets out of her bubble -- and back to humping the sofa -- as soon as possible.
Look! Bad Limerick Wednesday!
Because, why the hell not? Besides all of the obvious reasons, I mean?
I will go ahead and go on record by saying that this will not happen again next Wednesday, because hopefully, I will be less of a freak by then. But, you know. Today, I am just going to revel in my freakitude, and also, impose it on all you nice people. Sorry about that.
I wrote the majority of this limerick this morning, while sitting in traffic, on the back of an envelope, with a half-stub of a pencil. Because I am classy like that. Also, these facts alone pretty much guarantee that the limerick in question is not good. It is, in fact, very not good. But hey -- at least I am not talking about sycamore trees anymore. Now, I've moved on to "There once was a man from Nantucket." Obviously, that is sure to end well. (It rhymes with bucket!)
Anyway. Hello! Have more poetry! And please don't hate me forever.
Why Wednesday's Child Is Full Of Woe
(In Many Painful Verses)
(Special shout-out to I-75; thanks for all this sitting!)
Last night, in what turned out to be
An ode to my stupidity,
I took dachshunds (four)
To the second floor
And decided they’d all sleep with me.
And I did so with no apprehensions
Concerning my bed’s small dimensions.
But I should know well
That the long road to hell
Is paved with my dumb ass intentions.
But of course, I’m an ignorant whore.
And so, at about 1:04,
I quickly awoke
To hear Tasha choke
As she threw up all over the floor.
So, I sprang up from bed right away
And gathered some towels and spray.
I cleaned up the mess
(With minor success)
And once again, I hit the hay.
But then around quarter to three,
I woke up to something sticky.
And though sleeping nearly,
I realized quite clearly:
“That fucking dog threw up on me.”
So sometime between three and four,
(While Boris continued to snore),
I was taking a shower
At an ungodly hour,
And not wanting dogs anymore.
I got back to bed before dawn,
As dew drops were coating the lawn.
But as I settled in,
I realized with chagrin
That now fucking Tasha was gone.
So, filled with a great sense of dread,
I once again got out of bed.
With a reluctant lurch,
I blearily searched,
Like a zombie come back from the dead.
But happily, it wasn’t long
‘Till I found where she’d been all along:
Behind cracked closet door,
She was splayed ‘cross the floor,
And gleefully eating a thong.
Now knowing that my evening fell
Somewhere in the third ring of hell,
I got down on all fours,
To salvage my drawers,
When I suddenly thought: what’s that smell?
For a stench, so horrid and vile;
Like a house blend of hot ass and bile;
Had assaulted my nose,
In the midst of my clothes.
And that’s when I saw the first pile.
According to medical views,
“Diarrhea” is seldom good news.
But problems compound
When its effects are found
Inside of your favorite shoes.
And you would be quite impressed at
The multiple places she’d shat.
It was way more than twice,
But because I am nice,
I’ll spare you the details of that.
But WHILE I was standing there, man,
Miss Tasha was crafting a plan.
And with one sudden twitch,
That little brown bitch
Grabbed my damn panties and ran.
Now, there certainly is a connection
Between diet and doggie digestion.
But I was in such a snit
That I must now admit:
I gave up on the panties in question.
So I crouched there, completely nonplussed,
Scrubbing the floor in disgust,
While one shitty broad
My undies with unrestrained lust.
At long last, after one final sweep,
I could FINALLY go back to sleep.
But the second I rose
I heard something and froze:
My alarm clock was starting to beep.
I won’t make attempts at transcription
Of emotions beyond my description.
But suffice it to say,
I started my day
By having a fucking conniption.
So friends, if you are ever led
To believe I'll take four dogs to bed,
Please run to me quick,
And bring a big stick,
And smack some sense back in my head.
Happy Wednesday, everyone!
Tasha says, "I'll never see/a rose as beautiful as me! Or as likely to throw up on you."
Look Who Is So Full Of Ideas Today!
So, yes, it is only September some...teenth, and there are a lot of days before it gets to be Halloween, and I understand this, y'all, but that is not changing the fact that I feel like now is the time when we need to start gathering the supplies we will need for Bo's Halloween costume. For the first time in my life, I am planning ahead. Someone should probably call my mom, who will be thrilled about this state of affairs, and who has probably already finished her Christmas shopping, whereas I, on the other hand, have not yet managed to take my Christmas decorations, from last year, all the way up to the attic (this is true. All the red and green boxes are stacked in a guest room. This is...nice, I think, and quite festive for August houseguests).
(At this point, the decorations are just staying put, man. Considering the fact that the American Holiday Season has somehow bloated itself into late August, according to my local Target, which was already overrun with spider-dripping orange 'n black Halloween displays last month, I think it is perfectly acceptable to start Christmas decorating some time in May.)
(Astoundingly, I seem to have gotten off track.)
But, anyway. So, Bo's costume! The dogs always have Halloween costumes, because I have Issues, but most years I just dress them all in bandanas decorated with ghosts or tombstones or some other "morbid AND kid-friendly!" character. I have, however, in the past, attempted to dress them in actual costumes. Only, weiner dogs don't fit really well in actual dog costumes, primarily because lots of those costumes involve utilizing the front-chest area of the dog. Like, know those little costumes that have the fake legs or little bodies dangling down from a collar? So that it looks like a disembodied and irritated dog head has somehow fused onto a small, cartoonish human form that is probably either a cowboy or a ballerina? Know those? Those don't really work so well with dachshunds. When you put those costumes on dachshunds, whose front-chest area is approximately negative twelve centimeters long, the cowboy/ballerina legs just hang out in front of their faces, like the disembodied and irritated dachshund head has been fused to a body, only that body happens to be flat-on-its-back dead. Which I guess is keeping with the Halloween spirit, but you know. It looks ridiculous. And Lord knows, we can't have that! Not in THIS house!
So, we improvise. Once, we painted Tasha's toenails and attached some foam curlers to her collar, and told everyone that she was a bored housewife, and the rest of the dogs were small brown UPS men. One year, we put them all in an enormous pot with some plastic vegetables, and announced that they were Ingredients. (That is also the year when we learned that Ingredients are usually much...stiller, actually, than a bunch of pissed-off dachshunds in a pot with plastic vegetables. So that one didn't really work.)
But, we have learned one thing for our attempts, and that is that, in a remarkable and unexpected twist, of all the dogs, only Bo will keep a costume on his body for anything longer than six seconds. Seriously: Bo. Bo, who is evil. Bo, who hates all things. Bo, who communicates with his teeth.
This is the same Bo who likes costumes, and will actually growl at you if you try to take them off of his wriggling, hateful self. Somehow, Bo's personality is part Benito Mussolini, and part drag queen. To which we say: watch out, world. It's the unholy marriage of dictatorship and glitter.
So, bearing this in mind, I'm thinking that this year, he should have something extra special, you know? And I've been thinking about it, and here are some ideas that I've been pondering. And really, because I am so nice, I've listed all the necessary supplies and instructions, so you can make them at home, for your own little canine friends! Yay, sharing! I am like Martha Stewart with the Good Things. Check it out:
Costume Idea #1:
(Oh shut up. You were thinking it, too.)
Mona Lisa (one)
Steal Mona Lisa from Louvre. Cut out face part with scissors. Take Valium; locate Bo. Insert Bo into remaining Mona Lisa; hold Bo in place with Super Glue. Take more Valium. Show off handiwork to nice French authorities on the doorstep. Offer them Halloween candy!
And, you're done!
But, maybe you are looking for something less...feminine mystique. In that case, we could go manly. And what's manlier than Costume Idea #2:
(People, I can't help it. It's like I'm being compelled here.)
Jack Bauer (headless)
Obtain headless Jack Bauer from boat on which he is making slow trip to China; set head aside for bronzing. Locate Bo. Attach Bo to lifeless corpse of Jack Bauer with super glue. Use large gun to kill Kim Bauer; collect accolades from everyone in the world. Offer them Halloween candy!
But, maybe...maybe this is not the way you want to go, either. Maybe you are thinking to yourself, "Self, these costume ideas are both economical and unique, but they're just not me. I'm a practical person, who does not want to have to fly to France, or find the boat on which Jack Bauer is currently deposited. I would like to find everything I need on my continent of residence, if at all possible. Can this even be done?"
Well, people, you are in luck, because I am here to tell you that yes it can. You can make an entire costume for your pet with items you already own! (Gasp! Wonder! Amazement!) Because, items you already own are all you need to fashion Costume #3:
(I promise that I am done now.)
Also known as: Yo Quiero Kill You So Much.
White hand towel
Tequila (2 bottles)
Drink one bottle tequila; locate Bo. Wrap body of Bo in hand towel; staple into place. Fill towel with refuse; place second bottle of tequile in Bo's mouth. Use Super Glue for extra hold. Run for life. Bring candy.
So, there you go, y'all. Three perfectly reasonable ideas for Halloween costumes that I may inflict upon Bo this year. But, really, my mind's not made up yet; there are just so many options! Che Bo-Vara? Bo-ri Spelling? A cowboy?
I am sure y'all have plenty of excellent pet costume ideas, and so I think you should share them below, with or without instructions. As always, creativity is encouraged. But if you suggest Little Bo Peep, then Mister Bo might have something to say to you. And he'll probably say it with his teeth.
UPDATED, to add that:
People, we have all been schooled. Thank you to Liberal Banana, who has created the below image, and in doing so, has demonstrated exactly why "bored at work" is an awesome thing indeed.
Behold: Bo Derek.
Y'all enjoy. I'm just going to hang out here, and try to pry Bo's incisors out of my calf muscles. I guess he isn't...pleased.
Well, I have all kinds of things I would like to share with you, Mr. Internet, but I have been unable to complete any of them. For example, I am working on a clearinghouse of several memes I have been tagged for by various goodlooking (pretend this links to Rockstar Mommy, but the link is screwy) individuals, but have I finished them? No. Have I finished ANYthing I was planning to do for this site in the last two weeks? No. Would you like to know why? YES. Or, no, maybe you are not caring very much about that, but whatever, because I am about to tell you anyway, you sexy people, you.
See, know what it is right now? In Atlanta? It is hot. Really fucking hot. Outside, it is hot, and inside, it can also be hot, if you are not running your air conditioner. And, provided that you have an air conditioner, reasons why you might not be running said air conditioner in the middle of August, in Atlanta, with a heat index of infinity degrees squared, include:
1. You are running hot yoga classes out of your living room;
2. You live in an igloo;
3. You are trying to melt steel for fun and profit;
4. Your fucking air conditioner is fucking broken.
One of these applies to me. Guess which.
So, I got home from work one night last week, only to be greeted by a wave of intense, mean, wet heat the second I opened up the door. And I thought: "Uh oh." And I continued to think: "Uh oh," when I saw all four dogs lying on their backs in the den, panting and looking up at the ceiling, all, "HI WE DIED," as seen below:
You can't kill Bo. You can only make him mad.
But "Uh oh" actually graduated to, "Oh, holy SHIT," when I went into the backyard and saw that the A/C thingy was not doing anything, not even making a little sputtering sound, zero, zip, nada. And finally, I entered into "Oh MotherFUCK" territory about the time that I discussed the situation with my A/C guy, and was informed that I am probably going to need a whole new system. Which, of course they cannot install this week, and incidentally, this will cost roughly seventeen million dollars. So, happy sweating to me! With a bonus menu of ramen noodles and misery for everyone.
Waiting a week for the A/C people was not going to work, particularly for the dogs ("STILL DEAD FROM HOT" they reminded me as I cursed my way through the kitchen), so I gathered their steaming bodies, tossed them in the car, and drove over to my parents' house. Which is where I have been, enjoying their air conditioning and drinking all of their wine, for the last five days. This has totally screwed with everybody's world, especially my poor mother's, who was thrilled when I descended upon her home with four angry, hot dogs, before making a beeline for her refrigerator, but you know. I am a delight to everyone I meet.
But really, thank God I've got somewhere to go, because the whole "hot" thing was just not working for the dogs, and particularly not for Gimmme. Gimmme has had kind of a bad month. He managed to fall into my parents' pool a few weeks ago, and somehow jerked in a manner that gave him whiplash (yes. My dog has whiplash), and so he is on a wide variety of pain medications and has been acting like a drunken sailor for days. He will start to run, only he will be running sideways, and then he will fall over onto his side and wag, his tail going thump-thump-thump on the floor, until someone comes along and plops him on his feet again. And it's like his entire physical state has changed, and he has gone from being a solid little doggie to something similar to a ziploc filled with jelly, and he just squooshes happily around the world, falling over and thump-thump-thumping on occassion, and generally loving pharmecuticals.
So, this is what I have inflicted upon my poor parents for the last week. However, what I have not inflicted upon my poor parents is Evil Bo. It doesn't have anything to do with me; apparently, Bo is making a strong case for his adoption by my mother, who spoils her dogs even more than they are spoiled over at my house (there is an entire cabinet of dog treats in this house, people. But is there a single damn potato chip? NO. Someone's priorities are fucked, is what I am saying). Consequently, he has gone from this:
Who's Mommy's little antichrist? WHO IS?
WHO WANT PIE? BO COOK PIE!
With no explanation whatsoever. Which, of course, leads my mother to believe that I am just being hard on Bo, and that he is actually a sweet little darling angel thing. He is most certainly not. He is just plotty. But nobody believes me.
At any rate, this is where we are, and that is what we are doing. Enjoying modern medicine and air conditioning, and being on our best behavior, so that nobody gets the notion to shave off all of our fur and find that 666 tattooed on our ample, smooshy rump. I am not naming names here about which of us is doing which, but let me draw your attention to a recent picture that might shed some light on the subject:
Bo want to know if you want a piece of Bo.
Have a good weekend, everybody! I certainly hope all of y'all are cooler than me.
I Compromise My Artistic Integrity, Plus Doodling
So, on the recommendation of roughly infinity people, I bought myself a Wacom tablet for doing my drawrings. And let me tell you something about this, you guys: These Wacom tablets are addictive. They are crack for people who like drawring and art stuff, and yes, it is a dorky addiction, but holy lord. See, what you do is, you draw? On the tablet? And, and...it shows up! On the screen! Right in front of you! And, even better, you do not have to use Microsoft Paint. Which means you get to keep your dignity, eyesight, and sanity. It is a package deal of glee.
So, I have this new tablet, and have been using it to do illustrations. And, it's kind of hard, at first. There is a lot to figure out, and I am certainly not there yet. But I am getting better. My pictures no longer look like this, for example, and that spells "Improvement" where I come from:
Dear Committee members, please send my genius grant through paypal.
That was my first attempt on the tablet, so I saved it for posterity. And, it is just sad. I couldn't figure out where the cursor was, and the font was miniscule, and why is the background transparent, and it was all very wretched. Unless you like that kind of thing, and think I am a visionary. In which case: I was going for minimal!
But I had to learn, so I basically attached myself to my laptop, and have been attempting to figure it out for days. On the night the tablet actually arrived, Dukay came over to cook me dinner, because he is nice and makes good spaghetti. While he cooked, he watched me screwing with the tablet, and you could see that he was thinking "?" about the whole situation. He did not understand my sudden and obsessive attachment to a small gray pad, or the reason why I had grunted wordlessly at him when he'd walked in, started cooking, and even poured me a glass of wine. It was apparent that he was thinking, for the ten trillionth time, that "Shit, my girlfriend's a nerd." But, then! The Britney Spears interview came on, and I had to put the pad aside, because I am interested in world events. While Dukay, funhater who reads the business section first, sat down on the sofa and tentatively picked up the Wacom pen.
And then, he proceeded to sign his name. Thirty-three thousand times, in every font and color. For TWO HOURS.
"Do you like this one?" he'd ask. Then, "Ooo! Look at THAT one! I need to get this pen! Do you see that 'C'? That 'C' is so swoopy! Can I buy a pen in...uh, 'default brush number nine?'"
Dukay no longer questions my attachment. We are in agreement that the tablet rocks the house.
So, I have been practicing for a couple of days, and a very sweet friend of ours, who is an actual graphic designer, is going to give me some additional learnin'. But in the meantime, here is a little tiny story I've come up with so far. And I'd like to say, "So, what do you think?" except: the comments are dead. So, I guess, I will instead say, "I hope you like it." Because, I hope you do! And so, that is honest.
I call this little tale "Learning about layers and shit." Or, alternatively, "Bo Meets A Sock Puppet: Staggeringly Poor Choice On My Part." Both are equally appropriate.
Except, possibly not the end, because I showed Dukay, who flatly refused to accept such a conclusion, and demanded an alternate ending. In which, he explained, Bo burps. And I said, ew, I do not draw burps, and I would never draw a burp, and I am not all into the grossness and the burping and other bodily things and to make a long story short, he is just really, really persuasive, you guys:
With sincere apologies to the Simpsons, because this is based entirely on a line drawing of Barney burping, because such drawings comprised the entirety of the email sent by Dukay, to me, with the subject line "Burp," in response to my claim that you can't draw a burp, loserhead.
Goodbye, standards of decency! Wherever you are, say hello to my dignity.
And, that's it for now; I will keep trying, and will probably post y'all more efforts as I improve. And also, I will probably tell you, like, a story or something, just as soon as I look away from the tablet and notice someone doing something interesting. In the meantime, y'all take care, and everyone have a great week!
Updated, because: Yay! Comments are working! Ten million kisses to the fantastic Christine at Verve Hosting, who knows way more about these 'puters than I.
I Say Potato, But That Is Kind Of All I Say
Despite the number of emails I have received asking whether I do, in fact, need some bail money, the answer is no, thank you. I am not in jail. I am not in jail, or kidnapped, or shipwrecked, or anything else remotely interesting. Instead, I have been working seventeen thousand hours, because turns out: the expression "Don't make a federal case of it"? That expression is used for a reason. That reason is that a federal case is kind of a BIG FUCKING DEAL, and that means no sleep for me, at ALL, and I actually stayed awake for 41 straight hours last week, with no breaks and no naps, and by the end of that time, I turned to Dukay and asked, "Hey, what does a psychotic break feel like?" and that is when he picked me up, hauled me upstairs, and physically deposited me into the bed, and I was not allowed to work any more. I was dead asleep before he'd turned out the light. Until I woke up six hours later in a blind panic, because OH MY GOD, I just spent six hours NOT working, am I insane?
Sigh. It was kind of a long week, y'all.
I have spent most of this week recovering, and not moving around very much. I am slug-like in my recovery. We have been watching a lot of television, and it is KILLING ME that nobody I know is watching Big Love except for me, because doesn't anyone want to talk about polygamy? Come on, people! Polygamy! That's some interesting stuff, particularly when your polygamy discussion is punctuated by multiple views of a bare-assed Bill Paxton. That man sure is naked a lot. I guess if you have a whole herd of wives, you would need to be a lot naked, but...dude. I don't need Paxton Buttocks in my face every six seconds.
So, this has been a thoroughly uninteresting week. But! But but but! The time prior to the federal case and the sluggishness was very awesome, and as we may recall, it was Birthday party week. Y'all know how much I like it when people give me presents and wine! So birthdays are right up my alley.
On Wednesday night (this seems like eight years ago, incidentally), we had the actual birthday party at a fancy restaurant, and that is where I wore my pretty silk and pearl necklace, and that was awesome and a lot of fun. Then on Thursday, I went to that bachelor party. And while said party did involve a strip club, I am proud to say that I stayed fully dressed this time, and nobody saw any of my naughty bits whatsoever.
Actually, to the degree that a strip club experience can be uneventful, ours was uneventful. Nobody got arrested, or excessively drunk, and we had no run-ins with overzealous bouncers or anything, so it was a pretty run-of-the-mill night. If, of course, your standard run-of-the-mill-night involves a crop of really...sparkly naked women. In extraordinarily tall, clear-plastic stilettos. Also noted was the apparent resurgence in the popularity of the leg warmer, because most of the women there were wearing them. That was all they were wearing, however. At one point, when a be-legwarmered dancer was up on our table, my friend Spark turned to me and whispered, "Aw! Her shins were cold."
So, not much excitement at the strip club. And no other real excitement, either; the only thing that even comes close to excitement was when I accidentally locked the dogs and my breakfast in the guest room together, and that was less "exciting" and more "annoying," and also it is not particularly interesting at all, but it's all I've got. So here you go. When I have a federal case, my stories become exponentially less entertaining.
But, anyway. So, the day after we went to the strip club was Friday, and I was not going to work. I was taking the day off, because this was before someone decided to make a federal case of things, and I had a sore throat anyway, and I was planning on sleeping in, wandering aimlessly through the house, maybe doing some shopping and having lunch, and then driving up to the lakehouse with Dukay, Spark, and her husband (also known as The Couple of Awesomeness) that evening. This was the plan. Naturally, that bears no resemblance to what actually happened.
First off, sleeping in did not work.
8:00 a.m.: I am awoken by a cacophony of hysterical barking. Said barking is coming from downstairs. The dogs are freaking OUT with the maximum of small brown ferocity that they are allowed by law, as in, we are firmly in Red Zone Barking, which means either that (1) There is someone in the yard, or (2) The Roomba is on the prowl. (Note: The dogs hate the Roomba. This may have been why the Roomba was purchased.)
8:01: Barking is now punctuated by a muffled "slam!" "slam" noise, meaning that idiot dogs are now physically throwing themselves head-first at the back door at whomever is outside, because GOOD THINKING, PETS. That should scare them away.
8:02: I go downstairs to discover that a few guys from the water department are wandering willy-nilly through my back yard, looking for sewer lines or whatever. They are in no hurry. I hate them. (Note: The water department and I are not on the best of terms on any given day, thanks to the time they sent me that bill of $1,300 for water for one month, and refused to entertain the notion that such an exorbitant figure could be a mistake, and drama ensued. I am not over it. I hate you, water department, and all of your minions, too.)
8:03: I am not about to listen to several hours of Dachshund Conniption on my day off, so I gather up the dogs and bring them upstairs with me. I deposit all of them in a guest room, and decide, well, hell. If I can't sleep, maybe I will watch a movie on the guest room TV, and make myself some breakfast or something, and the dogs can just hang out with me in here.
8:04: I go back downstairs to find self some breakfast. As soon as I walk into the kitchen, this is what I hear:
Which, when performed by an army of dachshunds on hardwood floors, sounds like:
8:05: I make a mad dash for the stairs, just in time to hear:
because Gimmme is blind, and cannot see steps, and so:
8:05:30: Fortunately, I catch Blind Dog before he falls too far, retrieve the rest of the dogs (clackityclackity), herd them again into the guest room (clackity), close the door, and go back downstairs to get self some breakfast.
8:06: Hmm. I...I am really not much of a breakfast eater. I never eat breakfast, unless it is bagel day at work. I usually do not eat anything until the afternoon. Dukay doesn't much eat breakfast either, and he is pathologically terrified of eggs ("Eggs make me twitch. Twitch!" -- Dukay), so I just don't have a lot of breakfast food around.
8:10: Hmmmmmm -- Aha! Mashed potatoes!
8:11: (Shut up.)
8:15: I make my potatoes, and get them all nice and warm and good (and breakfasty! Ish!), and bring the plate back upstairs to the guest room. All four dogs are sitting on the bed, all:
because I have potatoes, and HEY WE LOVE POTATOES TOO, but I am all, "That is too bad for you, for these potatoes are my breakfast, and I don't even care how big you make your eyes, MISTER Bo, you are having none of this."
8:16: I settle down to eat my potatoes, but before I actually manage that first bite, that is when I hear:
8:17: Ding dong! says the doorbell.
8:17: AHHHHHHHHH, say the dogs.
8:17: I hate everybody in the world.
8:17: Again, the dogs are apoplectic with wriggling hysteria. Again, the dogs produce a cacophony of shrill and thundering sound, because OMG, MOM, we FORGOT, but did you know that there are MEN in the YARD AHHHH?
8:18: Again, I get up, and place the potatoes out of reach on the table. Again, I close the dogs into the guest room so that Gimmme doesn't go
back down the stairs, and go to the door to see what the water guys want. And, of course, they want to tell me that they are in the yard, which, yes, so I gathered.
8:20: After chatting briefly with the water guys, I go back upstairs to my promised mashed potatoes, movie, and dachshund herd. Only, when I get to the door, I notice something odd.
8:21: The door to the guest room won't open.
8:22: Wait, the door to the guest room is...locked...?
8:23: YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. The door locked behind me. I locked all of the dogs, plus one plate of mashed potatoes, in the guest room.
8:23: I put my ear against the door. This is what I hear:
8:23: "AHHHH!" I holler. "YOU ARE EATING MY MASHED POTATOES! STOP EATING MY MASHED POTATOES."
8:23:10: For the next ten seconds, I hear:
8:45: I make my way into the room, using both a fork and a coat hanger to pick the stupid lock. And there, as a surprise to nobody whatsoever, sit four dogs -- all of whom are covered in mashed potato -- and one empty, forlorn plate upside down on the bed.
They are all looking at me, wholly delighted.
8:46: I place them all in the blender and enjoy a dachshund smoothie for breakfast. Tastes like sausage!
It is too bad that I am not a normal person who can leave her damned breakfast of mashed potatoes, confident that even if she somehow manages to lock them in a guest room, they will remain untouched by the angry little teeths of the revolutionary wiener army. That is too bad. Also too bad is the fact that I failed to take pictures of the mashed potato explosion of '06. Imagine four dogs coated in a delicious white crust, and you will pretty much be there. Damn water department.
(And...uh. That is the mashed potato story. I told you it was not that awesome. But otherwise I will have to write about work, and y'all don't want that.)
I hope y'all are doing well, and once I manage to get myself all straightened out and normal, and reply to some of these zillion emails (I'm sorry!), I will hopefully post something more worthy of your brain cells. Until then, y'all take care, and feel free to share your views on mashed potatoes, polygamy, and whether I should make a federal case of things with the water department, because somehow I feel like this is all their fault.
Sound and Fury of Bo, Take Two: Veterinary Boogaloo
Y'all, poor Bo. He has lived on this planet for seven years, and during that time, he has very rarely been injured, or poisoned, or beaten with sticks, or wrapped in a blanket of knives. While, yes, I have threatened him with one or all of these punishments, I have never actually raised a hand to the dog, or even spoken to him in any tone of voice that is anything other than, on occasion, "slightly exasperated." And even my "slightly exasperated" voice is dripping with the dog love. Bo has himself an easy little life.
But, you would not know this, if you had only just become acquainted with Bo this year. Because 2006: this is not Mister Bo's year. This is not the Year of the Bo. 1999 may have been the Year of the Bo, back when he still had his testicles, and that was fun for everyone. But 2006 is just not his thing. 2006 hurts Bo. And it is costing me a damned fortune.
So, very early on Saturday morning, I got up to let the dogs out. And they didn't go, because they never go outside when it is rainy or cold, and instead they just look at me with unconcealed disgust and shake their jaded little heads at my optimistic stupidity. So I sighed, and settled myself into the sofa, and was fixin' (I am Southern) to watch some TV, or maybe do some dozing, or something else equally comatose, when Bo had the Grand Idea to hop off of the sofa and go check out whether I'd put anything in the food bowl. (Answer: no.)
This is something that Bo has done, oh, seventy million times. He hops off, wanders over to the kitchen, and upon discovering that ew: dog food, he immediately returns and growls at you until you pick him up. Because Bo can get off the sofa, but he cannot get back up again. You have to lift him. Now. Lift him NOW. This is what you are told. You do it, too.
But, this early Saturday morning was different, because somehow, Bo came down hard on one leg, twisting it underneath him. And as soon as he hit the ground and this happened, I heard an ungodly, otherworldly shriek that made me remember New Year's Eve and the ensuing Stitch, and I immediately sprang to my feet. And there was Bo, lying on the ground, holding his little paw up into the air, and whining and crying like he was being fucking MURDERED.
I panicked, of course, because this is what I do. I picked him up, and he continued screeching. Remembering that last time, sausage made the screaming stop, I ran over to the refrigerator. Sadly, there was no sausage. Happily, hot dogs work just as well, so I gave him a bite of hot dog, and the screaming subsided. But the big sad brown eyes of sadness remained.
So, I stuck him up on the counter, and tried to see if I could actually find anything wrong with his leg. He wouldn't put any weight on it, and instead just stood there, miserable, holding his foot in midair. Like a little tripod. Like a tiny, angry Nazi.
I felt around on his leg, and he whimpered a little, but nothing too serious. And I couldn't feel anything broken or shifting, so I figured we'd give it an hour, and see if things improved. I gathered him up, and brought him over to the sofa again, the place where all the pain started, and held some ice against his leg while he wriggled around in small brown irritation. Finally, he fell asleep.
So, I sat there, trapped under seventeen pounds of Sleeping Pissed, waiting to see whether he'd wake up and just forget about the leg entirely (this has happened before, because Bo's capacity for martyrdom is only exceeded by his capacity for forgetting about said martyrdom), or whether we'd be making the second emergency vet trip of 2006. And it is only February.
A few hours later, Bo decided to wake up, but he did so with another shriek that sent me shooting straight into the air in horror. Apparently, his leg? Yeah. It still hurt. So, I bundled him into a blanket, and off we went.
On the way to the vet, I called to tell them we were coming. This is kind of how that went down:
Self: Hi! It's Miss Dox--
Receptionist: What happened to Bo.
Self: What? How did you kn---
Receptionist: Leigh, it's always Bo. What is it this time? What did he eat? Another box of tampons?
Self: Um. No. He didn't eat any---
Receptionist: Wait, was it more of Dukay's "herbal hangover over" pills? Or, ooh! Was it another citronella candle?
Self: Listen. He didn't eat anything. He actually hurt his leg. He jumped off the sofa and landed funny.
Receptionist: Oh, poor Bo!
Self: I know! If it’s broken, I guess we'll have to shoot him! HA!
Self: ...hee? Because, if he broke his...leg? Like, with...a horse? Like...
Receptionist: I know what you're talking about.
Self: Well, I mean, yeah, I know, and I was, like, kidding. You know. About the shooting thing? I wouldn't really --
Receptionist: Wasn’t Bo just in here? For a stitch?
Self: Uh, yeah. But I didn’t DO that, he--
Receptionist: Mmm HMM. Right. See you soon.
So, lesson learned: shooting horse jokes = not funny at the vet. (However, injured Bo as tiny Nazi = still cracking me up. Highly inappropriate! But accurate, just the same. I am sorry.)
Anyway, we got there, and my parents actually came to meet me, and together, we hung out in the waiting room for several hours while Bo lay in my lap, staring bravely into the distance and acting all the world like death, you are so imminent, I can see... a bright light...and letting out small whimpers of agony.
At this time, I recounted the story about the Receptionist ("see, because if he broke his leg? We'd have to shoot him! Ha...! I mean, right? Like a horse? Listen, someone please think this is funny."), and about how she remembered all of the things Bo has eaten over the years.
And, it is true. Bo is not bothered by traditional notions of cuisine. He is a gourmand, and he is always willing to experiment with other flavors and sensations. Thus, while we waited, we compiled a handy list of Shit Bo Ate Once, and it is as follows:
1. Citronella candle, one;
2. Very dead lizard, one (minus head);
3. Pennies (several);
4. Dukay's herbal supplement that is supposed to prevent a hangover (one, with no result whatsoever, reports Dukay);
5. Chocolate martini (one);
6. Flea medication (one year supply);
7. Three pounds strawberry chicken salad;
8. Thong underwear (several);
9. Pink Daisy razors (multiple);
10. Law school textbooks (all);
11. Bit of dead squirrel found in yard (assorted); and
12. Priceless photographs of family and friends (many).
This is all we could come up with. I know there is more. But we were being interrupted in the creation of this handy list by the sorrowful moans of the Critically Injured Mister Bo, who was not really appreciating the fact that we were making fun of him while, if you DID NOT NOTICE, the dog is on his deathbed. Where he is dying. Where DEATH occurs.
But for all his whining, his attitude switched dramatically once we actually got him into the office. When placed on the floor so that the vet could watch him hobble, Bo immediately darted between my legs, hopped over Dad's feet, crouched in the corner, and took himself an enormous, anger-fueled dump.
And, that is when I remembered something else about Bo. Mister Bo is like an octopus. He is like an octopus in several ways, which I will detail below in the following helpful chart:
People, it is a scary world out there. There might be some time when you are out in the wilderness (or possibly the ocean), and you run across a wild creature, and you wonder: is that Bo? Or is that an octopus? If only there was some way to know!
But now, see? If you print out this handy guide and keep it with you at all times, you will never have to be confused again. Or, pooped on.
Because: that is what Bo does. When Bo is threatened, he protects himself by producing a wall of ass-smell so intense and putrid that people are literally gagging and gasping for breath, running for the doors with their hands clapped over their mouths, eyes bulging wildly. When the air has cleared (so to speak), they always return and gaze, amazed, at the dog. How does he make it all? they wonder. He is wee. How does a wee dog produce so much odor?
I wish I could help y'all, but I cannot. It is an unsolved mystery of science. Still, I hypothesize (science word!) that it has something to do with the dachshund shape. It's like their entire insides are all intestine, and 99% of their inner resources are dedicating to making smells and poop and pee, all day long, and are busy doing that instead of pooling those resources in other areas, like, I don't know, the brain, and maybe that is why we end up at the vet because Bo has decided to stick his head inside a black lab. Maybe that is it. I'm just guessing, though.
So, anyway. We're at the vet when Bo decides to take a Defensive Dump on the vet's floor. And we all apologized, but the vet was like, "Oh, no, happens all the time." And she picked up Bo, and we held him down (note: it takes five grown adults to hold one Bo in place) while she checked out his leg. And even though she didn't feel anything wonky, she decided to go ahead and do some X-rays anyway, and she and her aide disappeared around the corner with the dog.
They were gone a while. A loooong while. And when they returned, they looked slightly worse for the wear, and it was explained to me that, in the process of getting his X-rays taken, Bo had:
1. Pooped again;
2. Expelled the contents of his anal glands on the aide; and
3. When placed on his back, produced an Old Faithful-style stream of urine that then rained down upon the vet, the aide, and all others in the room, including his furious, wriggling self.
The vet was like, "His leg isn’t broken. But he needs a bath now."
And, as she was speaking these words, a suddenly NOT limping, nay, completely uninjured Bo darted from my grip, dove behind my mother, and took yet another shit on the vet's office floor.
This is, I think, the point at which she suggested we take him home. And the point at which my scandalized mother finally ran from the room in horror.
“Couldn’t you just teach him to bite?” she asked, as she fled. “What kind of defense mechanism is that?”
It is Bo’s! And it is his favorite.
So now, Bo is home. He’s still limping, but the limping gets exponentially worse when there is sympathetic company, or food is being consumed. Then he is suddenly Bo, the Tragic Dog With Three Legs And One Useless Appendage Of Misery. When it’s just us, however, or when he would like to cross a room, or hop from the sofa, or whatever strikes his dog fancy, he is Bo, Dog Of Action And The Totally Uninjured Feets. If the other dogs had the capacity to roll their eyes at him, they absolutely would. “Fucking diva,” they are thinking. "What ever happened to the 'shooting him' plan? Because, that sounded good."
So, that’s it. Please think good thoughts about Mister Bo, and his sad little foot an his octopus defenses. Because, y’all, we’ve had two Bo injuries in two months. And I think that’s enough defensive poop to last us a damned lifetime.
The elusive Boris confuses his predators with a colorful variety of bowel emissions. Stay back.
The Sound and the Fury (of Bo)
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.
People. WE ARE NOT TALKING ABOUT A SMART DOG HERE.
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?"
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.
R. Kelly Made Me Do It
Okay, so I don’t know if you’ve heard the new R.Kelly five-part thing he’s got rocking right now, but I had NOT, until yesterday, and it is...I mean, it is genuinely unbelievable. If you haven’t heard it, this entry will make no sense to you whatsoever, but basically, R. Kelly sings at length (AT LENGTH), and in excruciating detail, about what happens when he goes home with a woman he meets at a club and ends up hiding in the closet when her husband shows up, and the ensuing hijinks that GO ON FOR FIVE SONGS. It is painfully bad. I had heard other people describing it, but nothing brought it home for me until I actually heard some of the songs. I just sat there in slack-jawed wonder.
How can you not be deeply...uh, affected, by lyrics such as these, which he sings after the husband comes home and R (I like to call him “R”) is just, you know, chilling in the closet:
She hops all over him and says “I've cooked and ran your bathwater”
I'm telling you now this girl is so good she deserves an Oscar
The girl’s in the bed he starts snatching her clothes off
I'm in the closet like man, what the fuck is going on?
You’re not going to believe it but things get deeper as the story goes on
Next thing you know a call comes through on my cell phone
I tried my best to quickly put it on vibrate
But from the way he acted I could tell it was too late
He hopped up and said “there’s a mystery going on and I'm going to solve it”
And I'm like “God please don’t let this man open his closet.”
And so on. It is...unbelievable. I’ve never experienced anything like it. It is pure poetry, if “poetry” is codeword for “the most painfully embarrassing experience you can have on behalf of someone else.” Or possibly, “the telling of a story that sometimes involves rhyming words, but there is not any discernable beat or concern about syllables, but WHATEVER, because what’s going to happen when he gets found in the closet?!”
So! Because I was inspired (INSPIRED, I TELL YOU) by this...”poetry”, I decided to write some of my own. Oh, I know you’re excited.
In the style of R. Kelly, I present to you:
Thursday Night At Miss Doxie’s House
Today I woke up and to get out of bed, I had to fight
Because for some reason Bo decided to puke all over the place in the middle of the night
And I woke up at four a.m. to hear that Gu-GLUGGING sound and I didn’t miss a beat
And then I’m half asleep and trying to grab him before he vomits on my bedsheet
And so I snatch him and I get him down onto the floor
And then he’s throwing up and I see food that I gave him before
And then I have to clean it up with lots and lots of paper towels
And then he decides that he'd also like to void his bowels.
So then I have to take him out and let me remind you it is FOUR A.M.
And out he goes and he’s just sniffing around now and I hate him.
And then he hears something and he’s totally forgotten that he was ever sick
And instead he runs off to the corner of the yard because he is a prick.
And I have to go after him but I forgot it rained and now I’m covered in muck
And my toes are going all SQUOOSH and it would be fun if it didn’t totally suck.
So I finally catch him and he’s all, “Look, for I have cornered a TREE.”
And then I have to go get the hose to wash the mud all off of me.
And then I bring him back inside, and back upstairs to bed we go.
But now he’s wide awake and also bored, so he’s like, NO.
And then he won’t be still and sticks his cold nose in my face
And now wants to play and run around the whole damn place
And I try to tell him that I’ll staple his feet to the bed
But he’s not scared of me and so he starts to bark instead.
So I just lie real still and hope that he will shut up then
Eventually he does, and I fall back asleep again
But then the alarm goes off and now I’ve got to rise
And I see Bo and he just barely opens up his eyes
But then when I stand, and “Come on Bo, get up,” I shout
That little bastard dives beneath the sheets and won’t come out.
And when I try to grab him he just burrows further in.
He’s just a little lump of angry, and so I poke him.
And so he growls at me and he is saying “GO AWAY.
I’m not done sleeping here. Fuck off and go start your day.”
And I think maybe I’ll just put him in the microwave
If he doesn’t mind his momma and start to behave.
But I gave up and took a shower and just left him there
And he kept sleeping FOR AN HOUR until I had to physically spelunk under the covers as he just dug deeper, creating an elaborate under-bedcover tunnel system not seen since WWII, grab him by…something, possibly the collar, but SOMEthing, drag him OUT from under there while he LOUDLY PROTESTED this action, growling and shrieking in his BoSpeak, while the other dogs went BALLISTIC because MAYBE SHE IS KILLING BO, OH BOY, and then I had to struggle with His Wigglingest down the stairs, where he then proceeded to act like NOTHING HAPPENED, and HEY, CAN I GO OUTSIDE, and THESE ARE THE THRILLS OF DOG OWNERSHIP, PEOPLE.
I’ll be hiding from them all for the next ten years. Don’t look in the closet.
Well, Here's That Third Thing I Was TOTALLY EXPECTING.
Remember how, last week, after running my car into a pole and falling down the main staircase in my office, I predicted that a third, evil thing would befall me, because misfortune and tumbling has a tendency to come in threes?
Well, guess who was right. I WAS RIGHT! I WAS SO, SO RIGHT!
I wasn't injured. My car is fine. My pride, however, has suffered a mortal blow. It is dead. Also dead: dignity. Also also dead: ability to look neighbors in the eye, now that they have seen me BUCK NAKED. Yes.
Sometimes, I get emails from people who are all, "Oh, come on, nobody can fall down so much/have their clothes fall spontaneously off of their bodies/have boobs pop unexpectedly from sundresses with the frequency of which you write."
To those people, I say: YOU CLEARLY DO NOT KNOW ME IN PERSON! PEOPLE WHO KNOW ME? THEY KNOW TO EXPECT SUCH THINGS! EVERYONE HAS SEEN MY BOOBS!
And, you guys, I am seriously the biggest klutz I know. I cannot walk in a straight line, people, and I live in everloving fear of a sobriety checkpoint, because I could not walk in a straight line if I had just returned from six weeks in a convent, in a cave, UNDER A ROCK, without even the THOUGHT of alcohol within a seventy square-mile radius. It does not matter! I can't do it! I will fall down! And then I will go to jail!
So, it is not terribly surprising that I would, ultimately, end up naked in front of the neighbors. Holding a dog. No, that is not surprising at all. Except...well, maybe it was a little surprising to the neighbors.
So anyway. At the outset, let me just say that this story is actually a HAPPY one, because things could have been WAAAAAAY worse, and this could have had a very unhappy ending, and could have been very tragic, but instead it just ended up being really fucking embarrassing. And, you know...really fucking embarrassing, I can handle. In fact, I handle "really fucking embarrassing" on a pretty much daily basis. So, nothing new there.
What happened, was that I got home from work. And it's been raining here, like cats and dogs, thank-you-Dennis raining, EVERY DAY, so I figured that the guys who usually cut my grass hadn't come to cut said grass in the TORRENTIAL DOWNPOUR that was the Atlanta sky this afternoon. But apparently? Wrong. I was wrong.
And so I went inside, not noticing my freshly shorn lawn, and let out the dogs. Only, because of the rain (see: Torrential! Down! Pour! above), they were like, "Uh, no."
Three of them were, at least. Bo, Tasha, and Puglsey all looked at me like, "Seriously? You want us to pee outside? In...that weather? Because, you know, we're not going. We'll just pee on something else, thanks. Something valuable. That is supposed to stay dry."
And off they went, to various places in the house, to find something expensive to relieve their brown selves on.
But not Gimmme. Oh, poor Gimmme. Who is totally blind, and generally confused, and who went outside, all, "YAY! OUTSIDE! Why am I wet? DIGGING! OUTSIDE! I'm really getting wet, you guys! You guys...? OH! DIGGING!"
So I left the door open, so Gimmme could eventually realize that, OH, RAIN, and come back in.
He's not...the brightest bulb, y'all. I love him immensely. But, bless his heart, he is dumb.
Anyway. So, I decided to go upstairs and take a shower while Gimmme dug to China out there in the yard, and I got to my bedroom, and I got undressed. And I was standing there, NAKED, when I heard this:
Huh, I thought. That dog sounds like Gimmme. But it can't be Gimmme, because Gimmme is in the back yard. And that bark came from...somewhere else.
And then I heard it again.
And this sort of fascinated me, because Gimmme's bark...kind of distinctive! It's a questioning sort of bark. It is less "bark!" and more, "bark?"
So, still naked, I looked out the window. And there, headed up the DRIVEWAY, TOWARD THE STREET, is Gimmme. Bark?
And I panicked. A blind dog + traffic = TRAGEDY. WITHOUT QUESTION. It also = NO TIME TO PUT ON CLOTHES.
So I grabbed a towel, the only thing nearby, and slid down the stairs and out the door, to catch Wayward Wandering Dog, who was HAPPILY heading for the street, barking (?) and wagging all the way.
I caught up with him just as he made it to the intersection, at exactly the same time that a car rounded the corner. And I was faced with a dilemma. Do I:
(1) Hold onto my towel, thereby risking that the very short Wayward Wandering Dog will be flattened by the approaching vehicle, OR DO I
(2) Ignore the fact that said towel is slipping from my grip, dive forward, and SAVE Wayward Wanderer?
Now. People. Do y'all even have to ask?
I left the towel, and MY DIGNITY, on my street, and dodged out in front of the car, grabbed my happy little traveler, turned, AND RAN LIKE MY ASS WAS ON FIRE.
Also, I grabbed my towel on the way back.
And, y'all, Gimmme was so proud of himself. He happily barked (?) all the way home. All, "Mom! I went to a place! That was not the yard! And I couldn't see it! Because I'm blind! But it smelled! Like not the yard!"
And I returned to the house, where I saw that the guys who cut my grass had left the gate open, thereby directly leading to ESCAPE: 2005. AND GOOD CHRIST, I HATE THEM ALL.
SO, basically...I have no idea of who saw me naked. I was running too fast. But it was definitely...Someone.
It could have been the little old man who lives across the street. It could have been someone coming home from work. It could have been a mom with a car full of pre-pubescent boys, who will have something to ponder for MANY A NIGHT, because I just exposed them, for the first time, to very-quickly-moving-nipple. Not ideal, but when you're twelve, IT WILL DO, and it is better than SQUIGGLE PORN. Someone will be changing the sheets tomorrow morning, is what I am saying.
As soon as I got back inside, I called my father (obviously) and related the whole story, detail for EXCRUCIATING DETAIL. And I was like, "What will the neighbors think?" And he pointed out that (1) Nude woman + (2) wayward dog + (3) Street = a PRETTY FUCKING OBVIOUS TABLEAU, Dear.
"They knew exactly what had happened," he told me. "It's like one of those paintings that tells a story. The sight of you naked...told, uh, a story."
Fine. Whatever. They got one story. The story it told to me was MAKE SURE THE FUCKING GATE IS CLOSED, YOU NUDE MORON. Lesson learned, God!
So, anyway. Now, apparently, I have to move. If any of y'all have any suggestions for where I can go, where a little...you know, nudity, won't terrify your neighbors, I'd love to hear about it. In the meantime, I'll be at home, wrapped in blankets, and swearing to NEVER BE NAKED AGAIN.
Vay-Cay-Shun, All I Ever Wanted
Tomorrow, El Dukay and I are taking the day off work and going to Charleston, South Carolina, for the weekend, to stay in a hotel with clean sheets and clean towels (this morning I may have been, uh, OUT of clean towels and supplied a disgusted and wet El Dukay with four HAND TOWELS with which to dry his very substantial frame after his shower. This may have happened because I am a shitty housekeeper, but shut up), and to see architecture and do shopping and to celebrate my birthday AGAIN, because I am a bratty, bratty girl who thinks my birthday should be celebrated in a week-long extravaganza of parties and drinking, and can you believe that this whole paragraph is ONE SENTENCE?
It is. Oops.
Anyway. Our trip means I have to board the dogs, which they HATE, OH THEY HATE THAT, and they are right now this second sitting on the sofa and glaring at me with little daggers of hate, because They Know.
They Know, because they saw the suitcase, and their two brain cells collided together in an epiphany of understanding, and that epiphany said:
Clothes Box = Mom leaving = Evil bad vet place where one time I woke up and MY BALLS WERE GONE.
They remember, y'all. Sometimes, I catch Bo looking forlornly at the place his balls used to be. I also think that is what they are looking for when they dig in the yard. I think they are saying, "Is this where they hid my balls? They must be around here SOMEwhere," and then I feel guilty, and this drives me to drink. Y'all know.
So I'm all excited about our trip (see: clean towels), but I am feeling unreasonably guilty about the boarding thing. The dogs all just got back from the vet, because February was Dental Awareness Month, and that does not apply to me, who did NOT go to the dentist, but it did apply to the dogs. I had all four of their evil little teeth cleaned, and they have to be put under for that, and they DO NOT LIKE IT, NO.
When I took them to the vet, I took Tasha in first, and left Bo in the car. (I have to take them two at a time. I am not a superhero, people. I can only do so much.) Well, while I dropped Tasha off, and signed the paperwork, I could see Bo in the car, just...looking at me. And he was Mad. Boy, was he Mad. This is what was happening in Bo's brain:
Bo's Brain: MAD. MAD MAD ANGRY. HATE MOM. AT PLACE WHERE BALLS WENT. BO SO, SO MAD RIGHT NOW. BO GET...BO GET REVENGE.
So then I went out to get him, and had to wrestle him out of the front seat, where he'd hidden himself behind my purse, and my heart broke into fifty million tiny pieces as I lifted his Angry, Angry self out of the car and took him into the vet, whining all the way, and looking at me with those big, puppy dog eyes.
AND IT WAS SO SAD. GIVE ME A MINUTE.
Ahem. So. I get him in there, and they take him away, and I went back to my car. Where I discovered, on the back seat, the LARGEST PILE OF SHIT you have ever SEEN in your natural life.
Y'all, let's recall: Bo is a dachshund. That pile of shit was LARGER than Bo. It is like he had been saving it for weeks. I would be willing to bet that it was more shit than Dukay produces in a solid month. The pile itself was so tremendous that I CANNOT FIGURE OUT how Bo managed to expel said shit from his body without getting up on his two front legs to allow the CASCADE OF FILTH that spewed forth from his behind. It was a miracle. A miracle of unhappiness. It was a dump of displeasure.
So, I had to go BACK into the vet, where they loaded me up with paper towels ("I'll probably...uh, yeah, I'm going to need that whole roll," I had to tell the skeptical receptionist), and a trash bag, and then I had the intense pleasure of trying to clean forty-three pounds worth of excrement from the back seat of my CAR.
Basically, you can imagine how psyched I am about making that trip tomorrow morning. It should be awesome. Look, I'm feeding all the dogs cheese and Immodium, and nobody can stop me.
But if any of y'all are in the Charleston area, and you see two people roaming the city, looking confused and clutching hotel towels in their hands, well.
That's totally not me.
This Way to Crazy
Y'all know Bo. Everyone knows Bo. But what you probably didn't know, what I have managed to keep a secret from almost everyone, including El Dukay, is that every night before Bo goes to (my) bed, he demands a glass of water.
But, not water out of a bowl. No. Bowl water is unacceptable, you idiot.
What Bo wants, what Bo needs before he goes to sleep, EVERY NIGHT, is water in a glass. And if you don't GIVE him water in a glass, he perches on the edge of the bed, gazing towards the bathroom, and whiiiiiiiines.
Whiiiiiine. Whimper. Whine whine.
That is what he does, with increasing volume, and with those big, brown puppy dog eyes filled with sadness. And, if you don't notice this heartbreaking display, like if you are, I don't know, ASLEEP, he will climb up your body and stick his cold, wet nose up your nostrils until you are DEFINITELY NOT ASLEEP, NOPE, I'M UP, and then he will run down to the end of the bed and resume the whining.
He doesn't look at you at this point, because he is too busy saying, "Ohhhh, WOE. WOE and MISERY. Bo has been gazing at this bathroom for HOURS without moving. Bo has not moved at all, and it definitely was not Bo just sticking Bo's cold wet nose into your nostril. It couldn't have been Bo, because Bo is just too weak...and growing...weaker...with no...water [cough cough]...Bo will probably...die...soon."
So you give in and get up, and you stumble into the bathroom, and you fill up a glass of water for His Royal Highness of Short and Brown, who is SO THRILLED, OH THANK THE HEAVENS, THERE WILL BE WATER, and he bounces and leaps and jumps with joy, all the way over to the sink, where he bounces and leaps as you fill the glass, and OH THIS IS SO EXCITING. And so you return and place the glass on the floor, and he bounces and leaps over to the glass, and then:
Bo stops leaping, looks at you, and says: What is this? Is this...water? Bo doesn't really want any water.
So you say: Oh, buddy, you are going to DRINK that fucking water.
And Bo says: Bo isn't sure. Maybe.
So, now we have a stalemate. And you stand there, and Bo sniffs the water, and looks at you, like, "Is this all you are offering Bo? Is that the only thing that comes out of sink? Because Bo would prefer a hotdog. Or a kitten. Do you have a kitten? For to play with Bo?" until finally, he DEIGNS to take a few tentative laps, looking at you all the while, like OH, the things Bo has to do to keep Mom happy. Poor Bo. Bo's work is never done.
And this is what I go through, every night, every night, so that fourteen pounds of sheer, evil willpower will go to sleep in my own bed. And last night, while I was doing this in front of a thoroughly perplexed El Dukay, I could just imagine him thinking, "Huh. This is...yeah, this is not good."
So, for all of y'all out there, who send me emails about how I'm going to be that crazy dog lady when I'm old? About how I'm going to have dogs instead of children, and always smell vaguely of Milkbone? Too late, my friends. As of now, it is officially too late. I recommend that you all invest in Iams.
And I would say more, but someone is staring at me, because really. Bo's ears can't scratch THEMSELVES, now can they?
Everyone have a great weekend!
P.S.: On a totally unrelated note, I need to thank y'all for nominating me for the Snarkiest Blog Award over at the Best of Blogs. (I'm going to assume that "snark" is a synonym for "drunk." Because...isn't it?) If y'all want to vote in my category, here is the link to do so. And, I think Bo has promised never to bite people who vote, but that is just a rumor I heard.
MERRY CHRISTMAS! WHERE'S THE SALMON.
Well, Christmas has switched into high gear over here at the Doxie residences, and by "residences," I mean not just MY house, but also my parents' house, where we will all be spending Christmas, and y'all, we are ALL FREAKING OUT.
The majority of our pre-Christmas experience can be summed up by an actual, true conversation that occurred between my mother and myself, and...unfortunately, we've lost our minds. No, seriously. It's sad. Send help.
Yesterday, I walked into my parents' house, and immediately heard a strange and frightening shrieking coming from somewhere in the kitchen area. So, suspicious and concerned, I went to go check it out. And there, standing in the middle of the kitchen, was my poor mother, her hands on her hips and her eyes all wild. And as soon as she saw me, she pointed at me, and in this crazed, banshee-like voice, shrilled: "WHERE THE FUCK IS THE SALMON?"
TURNS OUT, my mother had gotten home from the grocery store, let the dogs out, and started putting away the groceries. About halfway through, she went to let the dogs back in. And she counted. And there was one dog missing. And that dog was Bo.
Now, y'all may remember that Bo is Wilful. And, also, Bad. And when mom couldn't find him, she called, but he did not come. Which surprised nobody. Because Bo feels that he should not be shackled by the antiquated requirements of "coming when called." He is sort of like a cat that way.
And my parents have a fenced yard, but as mom went to look for him, she saw that one of the gates was ever-so-slightly open. Which meant that Bo could have gotten out. And "out", to my dogs, means "made an immediate beeline for the street, in order to hitchhike their small, brown way out of my home and off to a compound in Guam, where they will forever be free from the yoke of DIET DOG FOOD, because I am SO EVIL TO THEM."
So she panicked, and immediately began sprinting all over the yard, and the neighbor's yard, and up to the street, and all over Buckhead, pretty much, screaming, "BOOOOO" as loudly as a Southern lady can scream (and that is actually pretty loud, y'all). But still: no Bo. So she COMPLETELY freaks out, runs back to the house to call me on my phone to tell me that DOG IS FREE, REPEAT, DOG IS FREE, and she runs into the kitchen, and immediately trips over Bo, who had been chilling out in his dog bed THE ENTIRE TIME.
And it was about then that she realized that she'd lost the salmon. She had HAD the salmon when she started looking. Now, no salmon. Where did salmon go? This was the big question. And then I had walked in. NICE TIMING, SELF!
And so there we were, my poor, winded mother, staring crazy and BLAMING ME with every ounce of blame in her body (and again, Southern woman, so lots of that, too), and thinking WHY did she have to have a FIRST child, when she EASILY could have just skipped onto the SECOND, and the SECOND child has NEVER ONCE descended upon the household with FOUR FUCKING DOGS, and maybe she should just REWRITE THE WILL, NOW THAT SHE IS THINKING ABOUT IT.
But I didn't know any of this yet. All I knew was that I had walked in and found my mother screaming about salmon. And I was afraid. But she pointed at me, and the following occurred:
Mom: WHERE IS THE SALMON.
Self: I don't...know? Salmon?
Mom: FIND. THE FUCKING. SALMON.
Self: Right. Where, um...where might it be?
Mom: IT COULD BE ANYWHERE. THE STREET. OR THE YARD.
Self: The salmon may be in the...yard.
Mom: OR IT COULD BE IN THE CLOSET.
Self: Why in the HELL would the salmon be in the closet?
Mom: THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT.
Self: But I just GOT here!
Mom: FIND! THE! FUCKING! SALMON!
Self: OKAY! FINE.
Mom: LOOK IN THE GARDEN.
We eventually found the salmon. It was sitting on the front steps. NATURALLY.
But since then, things have been going pretty well. Tonight we'll have a big dinner, and then I'm going over to Dukay's house for his family's annual Christmas party. And the tomorrow is Christmas! It's practically here!
I hope everyone has a wonderful holiday, and I wish you all the best. May your homes be filled with love and laughter, and your garden...with salmon.