Thor, God of Thunder

I may have mentioned a time or two that it's been hellishly rainy here on the island in the Northumberland Strait for oh, say the last month.  Today's forecast is finally showing sun heading our way for the next few days, and thank heavens for that, because honestly, if I had to endure ONE MORE DAY in the rain, I was seriously considering buying a tanning bed for the basement, just to get some ultra-violet rays.

Last week the storms were at their worst, culminating on a immense thunder and lightening storm on Thursday afternoon.  It rained so hard in town that the one whom I adore got storm stayed at the hotel while the maintenance team sandbagged the exit to the underground garage where he was parked.  

Out here in country the storm was so violent that internet, satellite TV and electricity were all cut off for a while.  Which made enduring the meltdown all the more difficult with nothing to distract me.

The meltdown I refer to of course is none other than Snickers Cameron.  The boy is traumatized with the mere hint of a rumble of thunder.   And given that old Thor was having a hell of a party Thursday afternoon well, Snickers' meltdown was of god-like proportions.

I really feel bad for the dog.  He cannot rationalize that it's just a noise and that it isn't going to hurt him.  And as this 50-lb beast sat on my lap, quivering like a baby, whining and licking his chops incessantly, there was really nothing I could do to calm him down.  Not even bribing him with Snausages worked.

Eventually, the storm subsided, the power came back on and so did TV and internet.  Thank God, because what would I ever do without my connection to all things Michael Jackson?

Anyway, on Saturday we ventured downtown to see a movie (Sunshine Cleaning, very cute in a Little Miss Sunshine or Juno kind of way) and as we sat in the little art-house cinema, we heard it.  The rumblings of thunder.  Not just any thunder, mind you.  Thunder the likes of which Thursday's storm was considered miniscule by comparison.  There we were, in town, while the one who is a chicken was home to face the terror alone.

When I lived in Vancouver I volunteered every July for the Vancouver Fireworks Festival, which is an international competition held over the course of four nights from English Bay in Vancouver's West End, where I happened to live at the time.  As a volunteer I would leave early to get everything set up for the VIP dinners at the Boathouse and then I would come home very late, long after the last sparkler had flared out and all the revelers were making their way back to suburbia.  Fireworks make the same noise as thunder, don'tcha know.

One night I came home to my apartment to find that Snickers had been absolutely terrorized.  In his quest to escape the sound of incoming schrapnel that is a fireworks show in his mind, he tries to go to higher ground.  Given that we lived in an apartment, the only higher ground that existed was the top of my bed or the kitchen counters.  Which is exactly where he must have been climbing when he cleared the kitchen counter of its contents, scattering everything to the floor, including shattering a bottle of very expensive Balsamic Vinegar.  Realizing he was no safer there, he must have climbed down, carefully placing each foot in the vinegar and then tracking it through the entire apartment, up on every piece of furniture he could find desperately seeking comfort and escape.  

So, you could imagine what was running through my mind Saturday night as I sat in the movie theatre in downtown Charlottetown while he was here, alone except for the Gidge to suffer through a thunder storm on his own.  I racked my brain trying to think of what was on the kitchen counter and deciding that really, it didn't matter because there was nothing I could do at this point.  So I settled in to watch the movie.

When we got home he greeted us at the door in his usual manner, tail wagging and the slipper of the one whom I adore firmly tucked into his cheek.  We thought all was good.  He seemed no worse for wear and even ventured to wonder if the storm maybe didn't make its way out to the OBB.

Wrong.

Upon closer inspection we found the guest room bed which I had just made up the day before completely disheveled, blankets torn back, pillows tossed on the floor.  My office door was almost practically jammed shut with my chair rolled up against the doorknob as if to lock out the noise.  The wardrobe in my changing room had clothes thrown out of it, as though someone were rummaging for a pair of matching socks they just couldn't find.  The windowsill in our bedroom had big drops of saliva on the ledge, as did the mousepad of my laptop.  In fact, there were big gobby drops of saliva all over the house.  Seems he roamed from one room to the next desperately looking for escape, or something that had my scent on it for comfort.  Poor dog.

I mean, it had to be Snickers, right?  Either him or Frieda?  BOO!

Sometimes I Feel Like Somebody's Watching Me

I’ve heard mothers of small children complain over the years that they never have time for themselves, never have a moment alone. There is always a nose to be wiped, a scratch to be kissed, a game to be played, a dinner to be negotiated. Mothers of older children are no different what with soccer practice or band rehearsal to get to, shuttling kids here there and everywhere. No time for themselves. No time to just sit and relax and take time for them.

I’m here to tell you, having a dog (or two) is no different. For eleven years I have had two shadows…mine and the one belonging to Snickers. There is not one thing I do in the course of my day that he isn’t there to supervise. Not that I’m complaining, but really, how would you feel if you were being watched? All. The. Time.?

I wake up in the morning and there he is, sitting in my doorway, staring at me, willing me to open my eyes because that’s his signal to jump on the bed for his morning rub. I (read “we”) head downstairs to the bathroom and despite a closed door, there’s his nose poking through just to make sure I don’t need anything. Extra roll of toilet paper? Out of toothpaste? I’m here! I can help! I’m your buddy, you can count on me!

Throughout the day we dance around each other. Occasionally, we get stuck. Usually by the garbage cans, with him ever hopeful I’ve got something for him and me, just wanting to get to the can. His constant surveillance really isn’t a problem, until we’re in the kitchen. Then, he’s so worried that a scrap or a crumb may fall in his path he is on my heels so closely that if I stop short, his nose is impaled in my fanny. I do not joke.

All day. Every day. Except of course on those days when I bring out the monster, the dreaded vacuum cleaner and then, then this dog who does not leave my side for a moment? Then, he’s a basket case and can’t get away from me fast enough. Heaven forbid the sucking monster might come near him and suck him into its vortex. So, when I vacuum, instead of walking on my heels he firmly tucks his tail between his legs and cowers in the corner, upstairs (if I’m downstairs), downstairs (if I’m upstairs), under the table, on top of the sofa. He’d even try under the bed if only he’d fit. 

Even as I sit here at the kitchen counter typing this entry, here he sits. Staring. I know someday when he’s gone I will miss this constant monitoring, but honestly, it would be nice if when I leave the room to plug in my laptop, it would be nice if he just stayed here in the kitchen secure in the fact that I’ll return. Unfortunately, that’s just not his style.

I've Got My Eyes on You

It's been a bleary day here in the O.B. B.  The rain that started yesterday has not let up one drop.  Good for the grass and flowers, but not for my mood.  Or my writing.  Or my productivity.  Or my desire to do anything other than nap lazily between bursts of activity.

The day began in its usual way, me at the kitchen counter hunched over a bowl of all fibre cereal, him, taking his regular position up in the kitchen doorway, staring at me, imploring me with his eyes to take action of some sort (but no-one, least of all me, really knows what action he wants me to take).  For 10 minutes I dutifully paid our monthly bills on-line, surfed a couple of job sites I peruse daily and finished my morning tea while he was 3 feet away boring holes into the side of my head.  He didn't moan or whine.  He simply stood and stared.  Stared and stood.  He didn't blink.  He occasionally stamped his feet.  Stood and stared.  Stared and stamped.  

This might make sense if he had been looking for some food, but he'd just finished wolfing down his morning quota, not to mention what he stole from she who rules this house's bowl.  I'd understand if he had the burning need to venture to the great outdoors, but both he and I knew he'd been outside 3 times in the 1.5 hours he'd been up.  It might even had made sense if he was say, begging for some of the left-over milk from my bowl of cereal.  But he'd already had that too.  This morning ritual is at the top of my list of things that make me go hmmmm.  Another one of life's little mysteries that I'm not smart enough to figure out.

And so began another day in my life in the O.B.B. 

A Certain Sign of Spring

After a cold and nasty end to the week, Mother Nature graced us with a day that very much resembles spring.  Bright, blue sky.  Temperatures SOARING above 15-degrees.  A warming breeze to dry the morning dew.   You can just smell spring in the air, and on Prince Edward Island that means everything smells like shit.  I’m not talking about the you can just smell things growing earthy smell here; the kind where you cannot wait to put trowel in hand and begin working the soil.  No.  I’m talking about the pungent, grab your nose hairs and don’t let go smell of liquid manure that is currently being sprayed in the fields all up and down the road where we live.  Ah, the smell of spring - brought to you by Cow Shit.

Spring on PEI also means lots and lots of furry animals out and about, looking for love or just a meal.   Of course this means the road kill ratio is quite a bit higher than in winter.   Raccoons and ravens, hedgehogs and even a beaver last week all smeared the pavement near our home. There is no more popular road kill on the island, though, than skunk.  Competing directly against liquid manure for worst olfactory experience EVER is the ever-aromatic odor of freshly squashed skunk.  Mmm, mmm GOOD!

Once, when we lived in Vancouver I took Snickers out for his last walk of the evening.  A walk is never just a walk for that dog.  A walk is an opportunity to scavenge and forage, to pee on every tree we pass and to dive into every bush in the hopes that his great reward will be a cast-off crust of something with mould.  On this particular night he dove under a bush in pursuit of something that was rustling the branches (maybe it’s a steak! was his thought).  For his efforts he was richly rewarded with a double shot of skunk juice right in the face.  OMG, I have NEVER smelled anything as bad (before moving to PEI and experiencing liquid manure, that is).  My eyes watered as I fought my gag reflex and struggled to get the now very freaked out dog home. 

Of course the problem when we got home was what to do with the dog?  How do you get skunk off the dog without infecting your apartment, not to mention yourself?  Mothers have the answer to everything, so while I locked Snickers outside in the vestibule, I made a panicked call to Mom to ask what I should do with him.  She quickly came up with the recipe to bathe him that was guaranteed to work.  A concoction of dish detergent, hydrogen peroxide, baking soda and something else.  Well, I only had two of the four ingredients I needed and, desperate to get rid of the stench that was now permeating everything within a 20-km radius, I hightailed it to my local grocery store. 

It was 10 o’clock at night and thankfully, unlike PEI, Vancouver has 24-hour, 7-days-a-week grocery stores.  Anyway, while I’m there I think “Hey, I’m also out of bread and gee, I could also use some butter, eggs and maybe some of those Dad’s cookies”.  So while I’m looking for hydrogen peroxide and whatever that fourth ingredient is, I also picked up some other things. When I hit the checkout stand a little Latino guy is manning the cash.  Please know, that when I lived in Vancouver I lived in the West End, a neighborhood that is completely safe for single women, because every guy that lived there was totally gay.  I’m not kidding.  So, there’s this handsome, Latino, gay cashier scanning my items and as he hits the total button, he wrinkles his nose as he says in the most “Chico & the Man” voice you can imagine “ooh-ooh, something STINKS in here!”  I looked him squarely in the eye and said, “Why do you think I’m buying all this gear? I’ve suffered second-hand skunking by my dog.” 

I skulk home, hoping against hope that I don’t encounter anyone else, walking directly past the scene of the crime (which still stank by the way).   I proceeded to wrangle the 50-lb Beast into the (antique, claw-foot) bathtub for a thorough scrub down.  Bear in mind this is a dog that does not get bathed on a regular basis, so any mention of the tub is pure trauma for him and subsequently me.  

The recipe my Mom gave me worked as promised.  In a matter of minutes Snickers was (mostly) odor-free.   Realizing after my conversation with Chico & the Man that I also stunk of skunk I jumped in the shower and doused myself with what remained of the recipe. Head & shoulders, knees & toes, I scrubbed.   As soon as I shampooed the last of the recipe into my color-treated hair I knew something had gone terribly wrong.  As I washed that skunk right out of my hair I could feel every strand begin to contract.  A quick rinse and towel dry, I looked in the mirror and to my absolute HORROR saw that my once luxurious mane of chestnut brown hair was now a mop of yellow, brittle straw, the recipe’s active ingredient, peroxide, having done what bleach does. 

So, what lessons did we learn that day, dear Internet?  We learned that the Beast doesn’t get more than a 2-foot lead, so as not to have access to unseen varmints.  We learned that when your dog gets skunked, he shares the wealth and so do you.  We learned that when you shampoo with hydrogen peroxide you bleach you hair.  We learned that paying your hairdresser $125 to correct your mistake is worth every. single. penny.

Now, go outside and breathe in some spring!

 

 

 

 

The Definition of Pathetic

I blame it all on Old Yeller.  Long about when I was 10 or so I was assigned a book at school called "Old Yeller".  It's a story about a boy named Travis and a dog - a yellow lab, creatively named "Old Yeller" who come together on their small Texas farm while the dad is away selling cows at market.  Old Yeller works his way into the family's heart by performing various feats of courage, including saving Travis' younger brother from a bear attack.  

I read that book the way a ravenous person would scarf down a double slice of pizza with extra cheese and four kinds of meat.  I never put it down.  I devoured the book, page by scrumptious page, hungry for the next adventure of that old dog.  That is, until the point in the story where Old Yeller contracts rabies from a wolf he had a chance encounter with.  The kid in the story has to take his own dog, his very own dog out and put him down.   With a RIFLE.  I was devastated.  I did not see this plot twist coming.  Clearly, being a city girl, I had no idea how harmful rabies are, otherwise I might have.  But I didn't.

And that, dear Internet, is when I had to give up all books and movies that featured any dogs.  I cannot bear to read stories whose central character is a dog, purebred, mutt or otherwise pedigreed.  I simply cannot do it.  It chews me up.  I end up holding my breath through the whole book or movie and you know that level of oxygen deprivation is just not good for you!  I can't even watch Benjie and we all know that one turns out okay!  

Even as an adult I can't do it.  A couple of years ago I made the mistake of buying the book "Marley & Me."  You've all seen it at the bookstore (and now a movie starring the fabulously sexy Owen Wilson and the photogenically perfect Jennifer Anniston), a story about raising a family and a crazy dog all at the same time.  I would have thought the 36 years that have ensued since the tragic Old Yeller story that I would somehow now be okay with reading about a dog.  In a word:  NO.  No, I still cannot read about dogs.  I bawled my way through that damn book, even as I was laughing at all the funny parts (of which there are many).

I have mentioned here before that I am currently reading the archives of a very funny blogger whose blog address I won't reveal here for fear that my mother and aunts will discover the potty-mouth website I love so much.  Well, guess what?  Yes, featured throughout much of her blog is their family dog, Chuck.  Now, the last few weeks I have been faithfully reading this blog, back to front, beginning in 2001 when they didn't have a dog and today I am almost finished with 2006 where they not only have Chuck, but Chuck has gone missing (for the 2nd time in a year).  Well...holy smokes, you'd think by the choke in my throat and the tears welling up in my eyes that it was one of MY dogs that had mysteriously vanished!  I couldn't believe I was getting as verklempt as I was - ESPECIALLY SINCE I HAVE READ A FEW OF HER 2009 POSTINGS AND I KNOW THEY STILL HAVE THE DAMN DOG!

Yes folks, I am just that kind of pathetic.

And now, your daily slice of cheese:

Annoying Habits of Roommates Who Don't Pay Rent

With what you’ve read here you’d think there was only one.  Only one four legged member of our family. But in reality, there are two such creatures that live with us rent-free here in the Oyster Bed Bridge.  While my beautiful beastly boy, Snickers, occupies the largest chamber of my heart, there is a small space (tiny, tiny, tiny space) reserved for the her-dog of the house…our very own she-devil…the one and ONLY…Gidget Cameron.  Truth be told, I’m sure she’d prefer Gidget Donnelly, but the women in this house have not yet given up their maiden names so Gidget Cameron she will remain until such time as I say so. 

Now making her Musings & Meandering debut, the one and only GIDGET CAMERON!  (insert musical fanfare flourish here):

I know, you’re looking at that picture and thinking to yourself  “She’s cute!  Look at those eyes!  That expression!  She’s so fashionable with her winter parka!  How can you not stand the very cuteness of such cute-a-tude?!?!!”  It’s easier than you’d think, believe you me.

Gidget came to our family on a bit of a whim.  Note to self, one should never give in to those whims, because one moment of weakness could easily garner you 4 (or more) years saying “I’m sorry, she’s just a little cranky, it’s not you, really, it’s her, it’s just the way she is.”

April 4^th, 2005 was a bad day for me.  I’m not kidding.  I was having a very low tide kind of day.  The kind when you think to yourself, I really need to do something DIFFERENT with my life.  Lots of people would think about taking up a new hobby or perhaps exploring a different career or even going on vacation somewhere new and exotic.  Not me.  I took a walk and sauntered right past the pet store on 4^th in Kitsilano.  Thinking Snickers could use a treat I wandered in and there she was.  A 6-month old Gidget, all black and tan and cute as a bug, with a sweet disposition who just wanted to be cuddled and held and carried around like a baby.

I was done-in for.  She had me at the first wag of her little tiny (tiny, tiny) tail.  A small fortune later (I know the MADNESS!  I actually PAID for this creature who would come to rule my household like a queen with an iron fist) and she was mine. 

I do believe the name the pet store had given her was Wanda or Wendy or something like that.  Who the hell gives real people names to dogs?  And why Wanda or Wendy?  Why not Tanya (you know at least a small reference to her colour)?  I just don’t get it.  Anyway, before I even got her home (on the 4^th Street bus no less) she was christened Gidget.  Because, simply put, she’s a midget and it just seemed to fit her personality.  Gidget, the Midget.  Apologies to any little people that may read this website - no disrespect was intended.

She was too young to leave at home all day long, so four days a week she’d jump into her duffle bag (not a real duffle bag – a dog carrier duffle bag) and join me on the number 6 bus to go to work.  I’m sure during those 10 hours we were out each day were pure, unadulterated bliss for Snickers who, I think still to this day, resents the intrusion on his life that this little dog has wrought.  She quickly became the office mascot who would hang out in my office all day, unless of course there was a piece of linoleum she could pee on or a treat to be given over in Andrea’s office.

Our early days were easy days.  These were the days when she was all sweetness and sugar-toffee loving.  These were the days before the  disease would take hold of her and swing her around like a cat by the tail.  These were the days before she met my future husband, but the love of HER life, Dwayne Donnelly.

We moved to Jasper and became acquainted with the one whose affections we compete for, the man of our dreams, he who lights up our lives.  She would (and still does) sit for HOURS on his lap, allowing him to stroke her under the chin.  Very soon after we started dating, I figured he was a keeper because not only had Snickers not shied away from him as he had done with every OTHER man I had ever introduced him to, but The Gidge (as Dwayne calls her), quickly decided that he was the man for her.  How could I not keep him around?

Even in those days, Gidget was still a sweet little nuthin’ of a puppy.  I was worried that Rocky Mountain winters might be too cold for one who only stands 4-inches off the ground, but Gidget proved to be an intrepid cold-weather canine.  She’d walk for hours and hours and hours through snow and ice, stopping only to have the snowballs removed from her armpits.  She dug the mountains, almost as much as she dug her Dwayne-man.

Her diagnosis didn’t come until last year, when she turned 4.  We were at the Veterinary Hospital at the University of PEI where both dogs were getting the most thorough physical they (or I) have ever had.  As part of the examination I asked the resident to check Gidget’s eyes.  I thought she might have cataracts or something starting as she’d recently started barking uncontrollably at unfamiliar objects.   The residents at the Vet Hospital did a complete work-up, checking every nook & cranny on the dogs and taking a comprehensive view through the eye-checker at Miss Gidget’s corneas.  They found nothing. 

Being thoroughly keen and oh-so-into-the-cuteness-that-is-Gidget, the residents thought to write up Gidge’s symptoms under the guise that there wasn’t anything physically causing the barking…her eyesight was perfectly fine.  They were concerned that perhaps there was either an environmental or behavioral issue causing this oh-so-annoying hobby.  They submitted their report to the Veterinarian Doctors that oversee their residency program.  A few emails and a couple of phone calls to clarify details later and we had the diagnosis.  I was very excited to learn what was causing The Gidge such distress as to cause her to bark uncontrollably for hours on end.  I called the hospital back and got our resident on the phone.

The diagnosis:  “Adult On-set Crankiness”.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the genesis of her disease – she’s a bitch.  In. Every. Sense. Of.  The.  Word.  Seems it’s one of the less than endearing traits of Australian Silky Terriers.  The older they get, the less tolerant they become.  The less tolerant, the more vocal. 

Lately her laments have included such things as “THERE’S A FRIGGIN’ COYOTE SOMEWHERE WITHIN A 20-KM RADIUS OF OUR HOUSE – DON’T YOU HEAR HIM???”  and  “GIMME THAT BONIE, DAMN YOU!!”  and of course there’s the daily “STAY AWAY FROM MY DISH OR I’LL SINK MY DAGGERS INTO YOUR ANKLES YOU BIG BROWN DOG!”

But perhaps the thing she’s complained about the MOST lately is “WHY DO I NOT GET MY OWN SPOT ON THE BLOG?  I WANT MY MOMENT IN THE SUN!  I DEMAND THAT MY STORY BE TOLD!  WHY DO YOU PLAY FAVOURITES?  WHY IS THE BROWN DOG THE STAR OF THE SHOW?  WHY?  WHY?  WHY?”

Well, now my little Gidge – you can SHUT-UP.  Please……….

Love at First Sight

There are better reasons to buy a house, really.   I bought a house in order to get a dog.

When I moved to Hawaii I sold one house in Atlanta and began renting another one on Maui.  I knew when I signed the lease that they didn't allow pets of any kind (there must have been a proviso in the rental agreement however, that allowed for 5000 geckos to live under my porch - but that's another story).   I figured once I moved in I'd approach the landlord and, seeing as I was such a responsible pay the rent on-time kinda tenant, I was sure they'd let me have a pet.

But no.  The landlords were the kind of heartless, animal-of-any-kind hating type of people.  They were afraid of fleas.  As if any dog of mine would have the nerve to have fleas.  After much cajoling and even coercing, they would not relent.  So no dog for me at 158 Hiwalani Place - no way, no how.

When my lease was up for renewal I opted to give notice and went on a house hunt.  I was living alone on an island in the middle of the Pacific, 5,000 miles from my closest family and without hardly any friends.  I wanted a dog DAMMIT and if I had to buy a house to get a dog, then that's what I was going to do.

I closed on my little Haiku plantation house on a Thursday and on Friday, before I was completely unpacked and moved in, I was at the Maui Humane Society searching for a little dog to adopt, to help make my house a home.  The pound was jammed packed with dogs and  I peeked into each pen for a little puppy to take home, thoroughly expecting a large selection to choose from.  But not on that day.  On that Friday they only had large dogs available and I was hell bent that I was bringing home a dog, and with nary a second thought I switched my plan to bring home a dog that day, regardless of size or breed.

I turned a corner and there he was - a beautiful brown dog, a Lab or?  He was in a pen with his partner in crime.  They had been caught wandering up-country, not the first time the dynamic duo escaped their owner's yard, but it was the last time the Humane Society would return the dogs to this house of neglect.   The two dogs had been at the pound for about a month when I happened upon them.

I stopped for a moment outside their pen and spoke to them briefly.  One came right up to the fence, sniffing my outstretched hands (looking for treats no doubt) and quietly wagging his tail.  I was still of the mind that I wanted a small dog, so I moved on.  But as I toured the rest of the pens I could sense someone watching me.  Turning around, it was the brown dog...following me with his big golden eyes.  Every step I took, he watched.  Every dog I spoke to, he was looking on, as if he were saying:  I've picked you and as soon as you've finished window shopping you'll come back here and take me right home where I belong. 

I have often said over the 9 years since that fateful day that it was his eyes that got me.  He followed me with his eyes, imploring me to come back to him, to take him home, to give him a better life.  Every day I look into those soulful eyes and think there was more than a dog rescued that day...

Musings, Meandering & Holy Crap Exciting!

So, it may sound a bit narcissistic, but I did a Google search this morning on my blog's name Musings & Meandering because, frankly I was curious about how visible my blog is on the internet.  AND GUESS WHAT???  My blog (Musings & Meanderings) is ranked number 6 in the Google search box for (wait for it) Musings & Meanderings!

I'm slowly (oh so slowly) figuring out this whole internet visibility thing and SEO thing (that's search engine optimization thing) and I think I've finally figured out that the more I update my blog, the greater visibility it has and the greater visibility it has, the bigger my audience will become.

And that audience is now up to 11!  That's right, people!  I have now gone DOUBLE DIGIT!  Ah, it makes me feel so validated that there are at least 11 (yes 11!!) people that read this blog!

I will update later with something more interesting for my 11 readers to peruse, but there are STARVING DOGS who can TELL TIME that need to be fed.  Have a great day and thank you for reading Musings & Meanderings!

Examples of The Previously Mentioned Starving Dog Kryptonite Stare

The Daily Dance

The dance I refer to is not to be confused with the "Pull-ups Potty Dance" - the most insipid of all insipid TV commercials.  You know the one I'm talking about?  "Put your left hand out, put the right on top, shake 'em together and do the potty dance - whoop whoop!" - AS IF doing this stupid dance to the most insipid tune ever will somehow entice a small child to ask to go potty. I've never toilet trained a small child, but I'm just saying - I don't think this song & dance number is the way to go.

No, the dance I'm talking about is the nightly jig that starts somewhere between 4:30 and 6:00.  EVERY NIGHT.  I have no idea how my big, brown, beastly boy knows what time it is, but he does somehow.  He's very clever that way.  Not that he wears a watch or reads digital numbers from the stove or anything.  But every night between the prescribed hours of 4:30 & 6:00 he starts his dance.  The first act of this three part number is a little random pacing back and forth between wherever I am and his dinner bowl.   "I'm just checking to see if you realize that there are starving dogs on PRINCE EDWARD ISLAND?"  

 

Sometimes the bowl and I are in the same room, but often we're not, resulting in the incessant tap-tap-tapping of dog claws on hardwood and/or ceramic tile.  Back and forth.  BACK.  AND.  FORTH.  There is nothing quite so nerve-grating as that tap-tap-tap, unless of course it's the mini tap-tap-tapping of his canine sibling, who has now joined the gig and is tap-tap-tapping alongside him.

A brief respite while he relaxes between sets in his bed - where he has been instructed to go - BED!  NOW!  And I mean brief respite - maybe 1, 1.5 minutes.  And then it begins all over again. The second set of his act has a creative flair to it.  I call it the I Will Bore Holes in the Side of Your Head with My Kryptonite Stare Until There is Food in My Dish! part of the act.  Honest to God, this dog can stare without blinking for 10 minutes straight.  It's a wonder he isn't walleyed.

Act three starts with a fake-out request to go outside - "PSYCH!  Didn't need to go outside at all, but when I come in the magic food fairy will have visited my bowl - I JUST KNOW IT!"  Clearly by act three he is famished beyond all recognition, having shed 48 of his 50 lbs in the mere act of dancing for his dinner.  I know, I am a hateful dog owner and should not be allowed to keep one, let alone two animals. 

But here's the thing.  My big brown beastly boy was a rescue dog.  His first owner starved him - daily.  The trauma of spending his first 10 months of life never knowing if he would ever be fed again has scarred him in ways I couldn't imagine when I brought him home 10 years ago.   We've survived 10 years together where he has been fed two meals a day, plus anything he could steal  from kitchen counters, garbage cans and tables, not to mention countless bags of Snausages monthly and STILL he doesn't remember that in our home there will always be food for a big brown beastly boy.   Some would say he has issues, and I'd be the first one to agree.  But even with all his neurosis (and there are many) I wouldn't trade him for all the little Australian Silkies in the world.

Musings

I wonder how big the sweater would be that I would knit from all the hair you leave on my floor.

How to Annoy Me

Stand at the kitchen door asking to go out, then doing NOTHING.  Over and over again.  I'm wise to your game buddy.

Mouth-watering goodness

The look of eager anticipation of a meal that is half a day away.