The Words We Cannot Say...

Recently a friend was over and we were chatting; you know, as you do...

Her: It was a really great trip. We got to take a long walk....uh...your eyes just bugged out of your head. Are you okay?

Me: Don'tsaythatWORD!

Her: What? Walk? WALK? What's wrong with wa-

(Cut to me tackling her and clapping both hands over her mouth)

Me: *hissing through my teeth* Oh, god! What have you done! We don't SAY that word around here. Maybe it's not too late...

It was too late.

Both dogs, who had been snoozing at our feet, suddenly snapped to attention and raced for the door in a tangle of galloping limbs and whining screams. Gryphon (the old dog) began to yodel like a wookie (I shit you not, he sounds exactly like one) and spin in circles, while Bruin (young dog) ran back and forth between the door and the couch in total hysterics, complete with eyes pointing in different directions. 

There's nothing like the W-word to reduce my brindle boys into complete gibbering loonies.  We do our best to avoid the word altogether, or to spell it if absolutely necessary.  I'll catch myself asking people at school if they want to "you-know-what to the cafeteria", that's how ingrained NOT saying the W-word is to us!

We also don't say "park" unless we really reeeally mean it (ie. on our way out the door with our shoes and coats already on).  We've learned that even talking about the dog park with the dogs on another floor is a recipe for disaster. They develop super sonic hearing and come thundering up the stairs in a frenzy.  Deciding whether or not to go to the park must be done in code. Asking if one wants to go to "the DP" produced way too much immature giggling, so terms like "snog mark" and "clog spark" had to be invented. 

Other things that cannot be said unless you're ready to follow through include:

Gotta go outside?
Cookie?
Do you have to peepee?

Failing to deliver on these comments leads to frantic running on the spot, whimpering, spinning in circles, and other canine hysterics. 

For "dumb" animals, they (unfortunately) have a good handle on the English language!

Fun with Photobucket

I used up all my wordiness in the previous post, so without further ado...

 

 

All I want for Christmas...is earplugs...

There are many luxuries denied a person with six pets.  Travel is one, although where we would GO with all of our non-money is beyond me. Wearing socks that don't have a layer of fur on the bottom is another; ditto savoring a morning cup of coffee that DOESN'T have a dog hair floating in it.  Oh! And what I wouldn't give to go to the bathroom and not have a little crowd worriedly waiting outside the door to greet me when I emerge.

The thing I miss the most, however, is a really good night's sleep.  I'd send them all to a boarding kennel just for one night of unbroken slumber. Ahhhhh.

Nighttime brings out the worst in our cats.  During the day they are lazy and docile, and earn their keep by weighing down the couches and computer chairs, lest they float away.  It seems like gravity hits them extra hard, even pulling their eyelids to half-mast. The life of the housecat is a taxing one, indeed.

 Once the lights go out and we leave them upstairs, however, all Hell breaks loose.  They shake off gravity completely and decide that the only way to celebrate their newfound agility is by racing laps and engaging in WWF style wrestling matches. The manfriend and I lie in bed, wincing as various objects crash to the floor overhead; we try to reassure each other that each thing that fell wasn't that important.

"It's okay, it sounds like it was just the broom that fell over." *CRASH*  *TINKLE*
"Was that GLASS?!" *BOOOOOM*
"No, it's probably...uh, hmmm. You should probably go check."  *THUD*
"No, they're your cats, you go check!" *RATTLERATTLETHUNK*

And the argument goes on in this vein for up to 15 minutes.  Cutting into valuable sleep time!

Anyhow, when the cats aren't trashing the place and thundering around overhead like a trio of fuzzy rhinos, they are jumping on the bed and sleeping on our legs and heads.  The Stubcat has a nightly ritual of awkwardly climbing onto my feet while I'm lying in bed, then walking slowly up my whole body like an inebriated gymnast on a balance beam. She perches on my back and purrs with her whole body and soul. It's LOUD.  She'll often fall off (balance isn't a strong suit of the Stubcat), get her claws stuck in the blankets in the process and wake me up while she tugs herself free.  Marley favors sleeping on the dresser, and can often be found asleep in the manfriend's pants.  Panda sneaks onto the bed while I'm asleep and I'll wake up with my legs splayed in the most vulgar and uncomfortable position to accommodate her sleeping spot.

Locking the cats out of the bedroom is not an option, as the Stubcat will raise holy hell at the closed door; waowwwwing and scritch-scratching until she gains admittance.  We thought it was cute the first time she did it:

"Awww, she loves us!"

It's a good thing we don't have kids, because we would be the absolute worst parents.

The dogs have their own beds in our room; getting them onto the beds and asleep is a trial unto itself.  There is a lot of standing at the sides of the bed with big sad eyes and cold noses nudging our cheeks until we can convince both dogs that there isn't enough room for ALL of us on the bed.  They remain unconvinced, because they try it every night.

It takes explaining, cajoling, and finally threatening to get them on their beds.  The rebellion doesn't end there!  Bruin loudly licks his legs and butthole all night, and Gryphon smacks his lips repeatedly until I want to scream. Sleep is impossible...

Okay, here we go. Drifting off to sleep, yesssss. Dream of Johnny Depp wearing a rainbow and shaving a walrus incoming...

*Lick lick liiiiiiiiiick*   *Myup myup myup*  *Whistling dog faaaaaart*

What's that, Johnny? You want me to join you in Rainbowland at the Walrus Valley Ranch? Oh, my! Where are my clothes? What's that? I can't quite hear --

*MEEEEEE-YUP*   *Sluuuuuuuuurp*   *Licklicklicklick*

Johnny? Come back!

*Cat begins an arduous trip up my legs and anchors herself on my back*    *PURRRRRRRRRRRRRR*

Bang. I'm awake. And super pissed. I don't dare open my eyes though. Even in the dark, Bruin will take this motion as OMG EYE CONTACT/PERMISSION TO COME ON THE BED and will leap onto the bed in a flail of limbs to stand excitedly on my face. Seconds later I'll see a pathetic shine of eyes in the dark next to my head: it's Gryphon, reproaching me for letting Bruin on the bed and not him.   Whimpering ensues.

Remember that ferret I said I had? Well, he's not to be forgotten, even upstairs safely locked in his cage.  He has, of all things, a crackle sack. AND a crackle tunnel.  They can be heard around the block.  In case you didn't know, night time is PRIME crackle sack playtime. Ask any ferret. 

To sleep. Perchance to <crackle crackle crackle>...oh, forget it.

Anyone have that kennel number handy?

Exam Week Heck

I'm writing a veritable buttload of exams this week, so I haven't had a chance to sit down and write for funsies.

To tide you over, here is an accurate diagram of what is currently going on in YOUR dog's small intestine!

Aaaaaand here's the diabolical Dioctophyma renale.

Plague Bearers are our Friends!

I should be studying for my final exams, but I'm going to tell you about rats instead. 

The first thought of most people when they hear the R-word is something along the lines of "ewgrossyuck!"

These folks are truly missing out on the greatest little pets going.

Let's look at some good things...

Rats are clean, easy to keep, and inexpensive to own. My second rat-a-tat cost me $8 at the pet store, and those were the best eight dollars I've ever spent.

 

They eat anything you eat (alongside a healthy block diet). I loved watching their eyes pop with delight when I scraped together leftovers and made them little mini-meals.

They live for human affection. Unlike hamsters or gerbils who try to escape your clutches and merely tolerate handling, rats will beg at the cage door to come out, and once out, will snuggle and lick and follow you around like micro-dogs.  My first rat would sit on my shoulder when I took the dogs out around the block; he'd snorfle the air contentedly and lick my neck. 

They're fun to watch and easy to amuse.  They don't need any fancy-pants toys. Shredded paper and empty cracker boxes will suffice.

The cons are few...

Male rats have shockingly enormous nads.

They tend to dribble a bit of pee on things they like, and, rats being the happy-go-lucky fellows they are, like EVERYTHING.

Problems can develop in male rattie groups when younger ones reach puberty. We had one little button named Kaiser who became a bully when he grew up, and the picked-on rat got so sick Kaiser had to be re-homed. Shitty.

The biggest con of all is that they will break your heart when they get old, and with rats, old age comes quickly.  At ages two and two & a half, respectively, my Fig and Big Barker both came down with pneumonia.  Because they were so old, medication didn't help at all, and after two weeks with no improvement, I brought them to the vet to be euthanized.  They certainly left their pawprints on my heart! I bawled so hard in the waiting room that the nice people who were before me gave me their spot.  So beware: the perfect rodent does not stay nearly long enough!

I was lucky to have all of my pets portraits done professionally (by a wonderful husband and wife team of photographers) before Barker and Fig got really sick.  They were really excited to photograph my rats, and I got some amazing captures of my little buddies to enjoy forever.

 

(The Stubcat was fascinated by the photography equipment and photobombed everyone else's pictures)

So, the moral of the story is: Every life can be brightened by a Rat-a-Tat (or two or three)!

P.S: There are also lots of rats in shelters who would love either a permanent or a foster home!  Barker was a foster who never left; fostering a rat can help you to decide if you would really like to adopt one, and your little fosterling will love you for the respite from shelter life. Every Christmas at our shelter, we try to foster out most of the animals in the building to give them their own holiday. Last year we fostered Kabuki, a big goofy rat with the most bulbous eyes I've ever seen.  He had a blast at our place, and even met other rats for the first time ever! I'm happy to report he was adopted by a nice family after the holidays, and is hopefully still being loved and spoiled rotten by them.

 

Turning a Hobo into a Housecat

I work at a Humane Society in the Adoptions, Lost and Found, and cat kennel departments.  My job involves wonder, horror, love, sweetness and sadness...usually all in the same day.  Despite the sad parts (and the poop), I love my job.

Almost daily, I hear: "I don't know how you work here, I'd bring everything home!"

The only thing that stops me from coveting everything coming in the door is the fact that I'm already at the legal limit of cats and dogs in my city.  Caged animals don't count towards the total, so the ferret is a freebie.  Plus, we foster, so there are usually kittens scurrying around getting into trouble.  One time I fostered a pregnant guinea pig who gave birth to a whopping eight babies. Those who have never taken the time to flip over a female guinea pig and take a gander won't know that guinea pigs only have two nipples; she was an overworked mama! Anyhow, I'll save the story of OctoPig for another day.

Last summer, I had an ongoing request form left at work, just in case the cat of my dreams happened to come in.  I dreamed of a gingery male orange tabby with classic markings and thumbs; a veritable lion with a huge head and shining green eyes.  I wasn't in any hurry to find this cat, having two cats at home already, as well as the brindle boys, and (at that time) two elderly rats.  The house was full, although not legally full, if you catch my drift.

And yet, somehow, my orange male polydactyly kitten became...

 

That's right. A three year old black female with no ears. Or tail.  I was working in adoptions when she became available in our adoption center.  I remembered seeing her over a month before when she came in, and had even written the name "Stubbins" on her card because I'd thought she was so cute. I'd lost track of her as she made her way through the building (it tends to happen, as we get between 30 and 50 animals a day), and I guess she'd spent some time out in the cat runs getting over an upper respiratory infection.

I'm a major sucker for the hard cases. Give me an animal with three legs or no ears or one eye and I'm happy.  So this little gal finally made it up to adoptions, and I opened up her cage merely to say 'hello'.

That's IT. Just to say: "Howdy little cat, welcome to your last stop before you get out of this place!"

Stood there.

Petted her.

Smooched her ear nubs.

Felt a strange clenching in my heart.

Went and got my wallet.

Sometimes it just turns out like that!

I swore I'd never get another female cat. My gray tabby girl is nice to US (sometimes), but a horrible monster to everyone else.  The brown tabby with white (also female) is our "invisible cat", in that you never see her.  Occasionally you see big eyes and a streak of brown flying past.  I find female cats to be very "on their own terms."  They'll come to me for love (once in awhile), but if I initiate anything, they get horribly offended and run off in a flurry of lashing tails and flattened ears. Hence my dream of a cuddly, sweet male orange cat who would sleep curled up in my neck and follow me around like a ginger dog.

Like I said, things don't always turn out how you plan.  So home came Stubbins; the total opposite of what I'd originally wanted.  Her ears and tail were gnawed away by frostbite; further inspection revealed she'd had kittens in the past, and was missing several random toenails (frostbite again).  This little gal had been through a lot before finding refuge.  I set her up in our big walk in closet with a litter box, food, water, toy and blankets and shut the door so she could have some time to adjust on her own.  Well! She wasn't having any of that!  She waow-waow-WAOWWWed until I opened the door, and really hasn't left my side since.

Stubbins may not be a male orange tabby, but she is the little dog-cat I always wanted.  She sleeps on my stomach at night (could be a smothering attempt, but I prefer to think it's love).  She follows me everywhere, gives head-butts, chats, wrestles with the other cats, plays with toys, and cuddles like nobody's business.  She may be missing a few appendages, but there's nothing wrong with her purr-box!

I shudder to think of what her previous outside life must have been like.  For the first month, she would tear open garbage bags, try to climb into the open fridge, and snatch food out of peoples' hands before she finally realized that yes, there is enough food for her, and no, it's not going to run out.  Her garbage-picking days are finally behind her. 

Despite having her ass handed to her by Mother Nature, I still catch Stubbins trying to sneak outside when the door opens.  Are you kidding me, cat? Outside is bad! Outside knocked you up and starved you and froze off your ears, tail, and toenails! She responds to my ranting with a half-lidded stare that suggests I may be mildly retarded. Frigging cats.

 

The Do-Over

The desperate pair of eyes you see in my blog logo belong to Gryphon, who is perhaps the best dog ever.  I adopted him as a wee stinky puppy nine years ago and he has graduated into a big stinky old man. I owe my life to this dog, and not in a "help-I-fell-down-the-well-Gryphon-save-meeee" kind of way. More of a "my-life-has-been-enriched-beyond-measure-thanks-to-this-perfect-beastie" type of owing. My dog is the longest running thing I've ever committed to, and my very best friend.

He's the greatest. He fetches, he spoons under the covers, he runs alongside when I rollerblade, he kisses, he asks to go up on the couch, and charms everyone he meets.  Okay okay, so he might lose his doggie mind at the dog park and obsessively hump big, bully-breed male dogs, but hey, who hasn't (continuously) done something inappropriate in a public park??

Anyhow, the point of this story is to illustrate how wicked-awesome TheGryph is...

Look at him,  he's just like the Old Spice guy: "Look at me, now look at your dog, now look back at me, I'm sitting by a fern."

Anyhow, after seven years of Gryph-blissness, I was browsing a local Humane Society's website and saw a sad looking brindle pup looking for a new start.
 

"OMG! A ReGryphon! A Do-Over! A BabyGryph! A Wargleblahgah!" I was nearly incoherent in my excitement at the thought of a mini-me of my best friend.  After some gentle persuading (read: pouting and arm twisting), my manfriend and I loaded Gryphon into the car and drove down to the shelter to meet the possible family member.

We read through "Brown Sugar's" puppy profile before meeting him. There was a section about his submissive urination and nervousness, but I cleverly covered that part with my thumb so the manfriend won't worry.  Trust me, I'm STILL paying penance for that little maneuver three whole years later.

They brought him around the corner: a little brindle ball of chub who stumbled into our arms and worked his puppy magic as only puppies can.  Gryphon was more interested in sniffing the grass, but in that moment, I was convinced that he wanted, nay, NEEDED a puppy to grow old with.  

Ever the cautious Clarence, the manfriend put Brown Sugar on hold and we went out to lunch to "think it over."   The meal consisted of me leaking tears into my salad and whimpering bravely: "if you don't think we sh-sh-should get him, then we wuh-wuh-won't." He drove us back to the shelter before I really started to blubber. Smart manfriend.

We realized that there might be something...wrong...with our new puppy as soon as we got into the car with him to go home.  I proudly sat in the back with the pooch, assuring him that we were nice people, and remembering how Gryphon's first ride home as a puppy had been calm and quiet.  PuppyGryphon had curled up and gone to sleep in my lap, my heart had melted, and thus began our sweet life together.  This new bundle of joy lost his mind as soon as the car began backing up. He screamed and flailed and tried to escape out the quarter-inch opening of the window the WHOLE. WAY. HOME. After the long and deafening drive, we set the little fellow on his feet and he seemed fine. Oh, how naive we were back then!

Here's the sweet face that suckered us completely.  It could have happened to any of you!

 Who knew that "submissive urinater" was shelter jargon for "look at me funny and I'll roll on my back and whiz until I'm hollow."  The house-breaking phase is never fun, but with this pup, it just went on and on and on.  He was so fearful and shy, and he figured that his new family must be kept in sight at all time or the whole universe would collapse.  Crating induced screaming fits that could be heard for several blocks, which strained relations with our apartment neighbors.  He would "swizzle" through the apartment, running in crazy circles while leaving a flight-of-the-bumblebee-esque trail of wee on our carpets. Blankets, duvets and pillows were all outlets for his nervous energy and it often looked like Christmas in our place with all the white fluff lying around.  Any kind of reprimand met with him collapsing to the ground and wetting himself like Armageddon was hovering overhead.  So, our endlessly screaming, whizzing dog kept us on our toes.

Gryphon had had a rather short "bad puppy" phase, and then grew into a gentle, calm, unshakable fellow.  He was a chubby baby who grew into a stocky, handsome gentleman with a blocky head and a chest deeper than Pavarotti's.  We had similar hopes for the puppy (named Bruin, by the way), but instead of looking like the mastiff mix we thought he was, he got...long. And thin.  

 

I have never experienced such a nervous animal. He screamed endlessly in the crate (and occasionally had diarrhea in it too, imagine coming home to THAT), but he destroyed anything he could find if he was left out alone.  Trying to enclose him in a "puppy-safe" area was impossible; ol' Long Legs McGee could hurdle over, knock down, or squeeze through any barrier we could build.  He would meet us at the door when we came home (stupidly congratulating ourselves on managing to wall him up in the kitchen), wagging his tail and desperately hoping we wouldn't see the puddles of pee and poop and tatters of our favorite things strewn all over.  

This went on for over a year.  His separation anxiety was so bad, I had to take him with me to work so he wouldn't scream us into an eviction notice. I spent hundreds of dollars on carpet cleaning products.  He would pace and pant and pant and pace in an endless nerve-wracking loop while we were home.  Gryphon sulked and refused to play with him.  People on the street would compliment me on my dog, and I would have to fight the urge to burst into tears and lecture them on why he was so terrible.  

Eventually his bladder stopped releasing itself everytime someone said 'boo' (thank goodness).  About two and a half years into his hysterical life, Bruin is fully housebroken. And at nearly three years, he can be left alone out of his crate (as long as any soft furnishings are hidden and the garbage is covered).  He is a long, lanky, silly looking beast who is a far cry from the noble companion I had imagined when I first saw that long ago puppy teeter towards us. He still paces and vibrates through his days, virtually jittering with energy until we can get him to the dog park to run off some of his "stupid" (as we call it). 

You know what, though?  I was at a dinner party a couple of months ago, and was regaling a fellow diner with stories of my horrid dog.  He put down his fork and asked: "Well, geez, why don't you get rid of him?"

I was shocked.

Before I even realized I was going to speak, I burst out: "He's MY dog. I love him!"

And there you have it, folks.