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I have come to a few conclusions:
Lord Admiral Horatio Nelson: Pansy. Ghengis Khan, William the Conqueror, Alexander the Great, Oliver Hazard Perry: Mamma’s Boys.
Yeah, that’s right, I said it. And I don’t care that Admiral Lord Nelson won the Battle of Trafalgar, until said sailor dude has wrestled a 120 mastiff into 1940’s, high-side, ceramic tub with a damn slippery tile floor and ceramic commode conveniently in the way, his victories are for nothing, NOTHING, I tell you!
After spending yesterday afternoon with my in-laws and their friends drinking ourselves stupid and playing dice games, I came home to a tremendous stink in the house. Now, granted, puppy-dog was due for a bath anyway, but she got into something that I can only describe the smell as “death on a shit-stick covered in rotted-corpse sauce”.
So into the tub she went. And three hours later, we were still engaged in battle. I would no sooner have her in my sights with the soap bottle and water cannon when the dog would tack her sail and nimbly escape my grasp. Multiple escapes led to multiple chases throughout the house and basement where I would eventually corner the dog, haul her back upstairs, and back into the bathtub. More water ended up on the floor and myself than on the dog or into the tub.
This dog, my dog, has the fortitude of MacArthur, the cunning of Wellington, and the tenacity of Napoleon. With my dodgy back and alcohol fueled ill-temper, I had enough of her shenanigans and finally tethered the beast to the hot water nozzle in the tub. This of course led to a decisive victory.
..and me, lying on the living room floor, waiting for the spasms in the back to cease…
As Nelson lay dying on the deck of Victory, his reported last words were: “God and my country”. And mine? “You are so going to groomers next time!”
It is my belief that part of being a good military leader is knowing when to call in the commandoes and mercenaries, or in this case, the dog groomer.
1. The bigger the pooch, the stinkier they get.
2. I have an awfully big pooch. That’s about 125 lbs of stink.
3. A pooch not inclined to being bathed rarely acquiesces to the process being forced upon her person.
4. Given #1, #2, and #3, I really ought invest in a crane.
5. Bathing pooches in general is bad for the back.
6. I have an awfully bad back.
7. Trying to reason with said pooch, logically, about the necessity of the bathing process rarely garners the response and cooperation I wish to receive.
8. Does anyone talk their dog as much as I do mine?
9. With the amount hair the dog seems to lose in the bathing process, and thus, clogging the tub drain, you’d really think she’d be bald by now, and hence, preventing me from enduring this regular act of torture.
10. With regards to #9, sadly, this is not the case.
#1
Why, Dog, why the poo?
Two minutes out of the house
You don’t carry it!
#2
Don’t eat that shitzu
He is one-tenth your size and
He might not taste good
#3
What’s that you rolled in?
Oh, Dog! Can’t you smell the stink?!
You’re getting Fabreezed!
Given that dog bites are one of the top injuries children suffer, I am often amazed that parents don’t teach their kids better manners when interacting with domestic pets.
Case in point: three evil cretins who reside in my neighborhood seem to think it’s amusing to run up behind me while walking the dog, shout something out thus scaring my dog, and run away while she goes nuclear-ape-shit into attack mode. This used to happen every once in a while, but it has happened twice in the last week.
Oh, yeah, it’s funny, but I’ll bet they think it’s absolutely hilarious the day I let go of her leash and let my fully grown mastiff go medieval on their asses. But, of course, that will make me the bad dog owner.
That’s right, I put my pet through countless hours of behavioral training, make sure she’s up on her shots, have her licensed through the proper authorities, keep her on a leash when out in public, and clean up after her business, but those mental defects can torment my dog to the point where she reacts as she rightly well should and she’s a bad dog and I’m the bad dog owner.
So today, walking Puppy Dog, I see the three little jackasses out of the corner of my eye. I keep notice as they stalk us through the neighborhood. They disappear behind some houses and appear to have gone. Just as I turn down the next street, we are ambushed with a kamikaze attack of yelling but their escape isn’t quite so easy. The rain and the mud has slowed them down just long enough for me to throw a fully-loaded bag of gooey dog-doo right upside the slowest little bastard’s head.
SCORE!!!
Okay, fine, I’m a bad dog owner and juvenile to boot. But at least I had a second bag with which to clean up with.
I’m giving serious thoughts to getting a Taser.
Puppy Dog is starting to venture out in the new neighborhood and get a sense of her new surroundings. It’s been too cold lately to take her for long walks, so she has been sequestered to our block where I closely monitor her and make sure she doesn’t stay out too long.
She’s a made a friend with the rottweiler down the hill. He runs up and romps about with her while she is on her tie out. I would love to be able to her roam, but Salome has always been one to take herself for walks-long walks-walkabouts even.
So today being so nice and the snow abated, we went for a good long stroll. About a half mile away from the house, Salome was attacked by another dog.
We were walking past a row of post WWII era houses and while I was admiring the brick work and Salome was sniffing some trees, a little rat dog chihuahua came bounding out of the house and promptly launched itself like a projectile missile at Salome.
Let me state at this point that Salome has never started a fight with another dog. She most certainly has finished them though. She is content to sniff about and see what is up with the other dog, but when the other dog starts a rumble, Salome has no problem putting said dog in their place. I have learned to stay out of it. Mostly because dogs have pack order and it is their nature to figure it out. Also, because it is a sure fire way to lose a finger or two. Should things get heated, I can usually pull Salome away, double up on her leash and haul her off for a cooling down.
The problem arises when other people without fenced yards, let their dogs have the run of the street, as in the case of the Mexican Rat Dog.
At first strike, Salome easily swatted it away. She didn’t counter attack because she wasn’t sure what it was. Smells like a dog, sounds like a dog, but sure as hell didn’t look like a dog. Rat Dog launched a second wave offensive and went for Salome’s ear. At this point, I was on the front the porch banging on the door for someone to retrieve their soon-to-be-lunch pet.
Salome politely swatted knocked the dog away a second time but the Rat Dog pulled a sneaky sucker-punch and lashed at Salome’s nose. This is where it was about to go terribly wrong.
Salome decided enough was enough and scooped up the Rat Dog in her mouth-by its head-and gave it a good long shake. The only defense the poor thing had was to play dead, which it did, and Salome let it roll out her mouth, covered in slimy slobber where the little thing promptly rolled over and submitted.
The owner finally came to door and when she saw what was occurring started a screaming tirade about calling the police on me and my “vicious animal”. I pointed out her that a) her Rat Dog started it, and b) why the hell is her dog out running around without a leash or even a collar with a dog tag in evidence of not having a fenced yard?
She saw my point, scooped her slimy rat-thing and hurried him into the house.
Salome stood there all the while, calmly, wagging her tail, not sure what just went down and probably wondering where the little play thing went off to. She never once made a sound, nor did the hair on her back bristle. I think it’s the curse of being a big dog. Probably like being an enormously large man, you get used to jackasses picking fights with you.
We went home where Salome went directly to her bed curled up and started snoring within minutes. I doubt she’ll even remember this by tomorrow although I am willing to bet that Rat Dog most certainly will.
Salome and I have been in a great battle of Physics for nearly 11 years now. She prefers the Laws of Thermodynamics while I am more of a Laws of Motion kind of girl myself. Salome generally operates on a First Law model that is a zero sum game. No one wins unless someone loses. Normally that would be me losing something to Salome through sheer amounts of slobber or dog hair. However, I counteract this with Isaac Newton’s First Law of Motion: An object in motion will remain at constant velocity unless a net force acts upon it. Let me give you some context:
The pooch has clearly decided she’s not moving with us to the next house. She has spent the last week pulling items out of boxes I have just packed and when I place the items back in, she then tears the box apart. And she has consumed mass amounts of styrofoam popcorn. I have no idea what the hell that was about. She got into a bag two days ago and her doggie business has taken on an exceptional colorful quality for the last 48 hour as a result.
As an extra bonus, said styrofoam goodies has given her indigestion which means slobber is christening the ceiling, the walls and everything else that stands still. Between cleaning and packing, I don’t know if I will ever get the hell out of this house as this mad-dog scientist’s evil plan of recreating the beginnings of the universe via a whirling mass of entropy in my downstairs nearly prevents me from exiting the front door.
She doesn’t know it yet, but I’m on to her. Counter measures are under way. Hence, the net force of which I speak. Puppy dog thinks she’s being sly by employing the Second Law of Thermodynamics which states that systems will undergo conversion to a less organized form unless external force is applied. Since Puppy Dog has clearly forgotten the second part of this equation, I feel it my duty to reintroduce it to her. This translates into some sort of system of confinement for the Slobbermonster.
I could confine her to a room, but I remember only too well the Great Garage Escape of 1998 when she tore through a garage wall when she inadvertently locked herself inside, so that’s out. And there’s her crate, but she can get out of that quicker than Houdini no matter how many bungee cords or padlocks I slap on that baby. So I guess that leaves confinement of the mind, yes folks, drugs. As soon as I finish this entry, the vet will be called and drugs will be procurred.
Hey, she’s stressed. I get it. Moving is tough. Change sucks. But dammit, it’s gotta get done. Puppy dog will be induced into a happy pharmaceutical state of bliss whether she likes it or not. They may not necessarily be helping her, but they sure as hell will be helping me.
I hope one day to call a truce to our war. A form of Zeroth where we exist in a state of thermal equilibrium, but I’m not holding my breath.
So, tune in next week, as our evil geniuses continue their epic battle for control of the cosmos, once the kitchen has been properly unpacked, the cable has been turned on, and mail service and been re-established.
Sailor Man and I have been contemplating adding to the fam. The Slobbermonster is getting up there and we like the idea that she would leave her paw print on any puppy we get. So we’re looking at breeders.
Sailor man desperately wants a Dane. I like them, but eh, they don’t rock my boat. I have always, always, always loved Irish Wolfhounds. Growing up in Detroit, I had a neighbor who raised them, and I just adore these gentle giants. I have found a great breeder in Ohio and I am hoping for a Christmas puppy. I’m thinking I might be able to coax Sailor Man by letting him name the pup.
However, I am convinced that Salome, our mastif, will live until she is 20 and having two giant breeds in the house might not be the best idea. Ooooo, but think of all the fun in the meantime…
I think I’ve made it pretty clear how much my dog means to me, but I’m coming to the realization that she is almost 11 years old. Ridiculously old for her breed and, hence, prone to be a crabby little beast somedays.
Aside from moodiness, her teeth are getting soft, her hips are tightening up, her back is starting to sway and she has a rather weird bump on the side of her ribs (which I had checkd out and it’s just a fatty tumor, but it still looks weird). All of the above, I have been informed, could be fixed for the low, low price $6500.
You should have seen the look on the face of the vet when I told her there was no chance in hell I would do this to my dog. She reacted like I just said I was going to throw my grandmother in a ditch. Luckily, this is not my normal vet and my normal vet is a much more sane and rational human being. It didn’t make this conversation any less uncomfortable or unconfrontational.
I love my baby girl, but no freakin’ way. First, the recovery. She’s too old to be going through that kind of treatment and the recovery would take forever. Secondly, I work. I have to work and not working to take care of the puppy who eats $50 a week worth of food is not an option. Third, there’s no guarantee that that much treatment at her age wouldn’t kill her.
Then there’s the money.
Let me make it very clear that I’m not opposed to paying for the best for my pumpkin pie. I’ve paid more than enough over the course of her life. In fact, in the first year of her life, I paid $400 for general vet bills including shots and spaying, An additional $500 to remove a gland causing cherry eye in her left eye, then another $500 to do the same in her right. Because she is a giant breed, she grew exponentially and tore a ligament in her knee (another $900), so I think you get the picture.
But there’s more, aside from the jumping out of the second story window incident, Sailor Man and I were out of country when she developed a near-fatal case of bloat at the kennel. The kennel rushed her to a vet who performed emergency surgery which saved her life. When we returned to the country we had a very sick little girl and a $2000 vet bill waiting for us. I didn’t even blink and happily paid them every cent.
But when we get to this point in Salome’s life, I have to put on the brakes. She’s like 80 years old in human years and at that age, I’m less inclined to go to super-human efforts for the simple fact that you can’t cure old age.
I discovered on Slate.com an excellent article on the subject matter. I had no idea that yearly shots were such a scam.
In the meantime, I’ve forked out $100 on an orthopedic dog bed for the slobber monster to be more comfortable.
I just noticed that I have been bitching up a storm as of late. So in effort to write something on a more positive note, I’m going to go all Hallmark on your ass and write about something that always makes me smile… my dog.
This is Salome although, she’ll answer to any one of her million nicknames like: stinky, punkin’ pie, little face, baby girl, slobber-monster and puppy dawg. She is a 125 pounds of slobbering hell. Enemy to squirrels, cat burglars, and chihuahuas everywhere. She is my girl. She is my love. And I like her better than I like most people.
Salome is close to her 11th birthday. Somewhat unheard of for her breed where the average shelf life is about 7 to 9 years. But she’s still hell on wheels, so for that, I am grateful.
She is the most kind, most loving, most hilarious, and criminally minded person I have ever known. She does everything on her terms and this is not due to lack of training. In fact, I have paid countless money on her training. At her size, with a 1500 lbs. of pressure in her jaws, she’s too big, strong and scary not to obey. Plus, in her younger days, she used to jump fences like a gazelle. You’ve never seen anything so scary until you’ve seen 125 pounds of animal flying over a gate to greet you when you get home.
Her exploits are many: she bit the finger off a guy trying to break into my house when she was a 1 (quite literally saving my life), jumped out of a two and half story window when she was 5 (the people of that town still talk about the “flying dog on High Street”), and used to go round for round with a bratty miniature horse on an island we used to live on, kicks to the head and all. Salome has probably cost me upwards of $10,000 in vet bills in her lifetime.
Until recently, she was eating 80 pounds of dog food a month, but survived a nearly fatal case of bloat when she was 8 and now is on a special diet for all eternity. A very expensive diet.
And when I say criminally minded, I do mean criminal. I remember buying her a jumble puzzle when she was two. This is a contraption where you place a treat in it, turn it once or twice, and the dog knocks it around to get the treat out. It is supposed to amuse them. So, I place the treat in the puzzle, turn it a few times, hand it to the dog, she turns it once, twice, presto…treat! I do it again. She repeats her success with easy effort. I do it third time, shaking the living hell out of this thing, hand it to the dog and she immediately crushes it in her jaws, picks out the treat, and walks away.
I often thought about placing her in a good military school, but I didn’t want to break her spirit.
Salome’s in her twilight now. She has a good schedule: she sleeps, she slobbers, she eats, she slobbers some more, repeat. She has less patience for the young and ill-mannered dogs we have living in the nieghborhood and while she looks old and gray, trust me, break into my house and you will discover the meaning of “home security system”.
She reads me entirely. Yesterday, when I was bed-ridden for the entire day with a migraine, she pulled her bed across the room next to mine, propped her face up on the matress, and snored me to sleep.
My puppy.
So the pooch didn’t actually get skunked yesterday, the neighbor dog did and because my dog thought the smell was so terribly interesting, she chased the neighbor dog around and tackled her a few times so that she may aquire a skunky smell of her own.
Promptly throwing her in the shower (too big to pick up and place in the whirlpool bath, although she looooooooooves the whirlpool) I began applying every cleanser known to man to remove the stink. After bath #3 I resorted to the one thing I positively knew would remove the vile odor-a thick paste of baking soda and hydrogen peroxide.
I tried this two years ago when the pooch rolled in buck urine during the rut season. In case you don’t know, getting skunked is an absolute olfactory pleasure compared deer-in-heat-pee. We were living on an island off the coast of Maine at this time and for whatever reason, pooch wanted a new perfume. However, after hauling her home, she got a good whiff of what she had done to herself and desperately began to roll around on the dirt road trying to remove the smell. She actually offended herself she smelled so bad.
I bathed her four times that day. She was most cooperative. I ran out of soap and figured I’d try the soda/peroxide mixture I was using to clean drains and voila! a new solution was found. I had to throw away every towel that touched her and even had to place her metal collar on the grill to burn off the stink. So a little skunk, not so bad.
Of course, the damn skunk of yesterday ran under our shed. We have some crystalized fox urine (I don’t even want to know how someone makes that) and sprinkled it around and under the shed. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.
Meantime, pooch went to the groomers for a final bathing and manicure. All in all, not so bad.
