It has taken great acts of self-control to avoid perusing the strollers, the car seats and the cute little holiday-themed footy pajamas at stores. I have moments of weakness where I'll bring home the cutest outfit that I just HAD to buy. After a few moments of contemplation and dirty looks, shame soon overtakes me and I put the outfits in a box at the back of a dark closet.
But this weekend, I crossed the line. The BIG line. I purchased a bike trailer. It has a little sling-type seat with two five-point harnesses. It has a rain guard and mesh windows. Heavy duty velcro strips lock the flap doors in place. It's lightweight and super-cute. It was difficult to maneuver out of my garage at first, but I eventually got the hang of it. With great care I pulled out blanket after blanket to line the trailer. I even put little treats in the pockets on each side so there was no fighting. I packed a veritable picnic for them to consume once we reached our destination. I loaded them up, donned my helmet and pulled out of our cul-de-sac, two little hot dogs in tow.
See? I told you that I was THAT person. I have sometimes carried my dogs around in purses (he was tiny). My house is dominated by the boys to whom I will be serving as long as they are around. I have purchased those goofy Halloween costumes and made the boys wear them. I purchase toy after toy for them to destroy (hubby thinks I should just let them eat money but I don't think it would be nearly as fun as a loofa dog). But this latest foray into the dogs-as-children world of merchandise was a disaster.
The screaming began shortly after I was 50 yards from home; shrill, eardrum splitting shrieks of pure horror. So I pulled over and put my hand inside to pull out a treat that I was saving for the ride home. No dice - in fact I received a nip on the hand in their desperate attempts to flee back home. A few neighbors started coming out of their houses to see what all the commotion was. Embarrassed, I smoothed out the velcro and started pedaling furiously toward my destination.
All along the way, it sounded as if I was toting a traveling tornado siren. They never calmed down and they never let up; I became worried that their incessant digging at the mesh windows would cause a rip that they could escape from. In the half mile trek to the park, we set off every dog along the way into a barking frenzy. My dear hubby, who was biking along with Maisie at a nice leisurely pace, conveniently dropped behind us far enough so that no one knew he was with us. Once I came to a stop...silence. In fact, I could walk the bike along the way and they were fine. But as soon as I started pedaling they went crazy.
I was hopeful that after an hour or so of running around at the park they would be calm on the way back. But they were just as bad on the way home. I pulled into the garage and let them out; I was exhausted. Indy immediately jumped out of the trailer. Paulie jumped out only to jump back in right away. He sniffed around and then laid down. Looking at me with the defiance that I've only seen in dachshunds and a handful of toddlers.
I'm not ready to give up yet. While they've hated every stupid costume I've ever made them wear, they eventually give up and resign themselves to the fact that I will put them in clothes occasionally. I have the same hope for the trailer.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
The Newcomer
After the untimely passing of Indigo, our black lab, the average height in our house dropped considerably. Gone were the days of fencing off the kitchen so that our four legged friend would not counter surf for goodies while we were gone. The large bags of dog food started lasting for months instead of weeks. Indigo was a shedder and no matter how often she was brushed, groomed, even vacuumed - our house had a constant layer of 2-3 inch black fur everywhere. It drove me nuts! But soon the fur finally disappeared. And so the baby gates, large bowls, gargantuan leash and lint brushes were packed away deep in the dogs' closet. The vertically-challenged boys eventually came to an agreement that they would share the duties of the King. The transition was tough for them and the agreement was not immediate. Except for the occasional dog fight a serene quiet and cleanliness settled over our house. And I liked it.
But then I forgot. Being dragged along like a rag-doll on the leash, expensive medications, the never-ending fight to keep her off the furniture (and out of my bed!), coming home to find pieces of our fence chewed all to hell as well as our dogs missing, entire meals being pulled off the counters and devoured...yeah, that was all long forgotten. The irritation of having dog fur everywhere was not even a fleeting memory. Thoughts of the constant drooling that only big dogs can manage (gag!) had faded.
I know that my husband likes big dogs and he knows that I do not. Two little 10-pounders was my idea of the perfect set. But when I saw that longing in his eyes as he played with Ruby - my brother's basset/lab mix - the idea was formed and the madness began. It was a compromise: a medium-sized dog. I found her online at a shelter in Kansas. I have to admit, she was pretty darn cute. And so I made the call and arranged a trip to bring her home.
Fast forward to two months later. The volume of fur has broken my vacuum cleaner. (The replacement part won't be in for another week and I already have the shakes.) The boys have finally started to forgive me for bringing Satan's dog into their home. The counters must all be cleared of anything that even remotely could be ingested (she's much taller than I imagined she would be) and all doors shut. She has separation anxiety so badly that her new cage looks like it was dropped from a vehicle at 70 mph. And although her cage sits under the basement stairs in the laundry room, I'm still waiting for the inevitable citation from the men in blue for a noise violation because she barks that loudly. Also it turned out that she was sick - some nasty contagion that could have killed the little ones and she was heartworm positive. She doesn't realize how much bigger she is than the boys - or maybe she does! - because to "play" she runs at them full speed and body checks them so that they roll about 5 feet. Indy set the ground rules very quickly and so she doesn't bother him much. But I think it's hard to take Paulie seriously anyway, so he bears the brunt of most of her "playfulness". (This triggers that mama bear instinct in me and makes me so mad.) The large bags of food now last for 3-4 weeks instead of 3-4 months.
The memories are all rushing back to me now and it's too late. Maisie will be 1 year old in a week and so I'm settling in for the long haul because it was, after all, my stupid idea. My husband is so happy - he spoils that dumb dog like you wouldn't believe. I've thrown my hands up when it comes to her discipline...it's a losing battle. It's also hard to convince him why my rules are different for the boys vs. this 50 pound monstrosity. But they are very different. In fact, I told him, we all need to get used to Paulie and Indy not be classified as dogs anyway. They get up on the furniture, they sleep in my bed, I take them places when I can and I even make them homemade treats on occasion.
I'll admit it - as guilty as I only sometimes feel about it - I'm not a big fan of the new dog. I've come to this conclusion: I'm not a "dog person" like I always thought I was. There are other dogs that I love of course - Charlie my labradoodle nephew, Mason my min pin nephew, Zoe my mini schnauzer niece - but I'm not around them as often as I'd like and that is probably why I still love them dearly. I'm relatively certain that I am just an Indy- and Paulie-person. And that suits me just fine.
But then I forgot. Being dragged along like a rag-doll on the leash, expensive medications, the never-ending fight to keep her off the furniture (and out of my bed!), coming home to find pieces of our fence chewed all to hell as well as our dogs missing, entire meals being pulled off the counters and devoured...yeah, that was all long forgotten. The irritation of having dog fur everywhere was not even a fleeting memory. Thoughts of the constant drooling that only big dogs can manage (gag!) had faded.
I know that my husband likes big dogs and he knows that I do not. Two little 10-pounders was my idea of the perfect set. But when I saw that longing in his eyes as he played with Ruby - my brother's basset/lab mix - the idea was formed and the madness began. It was a compromise: a medium-sized dog. I found her online at a shelter in Kansas. I have to admit, she was pretty darn cute. And so I made the call and arranged a trip to bring her home.
Fast forward to two months later. The volume of fur has broken my vacuum cleaner. (The replacement part won't be in for another week and I already have the shakes.) The boys have finally started to forgive me for bringing Satan's dog into their home. The counters must all be cleared of anything that even remotely could be ingested (she's much taller than I imagined she would be) and all doors shut. She has separation anxiety so badly that her new cage looks like it was dropped from a vehicle at 70 mph. And although her cage sits under the basement stairs in the laundry room, I'm still waiting for the inevitable citation from the men in blue for a noise violation because she barks that loudly. Also it turned out that she was sick - some nasty contagion that could have killed the little ones and she was heartworm positive. She doesn't realize how much bigger she is than the boys - or maybe she does! - because to "play" she runs at them full speed and body checks them so that they roll about 5 feet. Indy set the ground rules very quickly and so she doesn't bother him much. But I think it's hard to take Paulie seriously anyway, so he bears the brunt of most of her "playfulness". (This triggers that mama bear instinct in me and makes me so mad.) The large bags of food now last for 3-4 weeks instead of 3-4 months.
The memories are all rushing back to me now and it's too late. Maisie will be 1 year old in a week and so I'm settling in for the long haul because it was, after all, my stupid idea. My husband is so happy - he spoils that dumb dog like you wouldn't believe. I've thrown my hands up when it comes to her discipline...it's a losing battle. It's also hard to convince him why my rules are different for the boys vs. this 50 pound monstrosity. But they are very different. In fact, I told him, we all need to get used to Paulie and Indy not be classified as dogs anyway. They get up on the furniture, they sleep in my bed, I take them places when I can and I even make them homemade treats on occasion.
I'll admit it - as guilty as I only sometimes feel about it - I'm not a big fan of the new dog. I've come to this conclusion: I'm not a "dog person" like I always thought I was. There are other dogs that I love of course - Charlie my labradoodle nephew, Mason my min pin nephew, Zoe my mini schnauzer niece - but I'm not around them as often as I'd like and that is probably why I still love them dearly. I'm relatively certain that I am just an Indy- and Paulie-person. And that suits me just fine.
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