dog story

More Annie

We once had a fat, farting, sullen Dalmatian named Annie who liked only two things in this world.  The kid across the street named Greg and anything with wheels:  riding mower, wagon, wheel barrow, cars. We’d often look out and see Annie sitting on the seat of the riding mower.  I do believe if we’d left the keys in she would have cranked it.  She’d even try to sit perched ridiculously on top of the push mower.  If we left a car door open, she’d go flying in, hopping in the driver’s seat, perched behind the wheel.  When she did make a car trip, we had to restrain her to keep her in the back.

Bud acquired a red MG Midget with a rag top.  Can you guess where this is headed?  Annie fell in love with it, thinking it was just her size.  It was in really good condition, except for a dime-sized snag in the rag top just over the driver’s seat.  Bud normally parked it in the garage, but he carelessly left it in the drive one night.  When he came out the next morning, Annie was sitting in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead.  She wouldn’t look to the right or the left. She had wanted to get in that car so badly, she’d climbed on top and fallen through the ragtop.  I heard him shrieking and wondered what catastrophe had taken place.  He tore the door open trying to get at her.  She ripped by him, making a beeline for the protection of the fiberglass igloo doghouse she’d never even stuck a toe in before that day.  Bud kicked at her(I hope the statute of limitations has run out on cruelty to animals)but she made it in before he connected.  He got a huge bruise on his shin from kicking the doghouse.  Though she lived to be fourteen, she never did get to drive.

Dogs We’ve Known and Loved

We’ve been known and owned by numerous dogs over the years. In our life when we had nothing but poverty, the only thing money can’t buy, we adopted dogs from overjoyed people burdened with a litter of mutt puppies. Those were unfailingly good dogs. Our first was a small dog reminiscent of Snoopy. I had hopes of finding a basset hound pup, so the opportunist who endowed us assured the dog’s father was indeed a basset hound. I don’t believe a basset hound had ever even walked through that neighborhood. It was immaterial anyway since I was accompanied by a five-year-old boy intent on taking a puppy home. A look of love passed between the two sealing the deal. Spotty made every step John made for the next thirteen years. John is past fifty now and can still tear up when we talk about her.

More to come…….

Every Dog Has His Day

Croc is a big, big, dog. I dread taking him to the veterinarian and am always so excited to learn we are to see the pudgy vet. This kindly man recommends a generous weight of one hundred ten pounds. The skinny vet always scowls while counseling me to get Croc down to ninety pounds, closer to her own weight. Fortunately, for his self image, Croc doesn’t suffer from fat-shaming. On our last visit, we were met by two nubile young technicians. Enchanted, Croc fairly danced as he tugged them to the scale for his weigh in. Back in the exam room, he beamed as they reported his weight of one hundred twenty-five pounds. In a fit of hormone-laced ecstasy, he sped back seating himself on the scale again, hoping for further praise.

It worked.

No Fool Like……

Things didn’t go well from the start on Croc’s last visit to the vet. My half mastiff, half lab doggy boy weighs one hundred twenty-five pounds and pulls like a tractor. Desperate to sniff a steaming pile of poop, he snatched me down the instant I stepped out of the truck. I sprawled elegantly across the pavement, knocking my nose on the curb. I’d foolishly worn a skirt, so passersby were treated the view of my new undies as I struggled to grab the leash and avoid a greater disaster. Fortunately, Croc was fascinated by a steaming pile of dog poop and hadn’t escaped into traffic. He pondered sampling it as I struggled to my feet, felt around to find my glasses in another mess, and staunched the flow of blood from my damaged knees. He showed no sympathy for me as we made our way in, choosing instead to attempt a friendship with a five pound Yorkie. The tiny beast and her dainty mom were traumatized at the slobbering beast dragging me toward them. My muddied, bloodied countenance did little to reassure the duo, despite my assertion he only wanted to play. Happily, the teeny dog was the original mean girl. She tore into Croc, teaching him a lot about little, mean dogs. The staff got us in a room straight away. No waiting!

Four hundred and fifty dollars later found us checking out. By now Croc was happily munching his cookie. Once again, I was sobered at the cost of well-dog care, despite having experienced it only six months before. Incidentally, I had another dog at home scheduled for a pricey visit the very next day. I definitely can’t handle both at once. I’d made that mistake once, a sad story for another day.

Mean Doggy and her mom stood between my behemoth and the exit. Meany snarled maniacally at us, terrifying Croc. I enjoyed that. Momma was crying to the staff, “Can you find a home for her. I’m sick and I can’t take care of her no more.” She sobbed piteously. It was heartbreaking so I hurried out. After I got Croc, also known as Meatball, in the truck, I called Bud.

“Can we adopt a Yorkie? A sick, old lady has to get rid of her.” I went back for the poor dog. Miss Ann, her mama was delighted she’d found a sucker and pulled out her tattered checkbook to pay for Meany’s visit.

On learning her bill was ninety dollars, Mama paled. “Can you hold this check till next Tuesday?”

“I’ll get it. She’s my responsibility now.” Miss Ann took my number. True to her promise, she visits Biscuit, the little Yorkie, pretty often. She’s even taken Biscuit home for a visit a couple of times. Biscuit always seems to enjoy their visits, but doesn’t mourn for her.

More to come.

Sleep Shifters

Buzzy was glad to retire.  When we first adopted him, Bud worked nights.  I worked days.  The poor little guy had to help Bud sleep from mid-afternoon till I got in from work.  He’d get up then and help me till my bedtime when his second sleep shift started.  Fortunately, we had Sissy, another American Eskimo Dog to share the sleep load.  Sadly, when Sissy died, Buzzy had to do it all till we adopted Squeaky, a rag doll cat.  Squeaky was an expert sleeper, but  wouldn’t necessarily follow dog sleeping rules, or any rules, for that matter.

His willfulness eventually led to his demise.  Squeaky was exclusively an indoor cat.  Despite his neutering, from time to time his hormones acted up leading him to attempt escape.  One night he shot out the back door, never to be seen again.  I suspect he made the acquaintance of one of the coyotes we sometimes heard yipping.

Croc with baby

Poor Buzzy was on his own again till he retired a few years when we did.  Not too long ago, we adopted Croc, a Mastiff mix. We now have two dog beds on our bedroom floor.  Buzzy usually starts out in bed with us, then moves to his doggy bed.  Croc yearns to get in our bed, but can’t jump.  It is common for one or both of the boys to get hot during the night and move to the hardwood floor for a while.  We have to leave a night light on to avoid stepping on dogs when we get up at night.  A Mastiff takes up a lot of floor space, especially when he drags his baby and  pillow with him.  I forgot to mention Croc’s amazing ability to fart and snore, so it’s impossible to forget he’s around.

Puppy Love

My dog is cheating on me.  He begs to go out then only stands in the drive and looks longingly at the neighbor’s house.  I do believe, if I allowed it, he’d  howl a serenade under the lady’s window.  A few times, she’s stopped to visit and pet him.  You’d think think she’d invited him into her life.  Puffing out his chest,  he peed impressively, then kicked up a huge cloud of dust. to show what a mighty fellow he is.  In all honesty, his bladder capacity is astounding since he’s a mastiff, but I don’t think it makes her want him more., nor does his habit of making a beeline to sniff her nether portions.

Worse yet, if he gets more than twenty feet ahead of me, he goes stone deaf.  Buzzy, my other dog, suffers the same malady.  Though we have a two-acre yard with plenty of poop room, they are both desperate to leave surprises for the neighbors.  Early on, I made sure they knew the perimeter of our yard.  Since then, they’ve both try not to go inside its boundaries.  If they got their heart’s desire, we’d be surrounded by a poop fence on all four sides ten feet just outside our property lines.  Buzzy’s deposits are offensive enough, but Croc’s leavings are mountainous.and would soon obscure the view if left to lie.  We’d be run out of the neighborhood if they got their wish.

Croc and the Great Chair Monster

 

This poor dog suffered a terrifying experience today.  While I was watering my strawberries, I fastened his leash to a patio chair.  Bud drove up and my other dog,  Buzzy , sounded the alarm.  Croc forgot he was tethered and took off to greet Bud, dragging the heavy metal patio chair shrieking like a banshee on the concrete behind him.   Panicked, he fled, bashing a few flower pots as the chair monster pursued him, screaming its rage.  It remained in hot pursuit all the way down the drive where it attacked the travel trailer and Jeep in its fury, while never loosening its grip on Croc.  The beast clung to him, trying to hang him up on my berry fence.  Finally, Bud and Buzzy caught up with him, but not until he made a pass through my rose garden, uprooting a couple unfortunate bushes before hanging up on a garden bench  He was panting and trembling before Bud finally wrested him from the grip of the chair monster.  Naturally, Buzzy was barking wildly the whole time, sure that would save his friend.  He drank a whole bowl of water and slept for three hours straight once he got back under air conditioning.

 

Bud is going to try to fix the chair tomorrow.  The flower pots were a total loss.  I don’t think the Jeep or travel trailer were damaged at all.  I’d hate to have to explain that damage to an insurance adjuster.

Conquering Corwin end Mother’s Bad Attitude Part 2

image . . Aunt Essie got her nose out of joint when her little guys came home bringing tales of how badly Uncle Bill had treated them, so he didn’t hear

was Qan affable enough guy. Q, though he must not have taken time to meet the boys before they married. He’d also married before and “wadn’ payin’ no child support. to that Q. Qwoman after the . w. ay she done me. Besides oldest ‘un never did look , that little https://. . / 2016/12/15/. / neither, if you git down to it.”

The long and short of it was, they needed to get the heck out of Dodge or her sweetie would have gone to jail. Like any landed gentleman of the South, Daddy had always maintained he’d a place for any of his sisters who fell on hard times. Desperately in need of a home, She magnanimously forgave. Daddy. Over Mother’s furious objections, he set up a mobile home on their farm for Aunt Essie and her family. The situation went downhill fast. Aunt Essie wore her slippers to check the mail and slid down. She asked Daddy for the name of a good lawyer so she could sue. He told her she’d have to move if she sued him, so she changed her mind. Her Bill had a heart attack within a month of the time they moved there. He never worked another day, leaving them penniless until his social security kicked in. Guess who supported them.  The good news was, he’d gotten an increase to his check when he and Aunt Essie got married, since he could lead claim her boys.  The bad news was, he had better things to spend it on than groceries and rent.

All that aside, they had the added joy of daily life with Corwin. Corwin quickly dropped out of school, a reasonable decision, since the only thing he was getting out of it was a bus ride and two free meals a day. When he got suspended for harassing little girls, it was a relief to everyone in the system. Bill and Aunt Essie went somewhere in Aunt Essie’s car one day. Wisely, Bill took his keys, knowing Corwin would certainly take off in his truck the minute he left. One of Daddy’s horses had died three or four days before. As farmers do, instead of burying it, he hitched the dead horse to his tractor and dragged it as far to the back of his place as he could, leaving it to the varmints. Corwin had been puzzling over whether or not the varmints had gotten to the horse carcass yet. Corwin showed some industry in hot-wiring the pick-up, but not in driving in the muddy fields. He got stuck and had to leave the truck buried up to the hubs next to the bloated horse. Bill was livid when he came in and found his truck missing. “Where in the Hell is my G—D—- Truck?”

“Stuck in the mud on the back of Uncle Bill’s place.”

“What in the Hell is it doing back there?”

“I drove it back there to see if see if that dead horse was stinkin’ yet.”

“Well, what in the Hell were you gonna’ do about it if it was?”

Aunt Essie had an infuriating little ankle-biting dog named Susie she kept in the house with her.  It yapped incessantly and snarled at anyone who got near Aunt Essie.  Mother and Daddy had never had a dog in the house, so Mother complained about Aunt Essie’s dog. “Let it go,” Daddy insisted.

The next weekend, Bill and Essie went out of town.  Aunt Essie wanted Mother to keep Susie, but Mother declined, not wanting a dog in her house.  It worked out fine.  Unbeknownst to Mother and Daddy, Aunt Essie left Susie alone.  Susie did a lot of house peeing, pooping, and wall-scratching scratching over the next four or five days locked up in the trailer.  Apparently the abandonment upset the poor dog’s digestion. The place smelled like a charnel house by the time they got back.

Not too long after this, Corwin and Kelvin were found to be growing a lucrative crop of marijuana on Daddy’s place.  Mother was infuriated and reported them.  They were arrested.  Aunt Essie got her nose out of joint about the arrest and moved off in a huff.    It’s a shame when families can’t get along.

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Meeting Croc: A 120-Pound Playmate for Buzzy

Our pack is growing, one hundred twenty pounds to be exact. I was concerned Croc would bully Buzzy, but  needn’t have worried.  This gentle behemoth is desperate to play, frequently play-bowing and politely presenting his large behind for Buzzy’s sniffing “Howdy do?”.  Though Buzzy is normally social and thrilled to have canine guests, he wasn’t sure he wanted  Croc moving in, reminding Croc of the pecking order at every turn.  He has yet to “shake hands” with Croc, though they are playing happily.  Buzzy still occasionally snarls to remind Croc he was here first.

Below, you can see Croc with his grandmother.  They are about the same weight, but he has a lot more muscle.  He can ‘t get enough of her.  With her high, Minnie Mouse voice, he thinks she’s a squeaky toy.  See how he has his leg draped possessively over her?