Live like you were dying

My dog, Stacy, is quite the little drama queen. I believe I've mentioned the fact that she detests rain, but lately she seems to have hit a level of over-exaggeration that even I have not yet attained. She likes to express how bored or lonely she is by flopping down to the floor and letting out a sigh, as if to indicate that she is resigning herself to the sad fact that no one really loves her or they would be playing with her.

The other day, we hit a semi-usual conundrum. She loves walks. Needs exercise, needs to go to the bathroom, and likes sniffing and seeing new things. She hates rain. Her hatred of rain always seems to outweigh her love of walks. I went to the mudroom to get her leash. It was raining outside. She probably heard it, but I'm not sure.

Usually, when I walk towards her leash, she begins to spin enthusiastically and wriggle with joy so much that I'm worried she may come loose from her skin. However, she merely lifted her head, stood up, took a few steps towards me, and looked at me with her head in the "I've done something bad and I know it" position.

I called her name. She walked a few steps forward, until she was at the edge between the dining room and the kitchen. I called her name again and wiggled the leash at her. She sat. Perhaps if I sit, she'll know I'm a good dog and I won't get wet. Unfortunately, I did not share this thought. I called her name again in my "I'm a stern mommy and I'm the alpha of this pack so get over here RIGHT NOW" voice.

She walked slowly towards me, and her expression and demeanor suggested that I was taking her outside so that I could skin her alive and leave her dying in the rain. We walked for less than a block before she had done her business. She turned around and pulled in the direction of home. I gave in. You would have thought she had just been told that she was in fact, not dying of cancer, and actually would live a long and joy-filled life.

My dog's complete aversion to the rain seems rather sad to me. Not sad in an unhappy way, just sad in a pathetic sort of way. She's part lab (or so we think) so it really seems strange.

Either way, I think she has some sort of problem with emotions that causes her to feel everything more intensely than anyone could even imagine.

Now I must be off to drag her around the block. It's raining. This should be fun.

Cheers,

-T.A.D.

The bombs bursting in air

Phew!

Just got home from a spectacular fireworks show. Fireworks have some sort of magical property about them that turns even the oldest and most jaded adults into infants again. Everything is "oohs" and "aahs" and pretty colors and lights.

I mean no ill by this, merely an observation. And I fit into the stereotype. We had new shapes and colors and effects this year that I've never seen in firework form before. One particularly awesome rocket exploded into a cube shape. How crazy is that?!?

About seven years ago my moms discovered a mini-park that is so close to the show that we could see, and probably swim right up to and touch, the barge from which they were firing the rockets. We did the whole shebang today, including getting there insanely early (we stocked up on games and food) to bag nice seats. I have never felt quite as patriotic as I did watching those fireworks and thinking about this country two and a half centuries ago. There is something insanely wonderful about being so close to fireworks that with the almost but not quite ear-splitting explosion, you feel a vibration, a pretty sizable one, in your chest. I could go on about how amazing fireworks are for a while.

My dog does not agree. At all. This is the first 4th that I've had her. Last summer I was traveling and she was at home with my dads. My step-dad told me that she wasn't a fan. Ha. Ha. I'm sure if I had asked he would have told me that this translated into the fact that fireworks seem to be hell on earth for my poor pup. Knowing that she didn't like them, my step-mom, who's last dog was also "not a fan" advised that we give her half of a chewable (citrus flavor, yum) Dramamine. Knowing my dog as well as I do, I knew she would have been more than happy to eat it by itself, but to be nice, since I thought it was going to knock her unconscious (don't worry, it's safe) I coated it in peanut butter.

On the off-chance that she would be up (I thought to myself) I put her food dish in her crate with her, since we left before her dinner time. Still, seven and a half hours later, it remains untouched. Stacy is physically vibrating with anxiety and cannot stop panting. I tried to take her on her normal nighttime walk around the block, but one rocket blew and she took off like a bullet back to the door. Poor girl.

Damn. Fireworks pack a punch when you have canine hearing, especially when you aren't the calmest dog on the planet to start.

Her negative reaction, however, hasn't wiped the glorious memories of those awesome (using the original meaning of the word awesome) rockets.

Happy 4th of July! I feel pretty confident in my Google Analytics report that tells me that I haven't had a single reader from out of the country yet, so to my fellow Americans, may I say happy Independence Day.

Just remember: alcohol + fire + explosions = disaster.

Cheers,

-T.A.D.

Every dog has its day

I'm a dog person. I have nothing against cats. I love them and think they are beautiful and wonderful and mysterious creatures. But for companionship, I prefer dogs.

I own a beautiful and expressive and all-around amazing dog. For continuity's sake, I will give her a pseudonym, J.C., and leave it at that. She's part lab, part something else, so she's a real dog, not a ten pound look-alike.

My dog cracks me up. When I first got her, she was definitely a morning dog. Woke up perky, happy, ready to face the day. She would practically prance out of my room, and, upon seeing that I was not following her with the same enthusiasm and zest for life, she would return, nudging my cold, practically lifeless body with her even colder nose. I'm not sure how she does it, but she always manages to get her nose through my blankets to either the small of my back or the inside of an elbow or some equally patch of soft skin. I don't know if anyone else has experienced this doggie torture. I swear, a cold nose shove could wake you from a coma. After the nose-shove, I would startle, hit my head on something while flailing wildly, and finally but groggily get out of bed. Once I was vertical, my dog would do her happy dance, leaping in circles. In all honesty, her enthusiasm was a bit disgusting to me.I'm a night owl, so I'm a bit of a morning zombie until I get caffeine in my system. I prefer either a giant cup of coffee or an injection directly to blood stream.

Nowadays, she wakes up at the slow pace that I do. Even once I'm out of bed, dressed, and eating breakfast, she lounges, either collapsed on her side by my feet or in my bed. Generally by the time I've finished eating, she has her head on my pillow.

Additionally, my dog has learned that when I put on socks, I generally intend to put on shoes, which usually means she gets a walk. When it's raining, however, which it does quite often, J.C. categorically REFUSES to go for a walk. She sees the rain, turns and looks at me, and, only because I have her connected to a leash, walks grudgingly and slowly behind me. She makes a mad dash for the bushes beside my house, which provide cover from the TWO DROPLETS falling from the sky, and does her business. She then sprints back to the front door. I stand at the end of the leash. She looks at me, then looks back at the door. Looking at me again, she gives me the pleading puppy dog eyes (she is a puppy dog after all), and at that point I give up entirely and join her inside, if for nothing else then to stay up to an insane hour and sleep til noon with her at my side, hogging the bed as always.

Next time I decide to talk about dogs, I'll fill you in on the yapping beanie baby that my father calls a dog. I call it annoying.

In the words of my favorite spring-tailed tiger,

Tata for now!

-T.A.D.