THE NEW DOG

Today I am going to tell you a story about one of my very best friends and her new dog.  Ginny lost her dog back in the winter and this week decided it was time to find a new pal for herself, so off to the Humane Society she went.  It probably took her all of five minutes to find Petey, a cute little five-year-old mix of pug and something else, who was just sitting there waiting to go home with her.

There are some things you should know about Ginny.  First, she is the most generous, kind, grounded, spiritual woman I know.  We met over the Internet because of an interest in music, and sight unseen, she welcomed me into her home, and I have been going back ever since.  And she's been coming here.  

Anyway, Ginny paid for Petey and they headed home.  I received the sweetest e-mail about his car-riding abilities, the way he sat right in the passenger seat.  I received photos of her new baby, and we ooohhhed and ahhhhed over each of his preset accomplishments.  He is, after all five years old, so he came with an entire pre-wired hard drive.

As the first night wore on and Ginny and Petey became better-acquainted, he began to show the sides of himself that were already loaded.  But Ginny always sees the best in everyone, including Petey, and she sang his praises even during the writing of the following e-mail I received from her later last night:  "Petey is so wonderful!  He is crate trained!  And he's potty trained!  He just loves to play with his toys, unless you try to take one away from him.  LOL.  He bit me on the nose.  LOL.  Did you know that your nose will bleed more than a cut finger??  But it was my fault for trying to play with him."

Now, Ginny really already loves Petey, and I would be in love with him already, too, but the second I ended up needing plastic surgery due to his tendencies to defend his stuffed toy to the death, I would be crating him up and returning him for a different model.  Not Ginny, though.  She will keep him and adjust herself to him by simply not playing with him by trying to take the toy back and throw it again.  That's my Ginny.  Compassionate and loving and apparently with a good enough insurance policy that a little plastic surgery a few times a year will be worth it to have Petey happy in her home.  


She really is glad I don't bite, though.  But if I did, she would just pat my head and let me know that it is not my fault...I just love visiting Ginny!


Here's a toast to her and Petey.  To a long, happy, bloody relationship!  CHEERS!

LUCKY - THEME THURSDAY

It was definitely a Thursday that it happened.  I was a human, I swear I was!  I had two arms, two legs, walked upright most of the time, and was always well groomed.  I smelled good, too, not at all like the dog down the alley or the cat climbing around in the dumpster behind my building.  When someone said I was out catting around, they meant that I was out wildly partying and maybe getting into situations I should not have gotten into sometimes, with other members of my species, usually male members of my species, and howling at the moon coming up, then the sun coming up, then the sun going down, for an entire weekend, but being a human being, I always picked myself up, brushed my teeth, showered, put on deodorant, and went back to work on Monday with a vigor that would be hopefully well rewarded the next Friday through Sunday.

Then I said it.  

I was spending a rare weekend at home, really tired, really wrung out from the week.  I guess I felt that Lucky, my little Dachshund, really owed me something for staying home with her that weekend instead of shipping her off to a pet sitter who probably did not even remember her name once the check was written.  Lucky was lying on the kitchen floor in that way that only Dachshunds, Cocker Spaniels, and Schnauzers can, with their back legs straight behind them, disjointed at the hips so their bellies absorb the coolness from the floor tiles.  When I came into the kitchen on Saturday morning she barely glanced up at me, sighed as she got up to go outside for her daily constitutional, and flaunted herself up the steps to come in with an attitude.  She stood by the stove, waiting patiently with her turned-up Dachshund eyes, her ears drooping in a way that made her look as if she was embarrassed, ashamed, or abused.  

When I bent down to scratch my dog behind the ears, she actually copped even more of an attitude and pulled her head away, sauntered to her food dish and began eating with such total disdain toward me and my efforts to love her up on this sunny Saturday morning, that I blurted out, "My God, Lucky!  Do you realize how good you have it?  You lay around all day long on the cool tile, someone fills up your food and water dish twice a day, scoops your piles of poop up when you go on your little jaunts around the neighborhood on a retractable leash so you don't have to be embarrassed to be seen with us, and you have the balls to cop an attitude with me?  What I wouldn't give to have YOUR life!"  

And now I do.  I run around for hours trying to get someone to pet me.  I chase slobbered up dirty toys I don't want to put my mouth on, try to communicate my wants and needs by moving my ears around, lick things I would really rather not, eat cold dog food from a refrigerated can, and hold my pee for twenty-four hours at a time until someone comes home to let me out. 

What do I get for that?  What do I get for that unconventional love and dedication?  The right to fart anywhere, anytime, under any circumstances and watch the humans go crazy every time I lift my leg on the new chair, and if I am lucky, sometimes I get scratched behind my ears without having to beg.  

Lucky.  Now why the heck would anyone name a dog Lucky? 

A POST THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH ANYTHING, REALLY

I have two Dachshunds.  Annie has been here longest, and she's eight.  Annie is the inside guard dog who barks at anything that makes a sound outside, all day long.  Missy is about twelve or thirteen years old.  Can't be sure because I rescued her from horrendous conditions three years ago.  Missy is the outside guard dog and the one who has to bark for the two of them when they are ready to come inside.  That job is totally beneath Annie.  She would not be caught dead begging for anything, goes out of her way to ignore your requests for doggy tricks.  Missy, on the other hand, has this horrific cry and is not beyond sitting at my feet while I try to work, begging me to put her up in the chair next to me where she will spend the next five hours, or until she has to pee.  As a matter of fact, she is sitting at my feet begging for that little lift up right this minute.

But I am at a loss here, as to why these two dogs will quickly dash into the yard in the mornings to eat all the fresh offerings that were left by neighborhood cats and errant dogs, but will daintily pick the little bow tie-shaped bits out of their kibble and spit them on the floor.  

It is a curiosity, I will say.  Yes, a total curiosity.