Tag Archives: pets

How a pug breaks his tail (and other shenanigans)

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There’s a saying here at the ranch I use when something kinda shitty goes down. I use it to let that shitty little experience roll off my back and out of my mind in order to move on with the rest of the day. I shrug my shoulders, tilt my head and roll my eyes up to the sky and say, “Ah well, sometimes you’re the windshield, sometimes you’re the pug.”

Yeah, pug. Right? You may have heard it from me here before.

I think it’s fitting, I mean in the other scenario, you know, the one with the bug? Yeah. Well, the bug gets squashed. Splat. Guts everywhere. Dead.

I use a 45 pound pug because it turns out a little better. I mean, you might lose an eye and develop a limp, but the pug, the pug will not be squashed.

So I like it.

And I used it on Monday evening when the boys and I went out to move horses around. It’s the middle of June, but in North Dakota, if you aren’t fortunate enough to have an indoor arena where you can continue working on your horses during rain, snow, sleet or hail unfortunately the first month of nice weather is the month you need to ride the kinks out of the horses.

We have pretty good horses, but I tell you after about five and a half months out to pasture they certainly have some wobbles. And my sorrel is no exception. See, apparently when the going gets rough (and by rough I mean making him step away from the barnyard, away from the other horses or just simply out of his little bubble of comfort) the dweeb lays down.


Sometimes, when you put your foot in the saddle the horse spins around, works on a nice rendition of what most would describe as a hissy fit  and then tops it off by throwing himself to the ground. It’s a sight indeed and that kind of behavior can really hurt the horse as well as the rider. But after it’s done you would never even know the little scene occurred because the horse is plumb fine, head in line, lazy and calm as ever.

What the hell is it all about? We are not sure. It’s concerning. It means he’s confused or frustrated and we’re not communicating the right way, so we’re trying to figure it out.

And that’s what we were doing on Monday when I stepped on the dweeb only to step off again at my pop’s advice as the horse jumped and spun and exhibited all signs of a tantrum…

and I landed wrong on a dirt clump and exhibited all signs of a torn ankle.

And just like that, damn, I’m hobbled up for a bit.

Dweeb and dirt clump, hope you like being the windshield, because I am most definitely the pug.

Yes, I was the pug on Monday and continue to show signs of the pathetic but hearty creature as I limp around town and the barnyard like a 90-year-old lady, refusing to be left out of any kind of activity, ignoring it so it goes away.

I heard that works…

Anyway, last night I was out snapping photos, doing some chores and all around pretending my minor (but annoying) injury didn’t exist I discovered that the actual pug may have had an encounter with a windshield as well. As Captain Black Bean (yes that’s what husband calls him now that he’s missing an eye…it has something to do with a pirate…anyway) as Captain Black Bean went about his usual antics of tormenting Big Brown Dog for his stick, chasing the cats up trees and all around being a pain in the ass, husband noticed there was something a little off with our problem pet–and it wasn’t the lack of a right eye or the scrape of missing skin below it…nope. Nope.

It wasn’t the wood tick stuck in his ear or the fact that he looked like he ran into a wall (his face is supposed to look like that.)

Nope. It wasn’t his face at all.

It was his tail. 

It should be wagging shouldn’t it? I mean, these are his favorite activities. Come to think of it, isn’t his tail curly? Doesn’t it roll up on his back, exposing his little pug-butt for all the world to see?

What the hell? What happened to his tail?

Pug, not so happy about swimming

Before (but after an accidental swim)

After.

I kneeled down to take a closer look, tried touching the appendage to see if he was in pain.

Nope, not in pain. Annoyed? Yes. But not in pain.

I pulled on it a little, tried pushing it back in place like a curly-cue.

It flopped back down.

I tried making happy noises and scratching his ears.

No response from the tail.

I tried throwing a stick for big dog and watching the pug chase him, hock him and steal it away. It is his favorite activity, it makes his whole body bounce and wiggle and snort and move.

But this time the tail wasn’t following suit.

And it was quite clear then, upon his return with the stick, that the tail had indeed checked out, laying limp and lifeless along his butt and down his legs.

Ahh man! With each passing day at the ranch my cute and cuddly little pug looks more and more like a gremlin.

What kind of weird encounter with a near-death experience got him and his tail in such a predicament?

I was pondering that question as I popped a Tylenol PM in my mouth and hit the pillow, hoping for a sunrise that would bring a little less swelling in my ankle and a bit more curl to the pug’s tail when I was jarred awake by Big Brown Dog’s nose in my face and his arm-sized tail (which seems to be working fine thanks) slapping against the side of the bed.

He snorted.

I rolled over.

He whined.

I told him to get back.

The pug barked.

What the hell? The pug is up? He usually doesn’t wake until at least noon…

Figuring they must have had some bad chicken and it was a 1 am emergency I swung my legs over the bed, rubbed my eyes and limped towards the door, the dogs panting and wiggling at my heals.

I flung the door open into the moonlight and prepared to wait for them to do their business so I could let them back inside in order to avoid any shenanigans with the night creatures lurking in our coolies.

Well, it was all a blur from there. Because it turned out the night-mischief wasn’t only in our coolies, but also on our front deck. And the dogs, even locked in the comfort of this home, knew it. As soon as the wild air hit their noses a little black streak and a big brown blur flew out the door, around the corner of the deck and tore in after something.

There was growling, there was scratching, fur was flying, the deck was shaking, the house was trembling, something was barking and someone was screaming…

I peeked my head around the corner, afraid to look. Afraid to see the Boogy Man or that alien I’ve been waiting for getting ready to suck up our house and our brains and finally take us to outer space. I squeezed my eyes tight and opened them as they adjusted on two tiny human-like hands and a furry masked face looking into the eyes of the brown and black streak,  holding onto the edge of the deck for dear life as his pudgy bottom half dangled helplessly over the six-foot  drop to the ground–a drop the mischievous raccoon was not willing to leap into without a fight.

I gasped and from behind me leaped a wild-haired man with a gun in his hand. He was hollering as he pushed me aside and flew toward the action, stopping with his legs bent and spread apart, his eyes darting, his chest quickly rising and falling, his head moving from side to side, his gun in position, his arm-hair standing on end…

his bare ass glowing in the moonlight.

And just like that, at 1 am, the night was the windshield and we were all the pug.

I popped another Tylenol and limped back to bed, understanding now how, with circumstances like these, a pug might break his tail, a woman might twist a limb, a raccoon might stare death in the face while dangling helplessly by his claws…and how a good man might find himself up out of his bed at 1 am, standing atop a deck scouring the black landscape with nothing but a rifle in hand and his manhood, well, you know, dangling in the breeze.

(No photo available)

The only cow dog on the ranch

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This is Pudge.

She’s an Australian Shepherd.

She’s approximately 107 years old, give or take.

She has one blue eye and one brown eye and it freaks me out a little. So do the large twigs that occasionally get stuck in the wooly fur of her backside while she’s traipsing all over the countryside looking for something to chase. Because this is Pudge and age only slows her down when it comes to work.

When it comes to chasing things she’s not supposed to chase, she’s only 85.

Anyway, this is Pudge the Australian Shepherd and she’s sitting on the 4-wheeler waiting for Pops to come out of the house and do some fencing.

Pops is her human…her human who lets her ride with him on the 4-wheeler.

I can’t be certain, because the two haven’t specifically let me in on the agreement, but I think she gets these special privileges because Pudge the Australian Shepherd is the only legitimate cow dog on this place and Pops needs her sometimes to actually chase a cow out of the brush on command (instead of on a whim) or to herd a few strays toward the open gate.

That is my assumption anyway, given the fact that I’ve never seen Big Brown Dog or the One Eyed Pug enjoying the breeze that bounces through their floppy ears as they scoot and bump along the pastures on the cushioned seat behind Pops.

I really can't imagine why...

Nope, they are left  at the mercy of their own legs when it comes to tagging along, while Pudge continues to ignore them and pretend that they never came to eat her food, tear up her beds, sniff her butt and all out ruin the good thing she had going when it was just her and Pops.

Anyway, I just wanted to introduce her to you because the girl is an underrated fixture on this place. She’s a pet, yes, but also an actual necessity. She is timid at home, lazy even. But when it comes to doing her job behind cattle, she is fierce and holds nothing back. Pure instinct.

Pops got Pudge on hand-me-down when I went off to college. Her previous owners moved to town and couldn’t keep her anymore and Pops needed a new cow dog. She happily fit in and found her cozy spot under the heat lamp in the garage in the winter, in the pickup box in the summer and through the window screen and under the covers of little sister’s bed during a spring thunderstorm.

The dog’s deathly afraid of thunderstorms, so when mom heard the crash and nearly had a heart attack thinking some insane burglar had finally managed to locate her house and had broken in to steal all of her crystal, potted plants and her diamond earrings only to open little sister’s bedroom door to find Pudge nudging her way under the covers, we cut the dog some slack.

And poured mom a tall glass of wine.

Because that thunderstorm thing, I think that might be the dog’s only flaw.

And don’t tell the pug, but I think Pudge might be my favorite.

Oh, he'll get over it...

See, the dog didn’t have a say in where she ended up in life. She’s a dog and dogs generally don’t go house shopping. But Pudge has this reputation of showing up where she needs to be at the right moment and shining her fluffy little light. I think she did it for Pops when she jumped in his pickup to head to the ranch.

And it turns out she did it for me when I came home one winter from college in Grand Forks, lonesome, overwhelmed and a little depressed. My family’s solution? To bring Pudge with me back to college. She’ll love the attention and I’ll love the company.

So I did. I brought her back to my duplex in the middle winter in the windswept, freezing cold college town, introduced her to her food dish, the clipper for her out of control coat (another reason we can relate), and a leash as I bundled up for long walks with my new therapist.

Once the dog got used to the idea that she couldn’t just wander off looking for squirrels like in her previous life at the ranch, she settled into her new role with ease. She slept on the cool wood floor at the foot of my bed, sat at my feet as I plugged away at research papers or strummed my guitar, left fluff-balls of fur all over the carpet,  laid in the winter sunshine on the front stoop quietly watching the cars pass by, and in general eased my nerves and made me feel closer to sane as I got my big girl legs back under me.

I eventually brought her back to the ranch, back to her pickup box and back to where a dog like her belongs. But every time I returned to the ranch for holidays or summer visits after that I made sure to linger a bit longer outside to give her an extra scratch.

Maybe she knows why.

Maybe not.

But now that I’m back at the ranch, sometimes she makes the trip between the two houses and shows up at my door.

I like to think she’s checking up on me, making sure I feel better now.

I do Pudge. I do.

And I like to think maybe I’m her favorite too.

Need more puppy love? You’ve come to the right place

A poem

A pondering

A pet

A pug


A few minor bruises and a bursting heart

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First things first:

Sigh.

Happy Monday. You’re welcome

Second:

Thank you all for showing your compassion for my hereditary malfunction of succumbing with force to the laws of gravity day after day. I have to say your stories of cow trampling, stair plummeting, dock dunking, face planting in church and falling off of your tall shoes had me laughing out loud.

Which brings me to the second thing:

Bwahahahahahahahah!

ahhhhhhhhh!

Your willingness to share your embarrassing mishaps with me made me love you more than ever. I’ve always felt that life and all the bruises and bumps that come with it are a bit easier if we can just laugh at the whole damn spectacle.

Especially when that spectacle happens to be looking at you in the mirror. Like Cindy said after spilling her embarrassing “sleeping leg face plant” story, maybe public embarrassment is a way of getting rid of bad Karma. If that’s so we should all be evened up in that department….

In his next life he's guaranteed a wolf body at the very least...

So, it was a tough decision, but given the sheer volume of Annika’s misfortunes, mishaps, smashed limbs and near misses with the holiday fruit salad I am quite certain she is destined to be reincarnated as the Queen of England for all of the suffering she has encountered here in this life. Yup. That and the fact that she had the good humor to let her college roommates tally her falls, flubs and skinned knees make her the winner!

Congrats Annika. Your stories made me feel like the lead ballerina in Swan Lake, a ballerina who came out of the other end of a ranch weekend relatively unscathed…except for the bruise above my eye as a result of a three-year-old’s attempt at fetch with the lab.

Oh, and that scraped heel from a horse spooked by husband’s branch-breaking project.

See him back there, so helpful and unaware of the dangers of loud noises...

But you know what? I barely even felt any of it. Because I was high on the sweet spring air, the horse hair, the bluebells and all of the family and kids and babies that came out to visit us this weekend.

My heart was full and at risk of being the third body part to split or bruise, almost tearing at the seams there was so much joy in there.

Because look at this…

And this…


Don’t turn away yet…

Yeah, you crying? Not yet? Well this should send you over the top…

I’ll wait while you get a tissue…

You ok? Ok.

Yes, this weekend the barnyard was filled with squeals and screams and laughter and tiny little footprints. It was bliss. And it helped confirm my belief in the importance of keeping and sharing a place like this with others, especially the others that stand under three feet tall.

Because there’s something about kids and animals that make people like me believe in impossible things…like maybe those two species, kids and beasts, can actually talk to each other…

The innocence, the trust, the unconditional love and wonder they hold for one another makes me feel like maybe, before we could remember, before we grew up and got all that noise in our heads, all our worries and plans for the future, before we forgot what it was like, before we thought we had so much to say, maybe we could really listen.

Maybe that’s why kids take so well to the farm, why they squeal with delight at the baby calves and reach so willingly to touch the nose of a horse. Maybe that’s why they suggest buying baby chicks and piglets and beg for a puppy. Because they belong here. Together.

Now all’s quiet again at the ranch and those babies have gone home to their beds. But I like to think they dream about horses. I like to think in their dreams they are out there with the dogs, running and rolling in the green grass, laughing and talking to each other.

I like to think those kids left a little piece of their heart here knowing that they can come back and get it anytime they want.

Sigh.

Now if you’ll excuse me I have to get down to the barnyard.  Now that the dust has settled on the weekend, I swear I can hear those horses calling my name.

Dear Brown Dog…

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Dear big brown dog with the fat tail that sweeps objects off of the coffee table with one swish,

I  know you don’t remember this, but at one time your nose didn’t even reach to that table in the center of our small living room, not even to grab the last of a sandwich or a piece of leftover popcorn on movie night. I know you don’t recall how I used to take you along in my car when you were so small I had to lift you onto the seat.

Because you’re a dog, and you live for the day, your memory doesn’t reach to the place where it first began, the first month into my marriage to a man I’ve known since I was a little girl. I wanted you to have him. I wanted you to be there at his side for hunting trips, drives to the big lake with a fishing pole, evening walks to the dam with a stick and nights when I was hundreds of miles away singing for my supper.

I wanted him to be yours, so I found you and brought you home to him and he gave you a name and something to chew on. And somewhere in between the pounds and pounds of kibble, the ever expanding collars, the jogs with your long pink tongue drooping out of your jowls, paws that slapped the earth with increasing force on your way to greet me at the car, you scooched on into my heart and became an essential part of a small family that only existed for one month without you.

I know you loved the ranch and the wide open spaces, the endless mud that the creek supplies and the water in the dam that never lets you down–all the smells and trails to follow, all the poop to roll in. I know you love it out here. And I know I’ve never properly thanked you, big brown dog, for giving all that up to sit in the passenger seat of the car on my 24th birthday as I drove us hundreds of miles away from the only home you ever knew, leaving my new husband behind to pack up the rest of our things. I needed you as we searched for a place to call home.  I needed you there as I drove into the mountain town late at night and unlocked the door to a lonely apartment, unpacked my bags and rolled out my sleeping bag to lay on the floor.

I needed you to sleep right next to me. To calm my nerves.

And you did.

You always do.

Thank you for your enthusiasm and companionship we found on new trails and sidewalks, you attached to the leash, attached to my arm.

Thank you for waiting patiently in the small backyard, sprawling out in the sunshine or hunkering down in the snow and rain until I returned home from work and husband from school. 

Thanks for wagging your tail and helping turn a bad day a bit better.

Thank you for showing remorse and regret when we left you in that apartment on a rainy night only to come home to find that you had shredded my favorite feather pillow to the point of no return.

It’s three years later and I think I still have feathers in my hair, but I forgive you.

I forgive you because you destroyed my pillow, but you have never touched my shoes.

I forgive you because you follow me, blindly faithful, even when I beg not to be followed…you follow.

And you are always eager to sit down next to me in the passenger seat–you do so time and time again. When I loaded you up and drove you back toward home, so close you could smell it, you didn’t run the rest of the way when we stopped to repair an old house, to work, to think on how we might get there in the end….

You waited as we worked it out. You nudged my dirty hands as I held my head and helped soak some of those tears up on your snout.

You cleaned up the pieces of burnt chicken that fell on the floor and went outside to wait with a stick, just in case I had the time today. Just in case I felt better. Just in case you could convince me that a little fetch fixes most things.

Thank you big brown dog for being right. Thank you for your perseverance.

And thank you for holding on to hope that someday we would bring you back here for good, back to the land of porcupines and wood ticks and water tanks and every specimen of bird just waiting to be chased.

But most of all, thank you for not running away, disowning me, howling in protest or indulging in a late night snack when I wasn’t looking, after, to your horror and in a complete moment of weakness, hubby brought this home to be mine.

And he began taking over.

And chewing on the shoes you always stayed away from. And eating your food, laying in your bed, hiding your bones in between the couch cushions and worst of all, stealing your sticks after biting your hocks during a game of fetch.

Thanks for not eating him when he does that.

I really appreciate it.

Because big brown dog with the fat tail that clears the coffee table with one swoop, you were meant to come into my life to take care of the man I love, to be his and he yours and walk off into the sunsets on hunting trips like a scene in one of those sportsman calendars.

But you could not be fooled, not by your name, not by your breeding, not by a small, black, one eyed monster biting your heals…

No matter what they say, from the very beginning,

on into the middle…

and until the end…

I’m yours.

With love,

The woman who feeds you

The 105 pound heart

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If you were the lab with your sleek coat and paws that make tracks like a wolf in the mud, your tail would clear a coffee-table with one sweep while running to the door to enthusiastically welcome the neighbors with an accidentally and completely oblivious swat to the groin.

And you would be confused as to why you didn’t fit on the couch, or on a lap, or in the arms of your favorite human, but nothing could keep you from trying.

Because if you were the lab your self perception would be slightly off. In your mind you would be fluff, weightless and wishing to fit in the palm of a hand, or in a pocket, or on the soft cushion of a chair all the while working to squeeze your body between the small spaces of this house, taking up the limited carpeting available for walking.

But if you were the lab you would be polite and move out of the way when prompted, not recognizing that perhaps you are indeed fluff after all…and the rest of the 105 pounds is taken up by your heart.

Because if you were the lab your heart would have to be big enough to fit in the one-eyed pug who came into your life as a little black, squishy blob with two eyes that couldn’t climb the stairs and quickly took over the house and the walks and the yard and the lap that used to belong only to you.

And your sticks. He would always be taking your sticks…

while biting at your back legs.

And yes, if you were the lab your 105 pound heart would give a nice growl, but never a snap, after the 330th time the cat bit your tail and you would attempt to protect the barnyard with enthusiastic barking, only to follow it up with head rubs and giant licks and tail wags and all of the things dogs that love their world do when approached by good humans.


And you would chase deer and pheasants and cows when told a million times to back off to go home, but you would avoid porcupines at all costs, forever remembering the single quill you once had barely dangling from your snout from the first and last encounter with the prickly demons. 

And in the depths of your slumber when you’re drooling from your floppy lips and your droopy eyes are closed up tight for the night, you would have nightmares about this, squealing and whining and moving your legs as you lay on your side.

If you were the lab you would drag out garbage, and bring home dead things and roll in poop and bark up trees and almost spontaneously combust at the site of your person putting on tennis shoes or boots or grabbing a gun or hitching up the boat for a trip to the lake.

You would be four years old with a gray beard and the softest ears and joints that seemed to ache when your old soul arose and you would howl at my harmonica with the same vigor you use to howl back at the coyotes at night…

and during the course of a day your 105 pound heart would fill up, combust and be broken 175 times.

Yes, if you were the lab all of that love and life and adventure you made room for in the 105 pound heart of yours—the pug, the tolerance and acceptance of the cats, the cow poop, the neighbors, the sticks and the fear of the sting of the porcupine would be incomparable, thrown to the wind, forgotten and completely and utterly abandoned at the first site of water….

…water, the only place you, the lab, is truly weightless…

…105 pound heart and all.


The mis-adventures of a (potentially) one-eyed pug

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Uff, it’s been a rough week out here at the ranch, for man and the little beast.

And by little beast I am referring, of course, to the pug.

Here we go again…

Let me just start here with the mild heart attack that helped kick off my Sunday morning curling hangover at the beginning of this long week. As I was at the in-laws drowning my sorrows induced by too many Bud Lights the night before and deciding that I am getting too old to stay out until 2 am (and also deciding that there is not enough coffee in the world),  in my attempt to declare it a “Good Morning” anyway (I try to keep it together for the family), I discovered my body had retaliated against my irresponsible behavior by taking away the one thing that gives me control over my world–my voice.

I felt like the Little Mermaid, but without the gift of great legs and a charming prince.

Because my prince was looking a little haggard as he wished that God had never invented whiskey and reached for his third cup of coffee.

coffee

And then the phone rang and his momma answered it…

“Well, hi….yes, yes…it was a fun night…a little wild, but fun. Yes, the music was alright…I think the kids had fun…hmmm…ok….yes….”

I listened to the conversation from under my hoodie and fluffy blanket, deducing from the tone of voice and conversation topics that it was my momma on the other end of the line, fully expecting the receiver to be handed over to me when their chat was finished and trying to figure out how to have a phone conversation with no voice….

…and then mother-in-law turned to my dearly beloved on the other end of the blanket and said:

“It’s the Veeder’s. They want to talk to you.”

They wanted to talk to husband?!

Suspicious.

While you were out...

This just became serious. My momma didn’t want to talk to me to see how the curling went, to have me pick up milk or dog food or bananas on the way home? She didn’t want to wish me a happy Sunday?! No. She wanted husband. And I pretty much ruled out the one positive outcome of a phone conversation between the two of them–a super secret surprise for yours truly– when I saw husband wrinkle his nose and say the following: “Hmm…that doesn’t sound good.”

Oh sweet Martha Stewart something was up. Was it pops? Was it a neighbor? Was it my sister, a car accident, a raging flood, a house fire, an avalanche…crop circles or those aliens I’ve been waiting for? Why doesn’t anyone ever talk to me? Why do they keep me out of the loop? Don’t they think I can handle it? Bring it on. I can take it. Just tell me. TTTEELLLL MMEEEEAAA!

Wwwhhhhatttt isss iiitttt?

I gripped my coffee close to my chest and hunched over, blanket draped across my shoulders like a nursing home patient and stared husband dead in the eye as he hung up the phone.

In a pathetic yell type whisper I squeaked frantically:

“What? What? Who is it? Why did she want to talk to you? Who is missing a limb? When’s the funeral? We need to get home…”

He shook his head, rolled his eyes and declared the following:

“It’s Chug…”

I knew it.

I gasped and forced words from my scratchy wind-pipe:

“He’s dead isn’t he? Hit by a truck. Eaten by a coyote. Ravaged by a rare pack of angry bears. Abducted by aliens….”

Husband sighed and rolled his eyes again.

“No…not aliens this time. But he did find a porcupine again. And he has a quill..

In.

His.

Eye.

Ball.”

Oh mercy.

Say it ain't so...

Well, I could go on here about how we got in the car and drove home to the ranch to take a look the poor unfortunate soul and make arrangements for the vet. I could give you a synopsis of the conversation we had about how the pug thinks he 150 pounds of pure instinct, it’s just too bad his instincts are so far off. I could give you a million reasons why pugs were not built for a rugged ranch experience and how he might lose his eyeball and might have to wear a patch and how we might have to start letting him smoke cigars and get him a peg-leg and start calling him Captain Pugwash or Lucky

I could tell you how he should have learned his lesson the first time. Remember that?

But you can’t really get after a dangerously curious, playful and mischievous little smooshy faced innocent black dog who has proven time and time again that he is too big for his britches when you come home to find him dramatically hunkered down on my parents’ couch in the hour of his discontent.

Even when his hours of suffering turned into my own as I was charged with driving 45 miles to and from the vet to drop the brave pup off to be sedated and eyeball examined. And then I drove back again to pick him up only to be rewarded with a hefty bill and a bag full of prescription meds that rival the collection you would find in Charlie Sheen’s medicine cabinet.

None of them prescribed for me.

Anyone have a pill organizer I can borrow?

Even though I argue that I may need the meds more than the damaged pug after days of wrestling the 35 pound porcupine hunter to the floor to pry his poor, sore, eye open in order to apply ointment directly on the eyeball as the pug literally puts on an act that consists of whipping his head back and forth in an attempt to release my firm, but loving, grip on the neck that he doesn’t possess. All the while the pug pretends he can’t breathe by making these very dramatic snorting and puking noises while I whisper (because that’s all I can do…still) “It’s ok boy. Shhh. Shhh. You’re ok, you dumb, dumb, poor, dumb dog.”

Five

Times

A

Day

For

Three

Weeks.

Pathetic made even more pathetic by the little bandage where his I.V. was placed. Oh my heart.

And after all of this– the money, the drama, the pain and the ointment, the damn pug that I love despite my best efforts still might lose his eyeball, have to wear a patch, get a peg-leg and a cigar and call himself Lucky.

Oh pray for his eyeball.

I just love those big, buggy eyes.

Again, my heart...

So that’s that. That is what my life has become.

Hope you have a prick-free weekend.

And if you’re venturing out into the wild blue yonder please let the pug’s misadventures be a lesson to you to always wear the proper attire, and for the love of ggaawwd, your safety glasses.

I am all about the lessons.

Love you and you’re welcome.

Oh, and P.S. in case you’re worried, the pug is pain free (thanks to the drugs and the wonderful vet care) and was caught chasing the horses and barking at coyotes yesterday in true form with all of his passion and gusto.

“Never. Say. Die.”

That’s what he told me when he got home.


A girl needs a dog…

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Crumbs drop to your kitchen floor
and then the tears
a little more
days that seem to last too long
you reach for him…

a girl needs a dog

Words unsaid to anyone
he warms your feet
you softly hum
listening to your quiet songs
big ears, big heart…

a girl needs a dog

Things that go bump in the night
slamming doors
a stupid fight
someone to understand who’s wrong
you climb in bed…

a girl needs a dog

Morning light through window glass
open up
run, run fast
a friend to always come along
more than anything…

a girl needs a dog


No matter what…

a girl needs a dog

Like a cat to my curtains…

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I am having a bit of a complex, so bear with me here as I explain myself.

You know the cats?

The cats I swore were going to be in the barn, just as soon as they were old enough? The ones that were destined to be hearty mousers, country cats, tough cats that dart through the snow, sit on top of fence posts and watch over the homestead. The kind of cats who take on raccoons and live to tell about it, with one less eye or one less limb.

Cats who will whoop a dog’s ass and then turn around to take on a porcupine.

Remember that plan?

Well, somewhere between forgetting to name them, trying and failing to keep them off of the furniture, carting their feline asses to the vet for a $100 special shot, hollering “dammit CCCAAATTT” from across the room as they come screaming up from the basement, ricochet off the easy chair, do a triple flip landing on the love seat and then flinging their limber bodies, feet first to attach like velcro to the curtains…

…oh, and their developing love affair with the pug…

I have forgotten to let them outside.

I have decided it’s much too cold. Much too dangerous. There are too many hazards, too many big birds out there. Not enough fluffy blankets.

I have forgotten I am not a cat person.

I have lost my damn mind.

And up until now I have been at a loss as to why.

Why the strange, cat catering behavior? Why do I have a litter box in my home? Why do I tolerate cat hair on my stretchy pants and anything with fur to ever sit on my shoulder? Why is there a cat on my briefcase?!!!

What have I become?

I have been struggling with this question for months, making excuses for the hairy creatures while I search my fluffy soul for the answer.

And yesterday, while perusing through the family scrapbook, I found it.

But before I  reveal the truth, the way, the light, I must warn you, what you are about to see is not for the faint of heart…

…for various reasons.

I hope you’re sitting down….

….

…


Ok. Take a deep breath while I apologize for the alarm. I do hope you are not traumatized in any way, but I have to say, scary and revealing as it is, I am so glad someone documented my naked, cat squeezing behavior.

Because it helped me recall how I used to love the creatures.

LOWOVEEDD THEEMMMAAAA.

Their twitching tails, pointy ears, squishy bodies and soft coats–just like a real live stuffed animal. I couldn’t get enough. I’d chase them around this very house, grab them up and, well… I was too young to remember, maybe the episode is hidden somewhere deep down in my sub-concious…

…I would squeeze them…

Yes. I would squeeze them…so hard and with so much vigor and enthusiasm that the creatures would puke.
Puke.
And this happened more than once.
Let’s just skip over the question about where my guardians were during these episodes and why they chose to pick up a camera instead of saving the poor felines from clutches of Baby Godzilla while I say:
That is passion.
And I possess it.
I always have, no matter how much I have been trying to suppress it…
…and my tolerance of garbage digging, pug cuddling, chair flipping, litter box scooping, shoulder sitting and hair ball hacking is my way of dealing with the guilt of my past behavior…
So carry on crazy cats. I will not give you a name, but I will give you my couch.
And that’s my story. And I’m sticking (like a cat to my curtains) to it.

The pet that can’t be trusted…

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Oh Chug the pug. You are in big trouble.

I fear you cannot be trusted.

I fear that you never could.

I should have known better when I left you alone with the guys last week. Alone in the little house with your couch and your fluffy blankets and your cats with no responsibility but to sleep and be so kind as to step outside, scratch on the door, bark, whine, something, when you had to poop.

But oh, you could not be bothered could you?

Between all of the lounging, snoring, snuggling, snarfing, sniffing and watching the boob tube,  you happened to find time to do things, wonderful things, that distracted you from your urgent bowel movements.

Like munch on a slipper or two…

…and a tube of Tough Actin’ Tanactin, wherever you happened to come across such a thing.

How was that for ya?

And then, you know, just to get the taste of fungal cream out of your mouth, husband’s remote control.

And then a highlighter for good measure. The one that was sitting innocently on the coffee table at a height that you would never exert yourself to reach if, you know, it was easier for me to just lift you on up there. But there must have been something so attractive about that neon marker.

Something that looked delicious.

Delicious like that full bottle of Coca Cola you found the time to gnaw the lid off of.

That was sure nice of you. You must have been so thirsty. I really do feel bad about that.

But not as bad as I feel about the fact that the toe of my favorite black pump is missing.

The black pump that was hidden away in the depths of my closet, because life choices have restricted pump wearing for me lately.

You must have had to really exert yourself on that one.

I hope you are not too tired.

This winter must really be rough on you, acting out like this.

And if this unruly, rebellious behavior is about the outfits:

The trapper hat.

The Santa suit.

To that I send my sincere apologies. But in my defense, humiliating you for my enjoyment was one of the main reasons I granted you the permission to enter this family in the first place, so you might as well get used to it.

You exist for my entertainment.

And cuddling.

But I’m mad at you right now so I’m going to need a bit of time.

Because it’s bad enough that you cannot be trusted.

Bad enough your nose squishes up like that.

Bad enough that your tail curls and the barrel that is your body finds its way in the space next to me, your paws work to unfold my protesting arms.

Bad enough that you are in big, big trouble mister.

And worse that, frankly, you just don’t care.

To be a cat…

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To flinch, to twitch, to leap and play
To catch a string as it’s pulled away
To tweak
To flip
To scat

To be a cat

Ears permanently perked straight up
A tail that sweeps, sleek legs that strut
Rough tongues
they lick
and lap

To be a cat

Striped and plain, spotted, plaid
Mischievous, obnoxious, bad
Scraggly
Fluffy
Fat

To be a cat

Shadow lurking, eyes that glare
Curtain hanging way up there
Quick
and smart
and way too fast

to catch them in the act

Oh to be a purring, overbearing,
whisker tickling, bare feet licking,
curiously lovely,
oh so cuddly,
naughty

Cat

 

Thank you to Jingle at Promising Poets Parking Lot for giving “until we’re warm again” the Perfect Poet Award last week. Thank you for creating a warm supportive  space for poets!

As part of the award acceptance, I would like to nominate another poet Lynnaima who has submitted her poem about words titled “The Best There Is” to the Promising Poets Parking Lot.

Onward poetry!