dogs

Twit-ish Bitch

/ Diane Henders / 33 Comments

After months of unusually mild weather, winter finally decided to kick our soft wimpy West-Coast rumps last week. The rest of Canada plunged into deep-freeze temperatures of -30°C to -50°C (-22°F to -58°F), and here on temperate Vancouver Island, we went down to -10°C (14°F).

But I really like to sit outside every morning and drink my tea. Most people would consider subzero temperatures a good reason to change that tradition, but I’m pig-headed dedicated.

Before I start this story, I should note that we live out in the boonies. Gunfire isn’t exactly usual but it happens, especially during hunting season. So it’s comforting to be able to identify firearms by the sound of the shot. The flat ‘bang’ of a distant shotgun doesn’t concern me much, but the ringing report of a rifle never fails to make me hurriedly estimate range and direction. 

Next point: Our nearest neighbours have dogs. One is a good watchdog that only barks when a potential intruder approaches. The other is a brainless twit that barks just because she likes to hear herself. 

(I’m probably judging the dog too harshly. She doesn’t bark all the time. The owners are good neighbours, responsible pet owners, and all-round nice people. They say the female barks whenever she can smell a bear. There are a LOT of bears around here and they don’t always hibernate, so it’s certainly possible.)

But regardless of whether the bitch is a twit or I’m just a crabby old bag (or both), the end result is the same: The barking sprees get annoying to the point where even I, who love animals and would never harm one, start harbouring dark fantasies about making the damn dog shut up.

So.

I was sitting out on my porch, wrapped in a blanket and sipping tea; and the idiot dog was barking her fool head off. After twenty minutes of steady barking, a sour thought flitted through my mind: “There’s nothing wrong with that dog that a bullet to the brain wouldn’t fix.”

A shot rang out. The dog fell abruptly silent. My subconscious snapped “.22 rifle, damn close!” 

Some silly part of me thought, “OMG, did I just do that with the awesome power of my mind?”

An instant later my smarter self realized, “Holy shit! Somebody just shot the neighbours’ dog!”

I scurried indoors and texted the neighbour, whilst keeping an eagle eye on the road just in case the continuing shots were coming my way.

The neighbour texted back with reassuring rapidity: Nothing to worry about; he’d just gotten a new .22 and was sighting it in. It hadn’t occurred to him that we’d even hear it at our place, since nobody in their right mind would be sitting outside in the cold. (He politely omitted the last part of that sentence.)

I drew a deep breath of relief and got on with my day. 

But… I haven’t heard the dog bark since then. Hmmm. Remind me to stay on good terms with that neighbour. Just in case.

*

P.S. Could you please answer three quick one-click questions? (Anonymously, of course.) Click here to go to the poll. Thanks for your help! 🙂

Book 18 update: I’m on Chapter 14, and Aydan and her co-workers are locking horns with their new boss after less than a day on the job. Even John is keeping his head down!

Baa-a-a-ad Boy!

/ Diane Henders / 28 Comments

The other day we were sitting at the dinner table when Hubby said, “We need a third person in this house.”

Since we’d been talking about eating brownies only seconds earlier, I responded to his non sequitur with a jaw-dangling, “Uh… what?”

“Yeah,” he went on, oblivious to the fact that my dirty mind had already zoomed off in a different direction.  “Because then you’d never know for sure that I was the one who’d eaten all the brownies.”

I fell back in my chair, relieved that he was only angling for plausible deniability.

And he’s right:  Our household lacks a scapegoat.

Roommates or kids would work; but we don’t want any of those.  A dog would do, although it might be a little hard to believe that the dog neatly removed the plastic wrap from the brownie pan before devouring the contents.  But that downside is conveniently offset by the fact that dogs can’t protest their innocence.

The only real problem with the ‘scapedog’ scenario is that it’s such a cliché that nobody believes it, even when it’s true.

When I was married to my first husband, we had a dog.  Jet was part black Lab and part blue heeler, so digging and chewing were his favourite things.  After my ex and I separated but before the divorce was final, one of my ex’s friends lent him a book on relationships and he passed it on to me.  (Too little; much too late.)

I’ll never know whether Jet sensed my teeth-gnashing irritation ambivalence about the book or whether it just smelled appetizing, but I came home one day to discover that he’d mauled the book.  Its covers were crushed and torn, its pages crumpled or missing entirely, and the whole pathetic corpse was drenched in dog drool  and patterned with pawprints.

Oh nooooooo!!!

Even though it had annoyed me, it was still a book.  All books are holy and never to be harmed in any way.  Borrowed books are to be handled with reverence and returned in exactly the same condition as they were received.

The guilt was awful.

And even worse was the knowledge that nobody was going to believe I hadn’t trashed the book in a fit of rage and blamed the dog.

I interred the sad remains (of the book, not the dog) in a bag along with a written apology and money for a replacement copy, but twenty-four years later I still cringe every time I think of it.  So… no scapedog for us.

Hubby and I are actually cat people, but cats make lousy scapegoats since it’s pretty easy to determine whether a ten-pound cat has eaten five pounds of brownies.  So I guess Hubby will be our household scapegoat for the foreseeable future.

Too baa-a-a-ad, Hubby!  (But I love you even when you do eat all the brownies.)  🙂

Book 14 update:  Another beta reader has weighed in, and this time there are only minor edits.  Progress!

Do I Smell A New Year?

/ Diane Henders / 35 Comments

I originally thought I might start off 2018 with a look at last year’s highlights, and maybe throw in a few New Year’s resolutions just to round things out.  But I don’t bother with resolutions, and even if I did they’d be pretty much the same as everybody else’s:  “Stop pigging out on Christmas goodies”; “Find new hiding places for the dead bodies of errant contractors”… y’know, the usual.  And the top stories of 2017 were mostly depressing.

So instead of reviewing the questionable activities of our current world leaders, I’d rather look at what it might be like if we were governed by the benevolent despots we all know and love:  our pets.

If cats ruled the world… we’d be slaves:

  • Naps are mandatory, with a minimum total naptime of 12 hours per day. Disturbing a napping cat is an offense punishable by a life sentence on litter-box duty with no chance of parole.
  • Vegetables and condiments are banned. All meals shall consist of meat and dairy only, with an occasional live mouse just to keep things interesting.
  • All homes must have at least one window that admits direct sunlight; and a soft piece of furniture must be kept in the sunbeam for the sole use of the cat.
  • Humans must take shifts creating a lap for the cat and providing petting services. (Unless the cat decides, in its sole discretion and without prior warning, that it doesn’t want to be petted anymore.  Petting an unwilling cat is an offense punishable on the spot by flaying with claws.)
  • Fur is never to be removed from the cat’s favourite sleeping place. It should be allowed to build up year after year into a felted nest the exact size and shape of the cat.
  • Litter boxes must be cleaned within ten seconds of use.
  • Humans should be spayed or neutered. Not because there’s any health benefit to the humans; just for revenge.
  • Everything is a scratching post.

If dogs ruled the world… we’d be pets:

  • Butt or crotch sniffing is the only acceptable method of greeting. Humans spread too many diseases with handshakes.
  • To ensure optimum health, humans should be taken for long walks at least three times a day.
  • Human walkers must stop frequently to observe their surroundings. This will be strictly enforced by their canine supervisors.
  • Furniture is for the sole use of the dog. Humans are allowed on the furniture only if they provide belly rubs.
  • Stinky substances must be rolled in with abandon. If humans don’t like the smell, they can sleep in the shed.
  • Humans are not allowed to go anywhere unless accompanied by the dog.
  • All meals for dogs shall be at least 50% larger than necessary. It is perfectly acceptable to eat one’s own vomit; and if humans don’t like it they can just look the other way.
  • Everything is a chew toy.

Our household is currently despot pet-free but I’m considering adopting human versions of at least some of their laws; particularly the ones regarding naps, sunbeams, and walks.  Those are New Year’s resolutions I can get behind.

But speaking of behind… I think I’ll skip the butt sniffing.  That might be a teensy bit awkward on pub nights.

Happy New Year, everyone – wishing you all the best in 2018!

Feeling Crabby?

/ Diane Henders / 42 Comments

Six months ago one of my blogging buddies, Carrie Rubin, wrote a post about gross things she’s found in her food.  But after commenting with a list of the various disgusting things I’ve discovered on my plate, it occurred to me that perhaps I’d shared too much.

Which got me thinking about other instances of inappropriate sharing I’ve witnessed over the years.  I’m not talking about inappropriate verbal sharing; I’m talking about sharing physical objects that really, really should be one-person items.

I know little kids tend to be cavalier about swapping bacteria, but I generally prefer to think adults know better.

Not so.

I was sitting at an ice cream shop one day when I spotted a prosperous-looking middle-aged lady sitting in her prosperous-looking car with her small yappy terrier.  Okay, nothing surprising in that scene.

Until she licked her ice cream cone, held it out for the dog to lick, took a few more licks herself, shared it with the dog again… you get the picture.

Lady!  Seriously?!?  Do you know where that dog’s tongue has been?  No?

Let me tell you:

(To those with weak stomachs:  You’ll want to skip this paragraph.)  First he licked his balls.  Then he found some dead, partially-decomposed animal and nibbled that.  Then a while later, he found the shit from some other dog who’d also nibbled said partially-decomposed animal, and he ate that dog’s shit.  Now you’re licking the same ice cream cone.

‘Scuse me while I hurl.

Some time later, I was staggered all over again by an incident at my gym.

I pay extra to use the adults-only change room, since large groups of children fill me with an intense need to run screaming (and not in the “running for fitness” sense). One of the perks of the membership is being allowed to leave your swimsuit hanging to dry in the change room.  So I went for a swim and then left my swimsuit on its peg.

When I went back a couple of days later, somebody had stolen it.  I can’t imagine why, ’cause if you can afford to pay extra for the adult change room, you can probably afford a new swimsuit.

But I ask you:  Would you wear a stranger’s swimsuit?  Even if you were totally broke?

I was flabbergasted.  Then grossed out.  Then annoyed.  I would’ve loved to post the following note:

To the person who stole my swimsuit, one word: 

CRABS!

But maybe that’s why the gym doesn’t allow its members to post notices on the bulletin board.  And besides, it would have been really embarrassing if I’d gotten caught.

Anybody else got stories of inappropriate sharing?

P.S. I wrote this six months ago, and last week I decided it would be today’s post.  A few days later another blogging buddy, Murr Brewster, posted The Brazilians Killed The Lice.  What are the chances that we’d both mention a tasteful topic like crabs in the same week?  Obviously great minds think alike.