Rusty-Dog 1993-2008

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I am deeply saddened by the loss of my friends' companion, Rusty. Rusty was such a good boy, and he died from complications during yesterday's surgery to remove a huge benign tumor from his hip area. They knew the surgery was a risk, but the tumor tripled in size in a short while, and it interfered with his gait in a horrible way. He already had arthritis in his knees, and they knew the inactivity it caused would have brought the same result after prolonged pain and suffering.

Rusty joined his family as a puppy, shortly after The Oracle and I adoped our neurotic "firstborn," Strudel.

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From the minute he came home, his parents could see that he was "too smart for his own good," possessing interesting skills like having enough sense to backtrack his path when he tangled his lead instead of just pulling willy-nilly. Rusty frequently found new ways to keep them on their toes. All puppies find ways to misbehave, but Rusty made misbehaving an art.

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Almost every day, Rusty's mom would come to work and tell me Rusty's antics from the day before, and my accursed memory is refusing to cooperate and bring them forth.

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Long before they had children, they needed baby locks on their cabinets to keep him out of the trash. He was a big-time chow-hound, and if he could eat it, he'd steal it. If it was inedible, he'd eat it anyway. He had a nasty habit of raiding the laundry hamper and leaving underwear laying around for company to see. In his younger days, he'd steal anything at hand so you'd chase him, or sometimes he'd just want something in his mouth. I remember many visits where Rusty would grab a sofa pillow and run around with it when I arrived.

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The worst thing he ate was a light bulb. In an effort to save his bowels from the shredding they rightfully deserved, the vet recommended they feed him every couple of hours to keep his bowels full of something besides glass. The shard-laden results picked off the lawn must've been awful to pass. Another lovely weekend, Rusty's dad dismantled their lawnmower to fix something or another, and Rusty ate the owner's manual before he had a chance to put it back together.

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There was a rainy occasion where Rusty was let out to do his business, and when mom went to the door to let him in, she couldn't see him. She called him and he popped his head up from a mud hole he'd either dug out or enlarged, wearing so much mud it was jammed into his ears.

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When their kids were born, Rusty tolerated the ear pullings and crash landings like a pro, with nary a grr or a nip. As they grew, he was their playmate, protector, and face washer.

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There were so many other Rusty stories, and my lousy memory just can't bring them forth at the moment. He was so well trained that, until they had kids, Rusty would lay in the family room while they had dinner in the kitchen. He would stop at the back door to have his feet wiped on rainy days.

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He was such a cool dog, and I'm so sorry and sad that he's gone.

#*@& Dog!!!

That bleeping dog stole and ate an entire bag of my kids' valentine giveaways. 11oz of chocolate will not seriously harm an 84-pound dog, but I am vexed just the same.

Said chocolate were those mini bags of m&ms. Acme had 'em on sale, two for $5, and I considered myself lucky to grab two of the last three bags. Needing 33 bags, I knew I'd only have a few to spare once everything was assembled for V-Day distribution.

Then this bleeping dog eats an entire bag. Well, not the entire bag. She left two puny packs of candy behind. Drooled upon, of course. Out of the 17 mini bags she consumed, I can only find seven of the wrappers. I imagine I'll be scooping those off the lawn in the coming days.

Who am I kidding? I probably won't scoop them until April.

All this evening she's been trying to snitch and steal food. I keep catching her daintily picking at things with her front teeth: The trash can liner, the lid to her dog food box, wuzzles on the floor, even the corner of the cake pan I used for the crumb cake I just baked and can't wait until it cools so I can eat a piece because it's utterly divine. Yep. She boldly nibbled the corner of that pan, and I was sitting right there shaping crumb-cake crumbs. Normally she's a big sneak, waiting until we leave the room. She doesn't even slink onto the sofa until we're in bed.

I wonder if my dog has a tapeworm. Or Pica.

Whatever it is, part of me secretly hopes those wrappers hurt coming out. Not that she'd make a connection or anything.

My Knuckleheaded German Shedder

This is Duh-chess.

In 12/2002, after ending Strudel's miseries, The Oracle made me promise that we wouldn't get another dog for two years. I readily agreed. Precious Daughter was a little over a year old and I was pregnant with Mighty B. I knew that the rigors of training a puppy would be well beyond my abilities for quite a while.

I was still employed part-time in purgatory, and one of my office mates -- no, both of them -- were frequently browsing the critters on Petfinder. Every once in a while, I'd succumb to temptation and browse the German Shedders, and I'd close out with a pang in my heart.

Eventually Mighty B arrived, and I had many, many late-night feedings with him. Having a two-year-old and a newborn is not easy, and I was so tired I practically dozed off wherever I was sitting, even the bathroom. I was petrified that I'd drop or squash Mighty B if I fell asleep, so during those late-night feedings I'd browse the internet or stare at QVC.

On a side note, my father, whose wallet has fallen victim to my stepmother putting QVC on speed dial, says QVC stands for Quickly Vanishing Cash. In F's defense, QVC makes it way too easy.

In February '04, following a late-night summons from B who was six months old and adamantly refusing to sleep through the night, I took him out of his crib (I know, Bad Mommy!) and parked my butt in front of the computer hoping to bore his butt back to sleep. I really wasn't in the mood for more of the same junk I surfed, and I bumbled over to Petfinder. Without thinking, I visited the Shedders, and I saw Knucklehead. "What a pretty dog," I thought, "and she seems to be good with kids and cats, too." I wistfully closed out and went back to bed when B finally passed out again.

The next day I revisted Petfinder and took a closer look. Hmmm... young dog. Her shelter isn't far from here. I really liked the look of her, and her story seemed pretty typical for a Shedder who spent most of her day cooped up in an apartment instead of being properly trained. She was big, unruly, and destructive, and now her owners' landlord demanded they "get rid of that dog."

I took the plunge. I emailed The Oracle (too chicken to face him in person) with Knucklehead's picture and one sentence:

"Sigh... Her name is Duchess." (He has never let me live it down.)

The Oracle grouched that I should "do what I want," and I think he hoped this displeased approach would deter me. He wasn't thoroughly against adopting her, but he wasn't pleased that I'd gone looking well in advance of the two-year mark.

I drove with DEB and the kids to the shelter for a "meet & greet," and I played with her for a bit. And I fell in love with her soft fuzzy ears and her big goofy feet. I filled out the adoption application. A few days later, I paid the adoption fee and brought her home...

...on Valentines Day.

Happy "Birthday" Knucklehead!

The Squatter

A squatter invaded my daughter's house a week or so ago. At first we thought she merely moved in for a little extra warmth (that room used to be right near the heater vent). Precious Daughter was very upset last night, and wanted Chessie the Squatter evicted once and for all. I picked the house up off its foundation and moved it over a foot. Chessie scurried out of the room.

Two minutes later, she was back inside and refusing to leave. I took these pictures this morning.

Oh, Hello. Nice of you to drop by. I was just getting ready to take a nap, so you can leave now.

And what do you want? Nope. This seat's taken.

These little plastic people are so pushy!

On an interesting note, that's my old Barbie Dream House you're looking at. Precious Daughter played with it a lot until Chessie moved in.

Chessie really isn't such a sour-looking cat. She's just old and going blind in one eye. It's actually shrinking. It has something to do with some tiny duct that isn't working any more and can't be repaired.

September's Toad

Living where I do, I am not only blessed with the conveniences of a mega Wawa and quick access to lots of shopping and three or four major highways, we also have lots of wildlife. It is not uncommon for me to drag the kids to the windows or outside to see all manner of critters: deer, skunks, opossums, groundhogs, fox, wild turkeys, praying mantises (as big as my hand!), stick bugs, lots of butterflies. I’ve even seen a pheasant or two in the last 15 years here. In mid-September, I was revisited by a rather large hop toad that seems to like hanging out on my front stoop in the fall. I’m guessing it’s the same toad, since every year the toad that arrives is bigger than last year’s toad.

If it’s the same toad, I suppose he’s been hopping onto the scene for three or four years now. Maybe more. He started out as this cute little thing, maybe two inches long or so, from tip of nose to rump. This year, he’s roughly five inches long. I’d like to measure him, but I don’t want to freak him out, either.

As usual, he marked his arrival by scaring the bejeebies out of me, narrowly escaping my downwardly-moving size-eleven shoe that would’ve squashed him flat on my way to the mailbox. I’m not scared of the toad itself; I am afraid of squashing him. He has this knack for putting himself smack in the line of my footsteps. Hi, Toad! Welcome back.

The kids were still up, so this year I let them look at the toad.

My daughter named him George.

I hadn’t seen George in a few days, and I was just figuring that he’d become food for something else when I went outside to put the kids’ bikes away before it got too dark since our driveway light burned out a couple days before. I stuff my son’s bike in the garage and close the door. As I moved away, I felt something odd under my foot and brushed it to the side. I look down, and I see George -- George! -- laying belly-up on my driveway. Oh, damn! I murdered George. I felt awful and I wanted to cry.

Well, seriously now, my guilt-ridden heart didn’t want to believe that I’d actually squashed him. Maybe he’s stunned. Yeah, that’s it. Maybe he’s playing possum so I don’t eat him. Maybe he didn’t get his guts ruptured under my shoe. Coward that I am, I comfort myself with this weird rationalization and go inside instead of removing George’s flattish-looking carcass from the driveway.

Double damn. I had a last-minute errand to run, and I had to go back outside. Lo! There was George, sitting in the driveway as he usually does and looking at me. Lazarus rose! I was so excited and happy to see him. I was even happier to see him not there when I returned home.

Yeah, okay, maybe he hopped off and died in the flowerbed, but I don’t believe that. Nosiree. Just shut up and let me have my delusions.