Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

The End of Mac

I think the last time Mac seemed normal was at 6 Tuesday, when he slept on my chest. Gradually over the evening he lost mental acuity. By 1 am I had entirely given up and commenced crying, and we said out goodbyes. It was sweet that he fell asleep for fifteen minutes with his face on my foot, my favorite position.

I really thought we'd go to the vet in the morning. We knew he couldn't spend any of the night unattended. Sleeping on the floor with him would only work if he'd slept. The way he was bumping into walls like a Roomba meant I had to walk with him. I kept squirting water in his mouth to keep him hydrated.

If he'd stayed confused and whiny, that would have worked.  At three he started to cry and get stuck in corners. I found that if I pressed my nose against his and we breathed in sync, that seemed to calm him. At four I woke Gary up so he could spell me. He had woken up a few times at night to give useless suggestions.

I think he tended to the dog for fifteen minutes before he announced we were going to the emergency vet. The slide that had seemed gradual to me must have been a dramatic change to someone who'd slept through the three hour decline.

I don't think I'm giving away any spoilers by saying that on a tv show I watch, a major character just died after a speedy decline. (Shhh - don't tell.) The other characters in the show were unprepared, plus there was a difference in diagnosis in the medical community on the show. (No one knows what show I'm talking about? Good.) I couldn't help thinking, "Augh! It's just like [this tv show]."

We might have had a difference in diagnosis if we'd seen our regular vet. The 24 hour ER vet was a tall woman with curly hair and scratches on her collarbone. She said, "If his kidneys are failing, that can cause heightened blood pressure, and at times that can lead to a detached retina." It was a very capable diagnosis.

After she ran tests she sat us down and said, "His kidney numbers are fine." (Hurrah Gary! He's really tried to lay off the treats.) "He's a little dehydrated." (Go me! Only a little dehydrated.) "However, his liver numbers are high and he has an excessive amount of calcium in his blood, and in a dog that's an indicator of cancer. With his symptoms it seems that he has brain cancer."

Whaaaa - huh? I said, "But how would he get brain cancer overnight?"

"Well, you described weakness in his legs that began a year ago." And of course, I had. I was just so used to carrying the dog around everywhere I'd forgotten it was because his legs were wobbly. And there was a year of puking, and limping, and trembling. Everything I thought was age could be neurological. And frankly, is anyone going to notice neurological issues in our epileptic / MS family? Dog can't walk a straight line? Join the club. Convulsions in our family would be completely ignored. (Another tv show callout.)

We'd already resigned ourselves to putting him to sleep because he was so miserable. The kidney / cancer switcheroo was immaterial. I did kind of want our vet to do the deed, but Gary thought we should have this doctor take care of it. (Again, a couple siding with doctors, just like the show.)

Even sedated Mac was miserable. The doctor pushed the plunger and I waited for his eyes to glaze over, but instead they rolled downward. She left us alone to say our goodbyes now that he was gone.

While we were petting him his mouth opened and he made a clicking sound.

"Involuntary muscle spasms," I thought. "And that's the same clicking sound Mom made while she was dying."

He did it again. Then his stomach gurgled.

Gary said, "I think I can feel a pulse." I couldn't feel it, but he was still warm.

Eventually the pulse faded away, or Gary said it did.

We told the receptionist we were having him cremated, and then Gary added:

"We don't need an urn; we'll just put him in with the other dogs." He explained to the receptionist, "We have a little coffin on our mantle where we keep all the dog's ashes."

(No, we don't have a little coffin on our mantle.) "Casket," I assured her. "Like a medieval-type casket."

We decided to take the day off and alternately sleep and cry. Gary asked me to not pick up the dog food or dishes, so I won't. I promised him I would start peeing in the hallway so he could still step barefoot in cold pee. We promised to start cuddling and kissing each other more. ("[He'd] want us to love each other as much as we can now."- TV show.)

So, sad times here, tempered with a newfound ability to sleep uninterrupted and eat unaccompained by demanding barks. Still, we miss our dog.

Updated: Dog Slump

Dog woke up at 4:45 this morning in full Weather Alert Mode. When he does this I turn on the TV and usually find there is an impending weather situation, and I calm him down, or at least try.

Today's weather didn't arrive until 3:30 in the afternoon, and by then the dog had stress barfed twice He just puked up the bright yellow bile because he'd been too freaked out to eat.

Finally, the bad weather passed. I expected him to calm down.

Instead, he traded in his demanding yip for a pitiful whine. Then he started losing track of where his legs were. Then he began navigating around the room by walking right next to the walls.

And finally, and most concerning, he stands in front of his water dish and whines, but he hasn't had anything to drink all day. I've taken to squirting water in his mouth with a syringe.

So, I'm sleeping on the floor tonight and taking him to the vet tomorrow. Hoping it's the doggie flu....

Update: ... And then he began crying because he was wandering and would get stuck in a corner, then he was crying all the time. So we took him to the all-night vet, and they diagnosed brain cancer (something about calcium in his blood).

Anyway, we put him to sleep. It's very sad. and sudden.

All the Men In My Life Have Synchronized Cycles

My brother Dave has had the Whooping Cough for a week. We thought it was his yearly bronchitis because it is the same high-pitched keening hideous cough. (People have accused him of augmenting his cough for pity, that's how dreadful it is.) But no bronchitis: whooping cough. In addition to the cough, he has blood on the toilet paper. We suspect he blew out a hemorrhoid during a coughing spell.

Gary is going in for his colonoscopy Tuesday, in part because he too had a visit from the Melena Fairy. (There are only so many ways I can avoid the word "stool.") (Also, don't name your children Melena.)

So, this morning I was in the basement with Mac the Dog, and I don't know why new rooms inspire dogs to poop, but they do. (I can think of three times dogs have gone into newly-built rooms of brand new homes and have been moved to defecate.) Anyway, I scooped it up with a paper towel and yes, there was a decided red tinge to it.

And, yes, they have all been a little cranky.

Passage of Time

Mac the Dog the last time you saw him:

Mac the Dog today:

He's an old dog.

Now, I know that's a unflattering view. He's pissed at me because I stayed late at work and Gary hasn't even started for home yet. His butt says I CAN'T EVEN LOOK AT YOU.

That makes his butt look smaller, but now you can see his neck wrinkles.

Poor old dog.

Lazy Weekend

Lazy Saturday and Sunday. Most of the time I lounged in bed with the dog. Gary was off working or sleeping most of the time. The only useful thing I did this weekend was Scooba.

At one point I let the dog off the bed while I went to the bathroom. And because I was doing a quiet thing, I could hear the noises in the house. The Scooba humming along. The dog scampering like he'd had a particularly successful bowel movement. More humming. More scampering.

When it dawned on me the dog was out to sabotage yet another Scooba, I vaulted out of the bathroom. Sure enough, he had mined the living room with two poops, the most recent one in the path of the Scooba. Luckily the Scooba moves slow, or I would have had to throw myself on the poop.

UPDATED:Wag the Dog

UPDATE: This was planned because his physical was scheduled for this month. I am not conniving to off my dog because he is blocking vacation.

My poor boy, Mac, is an old old dog. Sixteen? Seventeen? Today, I took him in to test his kidney function.

The kidney numbers are worse than ever before. In addition, his liver numbers are bad as well. Finally, he has arthritis. But his most important organ, his tail, is still wagging. I have determined he will carry on until that organ fails.

I told Gary tonight that since the tail still wags, we should take him in to the vet to have his kidney fluid treatment. This will be the second time he's had it. If it doesn't work, or if his low liver numbers become more of a concern, we'll just keep him in doggie hospice until his tail stops wagging.

Gary said, "Well, I'll wag the dog's tail myself, then."

Three Day Weekend!

One nice thing about working in the financial industry is you get every holiday the stock market does. There's a debate at work: since the stock market closes when a former or current president dies, do we get that day off too? I've heard varying responses to this.

I guess it's up to Jimmy Carter to answer this question. Take your time, JimmyC.

I will be celebrating Presidents Day ... by .... taking my dog in to the vet. I'm pretty sure I'll be taking him in to get The Bad News. I will put Mac down on the ground, and often he just doesn't recognize his legs and they splay out in all directions until he is on his belly.

I KNOW. That's a bad sign for dogs

Of course, Gary puts him down on the ground and the dog leaps and prances.  I think Mac knows who makes the final decision on really putting the dogs "down."

 

GNO

The Best of Girl's Night Out.

Amazing concept. Tell people they can come over and "play with" your new range. "Let" them bake all the food. If I had just recently bought a new dishwasher I could have given them the privilege of washing the dishes.

Somehow by the end of her life Mom had convinced all her friends to come to her house and make her breakfast every month. A few more of there GNOs and my friends will not have to ask where the spatula is.

It would seem that I don't have an appropriate cake-decorating spatula. Marcia called early to ask if I had doilies (no) and a mixer (really?) but she didn't ask about the spatula. She needed it to decorate Whitney's Deathday / Libby's Birthday cake.

The Worst of Girl's Night Out.

The dog, good God, the dog. He barked incessantly. I locked him in the bedroom for the last hour, where he barked, and then let him out, then he quieted down.

Before that, though, he peed twice, once stealthily. The second time was an in-your-face type of pee, not literally, but might as well have been.

The dog began his pre-pee pacing over by the back door. I opened the back door. He walked away from the back door to where Marcia and Libby were encouraging him to go out. In their words, he looked at them and said, "Nah, I'm good here," and lifted his leg and peed (while no doubt holding his gaze right at Marcia.) Libby cleaned it up. See what I mean about Mom-style parties?

Later, someone said in alarm, "what is that dog eating?" I snapped my neck to see if it was Libby's tater tots, Marcia's cake, Caroline's ramen, Susan's pasta, or Anne's cookies.

"Vomit!" I cheered.

 Robin took this photo:

I annotated so it was clear which furry gray blob was which. Robin's photo of Libby above was very clear.

Other photos are very blurry because I tried to use the dog spy camera. Mac took dozens of blurry photos of closed cabinet doors. Sometimes, people stood next to the cabinets:

Here's a picture of someone mixing a shot, but I don't know who:

and of course a perfectly still photo of the open oven door.

Spy Dog

Well, after much experimentation (and abandoning the inaccurate instructions) I got the dog spy camera up and running.

I regret to say that of 40 photos, only three were not of the darkness between the dog's chest hair and his pillow. Also, the dog camera doesn't work too well at night with low light.

I imagined this graininess to be Gary's chair:

... and I felt certain this was the food in the bedroom:

But it took me five minutes to determine what this was:

I thought the dog has climbed into the attic when my back was turned, then I realized it's the dog's eye view of the closet when I'm on the step ladder (the white frame.) the circular eye shape in the back is the truck jack I use to jack up heavy things.

I think I need to keep tweaking the body position -- maybe hanging from the side of his head, not the front. And of course, no more night vision photos.

Drama Dog

A month ago, Mac got in a huff and stomped off to his crate. He flopped himself down with a touch of indignation, as if to say, "Christ! These people."

I chuckled.

Since then, every day he hurls himself into his crate with a little more drama. Tonight, he hip-checked the inside of the crate with such force that it almost fell on its side.

Next he'll probably do a stiff-legged fainting goat imitation.

Dog Day Afternoon

My house seemed to be dirtier than ever this week, so while I was outside clipping up a dead shrub, the floor got Scoobaed.

I left the back door open so I could hear if the Scooba made any plaintive "I'm Stuck" sounds, and so the dog could come out.

He was out in the back with me for at least half an hour, until he barked madly at the open door. I couldn't figure why he'd demand we go inside, so I ignored him. Eventually he went in.

Some time in the next half hour I  heard the Scooba stop, so I followed Mac inside anyway. Oddly, the Scooba didn't show any message, so I just toted it to the sink for more water.

"Strange. Why is there this mud on the side of ... NO! It smells like - Gross! BAD DOG!"

I looked back where the Scooba had been and saw half of a perfectly formed tootsie roll of dog poo. The other half had been smeared across the room. And, I am afraid, was ingested by my Scooba, which does not have a special 'OH GOD I JUST ATE CRAP" musical tone or screen alert.

The really scary thing was that based on the forensic evidence of poop splatter, the following was NOT the sequence of events:

1. Dog comes inside the house with the malicious intent to poop.
2. Scooba is just doing its thing.
3. Dog poops.
4. At some point Scooba randomly hits the poop speed bump.

If that were true, the poop would have rolled, or broken. Instead, it was obvious the poop had not had time to solidify at all before Scooba impact.

My damn dog wanted to move his bowels, saw an opportunity for evil, went inside, positioned and  and re-positioned his but in front of the moving Scooba until he was able to lay out a line of poop directly in its immediate path.

So, the yard isn't clean, but the Scooba has had an enema and been put though a few extra passes to purge everything out.

How to Make Your Dog Hate You

The dog is on a schedule. He knows the only time we will reliably be home is between 11 at night and 6 in the morning. As such, he has decided this is "social time." He barks to wake us up at 2 to pee, at three to eat, at five to play, and at six to clean up the poop he did at four.

So, today I decided to lavish attention on him from six in the evening until ten at night.

I have never seen this dog so pissed off.

He hopped up in bed to take a nap while I did my early evening net-surf. I kept petting him, so he would know that now is when he gets attention, and so that he couldn't sleep now and later break the peace.

I nudged him with my foot.

"mmf!"

"Wake up, Mac."

After three of these nudges, he leapt to his feet, gave a short indignant woof, and marched off. Piiissssssed.

I coaxed him back. Then I kept nudging him. We went through the whole process three times tonight. I think he's only had about an hour of sleep all night. He marched off in the highest dudgeon about an hour ago.

I fully expect him to pee in my ear at two.

Foo-foo Dogs

This happened the day we left for the cruise.

We dropped Mac off to be boarded, and came back home to pick up some things before we left for the airport. We pulled into the driveway, and there was a foo-foo girly little white dog peeing on our mailbox.

Thought 1: "Right now our house is being robbed by someone with a dog."
Thought 2: "Little bitch knows Mac's gone. This is a contempt pee."

Gary said, "It's wearing a leash. Jump out and see where it lives."

I jumped out in the snow. In my summer shoes. The little white dog took that chance to bound over the snowbank where I was standing and jog down the street.

I jogged after LWD, and I tried to step on the red leash trailing behind her. But as I went faster, LWD went faster. Always with the leash a few inches ahead of me. Then LWD got far enough ahead that I couldn't catch her. 

I stopped.
She stopped.
Then she barked at me.

She barked, "Come on, fat ass. Come get me. I am a sweet helpless dog."

And it went on this way for a few driveways. I'd jog, she'd jog, I'd fall behind, she'd stop and encourage me. We crossed someones front yard, then back yard, then another street.

There was a little brown foo-foo dog alone on a corner lot, barking madly at LWD.

"Oh no," I thought, "Dog fight." Turns out little brown dog was trailing an identical red leash. A red leash that should have been connected to someone.

Little brown dog led little white dog through several sideyards.  I'll fall behind, white dog would wait for me and bark, brown dog would wait for her and bark. My own little spirit guides leading me to ... what? What had been on the end of those red leashes?

Well, obviously someone who was now incapacitated, blood from his head wound freezing to the empty sidewalk.

"Come on!" barked the foo-foo dogs. "He needs your help!" They turned a corner and headed straight to the front door of a house, then looked back at me expectantly. The screen door was closed. The front door was open.

Luckily, I didn't have to trespass to find the dead body  in the house. At that moment, a living man in a blue sweater came over a hill up the street, yelling "Puppies! Come here!"

"Are these your dogs?" I yelled.

Little white dog then scrabbled desparately at the screen door. She put on a big Production about how she really wanted to be Inside. Outside was awful! This mean woman chased them!

"Yeah, you better get back in Baby!" the man yelled. Then, to me, "Thanks for finding them. I could hear them barking, but I couldn't tell where it was coming from."

I began to tell him I found Baby by my house, just over  ... over where?

I had no idea where I was. Luckily I could trace my path back through the snow to home. Gary was there, remarkably calm given that I'd vanished for ten minutes on a day we had to catch a flight. If I see Baby and Not-Baby again I'll just herd them home with the Mini.

The Dog Saves Our Lives: A True Story

We tried to go to bed last night at 11, but the dog wouldn't settle. He planted himself at the foot of the German-Shepherd-weight Grand Carpeted Staircase leading to our bed and barked. We both got up, let him outside, gave him treats, rubbed his belly, checked his ears, and hauled the little bastard up into bed and pinned him there. Every time he'd get free, bound down the Grand Staircase, and bark.

At about 2:30 am we'd tried every configuration of bed, chair, guest bed we could think of. I was in the big bed when Gary picked Mac up, dumped him on top of my head, and then knelt down to whisper sweet comfort to the dog, when suddenly there was a loud bang and Gary - screamed. Gary hauled me out of bed as I screamed back, "Are you okay?"  I looked around to see the damage - and our bed had collapsed. It's one of those beds in which the box spring is suspended off the floor, and for about twelve years you could admire the wood floor beneath. For the past eight years a smaller mattress has been stored underneath, so the box spring and my mattress only plummeted three inches. Still. Could have died.

Gary immediately said, "That's what the dog was trying to tell us!"

Well, he immediately said, "Thats from all the wild sex we've been having" and THEN he said, "You know you're fat when the bed breaks" and THEN he said the thing about the dog.

But still, we gave the dog credit for sensing the bed was unstable. (A supporting piece broke off.) Of course the blame goes to me, as two days ago I begged Gary for help so we could flip and pivot the mattress. Never flip and pivot the mattress! It could be fatal.

I thought I'd get ahead of the game and shop for a new bed online, since I figured Gary would turn on our bedroom set because it tried to kill us. Instead, Gary is making an effort to rehabilitate the bed by use of a power drill and some screws. It can plot against us next week while we are gone.

Dog Diet

My dog has a piercing bark. He yaps in a way that says, "YAP, bitch! Look at me when I YAP at you! YAP! Give me some! YAP! I will not be IGNORED! YAP! Perhaps you didn't hear me. YAP!" It's a demanding yap, and there's a pause between yaps while he thinks, "maybe one more will do it ..."

And of course, it's always when I am eating. I tell you there are foods I can no longer eat because the dog climbs up my bosom, gets in my face and yaps.

1. Multi-Grain Sun Chips (He hears the bag, of course. Dogs in the next county can hear that bag.)
2. Fried Chicken (The dog not only yaps at me, he yaps at the refrigerator when I put it away.)
3. Baby Carrots
4. Dry Cereal

Many's the time I've said no to fried chicken because he is insufferable when it's in the house. He's even taken to pawing the Sun Chips bag open if it's sitting out. You'll note I'm not mourning the loss of the baby carrots and the dry cereal quite a much as the others. But I'm sure keeping the fried chicken out of the house is good for my diet.

It could be Gary's next diet! Only eat food the dog doesn't want! Diet soda, tomatoes, and fish.

Mac Has Had a Haircut

UPDATE:

Seriously, Magpie Musing has selected the lamest week of my life to link to my blog. Nothing was funny this week. Scroll down to Republican Pseudo-Census Form from last week.

===================================

Okay. So, Mac got a haircut.

===================================

Wait. I should warn you. I'm not funny. I always write serious posts about my life. For example, once I wrote a post on how my MOM was in the hospital DYING and Magpie Musing found it and commented something like "AHAHA you are so funny." I'm not making this up.

===================================

Ok. The dog got a haircut.

And you know what happens after you get a haircut.

No. What? 

You have to try different styles to see what looks best. 

 

 Like the Tallulah?

Or the Kate?

Or the Obvious Greco-Roman Combover?

Maybe the Bieber?

I give up.

 Sigh.

Rock Paper Scissors

Gary, the oldest, is the Rock.

Though you would not expect it, Paper covers Rock. Mac is the Paper.

I am the Scissors. And the Rock is in training and not around much this week.

And Paper is all, "Paper covers Scissors too, bitch," but Mac is mistaken. Scissors cut Paper.

For example, I ate leftover lobster alone last night, to a delightful accompaniment of Mac barking, "Mine! Mine! Food! Mine!"  He has never had lobster. After five minutes I put down my fork, picked him up and put him down in front of his plate of food.

"YOUR food," I barked. He started eating his food. I finished my lobster and then the barking started again.

Mac was barking at his plate, then whipping his head at me and barking, then whipping his head back to his plate and barking. Only the side of the plate nearest the dog had been eaten.

Gary always responds to this by coming over and (deep breath)

...turning the plate so the rest of the food is in front of the dog .... (long exhale)

... and I will not stand for that bullshit. I walked over, picked up the dog, and put him down on the other side of the plate. "HAVE I BLOWN YOUR MIND?" I shrieked.

Gary is training for 5 days  That's 35 days in dog time.

Woof.

Woof!
WOOF!
How dare you ignore my demanding bark? Attend to me!

Better.
This is Mac the dog.

Did she even bother to tell you I had surgery? The doctor had to remove a foot boil. And afterward I DIDN'T FEEL WELL AND DIDN'T EAT FOR A WEEK.

She didn't tell you, did she? Because she and the male have been sick and making a big production of it. They start barking, and then making gurgling hacking sounds and yodelling up snot and talking about lew-gees, whatever that is.

Finally - hey - are you listening to me? I can pee for attention too. I don't have to bark. Okay! Finally they stopped hacking long enough to notice I wasn't eating my rice topped by Bob Evans hand shredded turkey. The female read some article on hypoglycemic dogs and I got some honey roast nuts and Ted Drewes strawberry frozen custard.

That got old the next day, so then the male came back from the store with ham salad , chicken-pecan salad, and meatloaf.

"Yum!" the bitch said.

"No!" the male shrieked, "These are for the dog!"

I sniffed all of those things, but they just didn't speak to me. Then he started with the filet-mignon dog treats, rolled honey chicken treats, Pupperoni. The Milk-Bone treats I remembered from my puppy days didn't even appeal to me.

THEN he pulled out this can of stuff. I sniffed it in the air and started lapping the plate while it was still empty. The food bounced off my head and then I gobbled it down. It was the best stuff ever. It was something called dog food. It comes in a can.

Canned Dog Food.

Food! Made for DOGS! Fuck me, that is genius.

UPDATED: ThunderDog

Here's what a tornado warning looks like here:

 

Yes. The Tongue of TERROR! The dog curls his tongue, pants, shakes, burrows, paces and roams in thunderstorms. Oh, and he climbs on our heads and we wear him like a hat.

We recently saw a claim that one may wrap ones dog in a large Ace bandage and it will somehow provide comfort.

 

Someone on the Internet swore by this and said a small t-shirt worked as well.

So, that's why when we saw the tongue of terror, we battened the hatches and dressed the dog in a sweater.

 

This is the dog version of the scene in the Producers when Gene Wilder gets hysterical. "I'm hysterical! I'm hysterical!" (Zero Mostel throws water in his face.) "I'm wet! I'm hysterical and I'm wet!" 

Mac says, "I'm hysterical and I'm in a sweater!" (Cameo by Spunky Labia (International Toe Porn Superstar.))

Then we started to notice Mac wasn't pacing or climbing or burrowing. He was shaking half as much as we'd expected with a tornado warning, and at one point he got under a table and napped a little. NAPPED. Not a complete cure-all, but a definite improvement.

===================

UPDATE: This is all complete crap. It rained again last night and the dog was worse than ever before.

UnderDog

Mac the dog gets me out of bed every night so I can let him go outside. I have found I can do this and not actually interrupt my REM cycles, and even go a little "outside" myself if I am so inclined.

He has a particular bark he uses to summon me. He jumps out of bed, barks, I get up, and he leads me out of the bedroom and to the back door. However, every few weeks, he'll bark, I'll shuffle, and just when I'm heading down the hall he'll spin back into the bedroom and wait for me to notice. He ducks behind Gary's side of the bed. I say "What the fuck, dog?" and that is his signal to go under the bed. He pops out from under the bed on my side. If I make a move then he ducks under the bed again. He looks like he's a muppet in an "Under" skit.

"Unnnnder...Not under! And noooww I'm ... under!"

"Screw you, dog. I'm going to bed."

This AMAZES him. ("Bed? But we are playing 'Under!'") He sits stunned and then goes back to square one, the demanding bark from the floor, then the pointed "under" demonstration. ("Look! I'm under! Now I'm not under. Don't you see?  DON'T YOU GET IT?")

Then the second stage of UnderSpiel is when Gary is awakened by the dog's more insistent bark. ("UNDER!") Then Gary starts barking. "Dog! What the Hell! Stop it! Shush! Jesus! Go! To! Sleep!" on a loop for half an hour. I can sleep through the dog bark, but not Gary's.

Happily, Gary discovered the end game of Under. It worked once, then Gary replicated the result last night.

1)  Gary gets the twin mattress of the guest bed.

2) Gary drags it into the bedroom.

3) Gary hurls it on to the floor next to the bed.

4) Gary lies down on the twin mattress.

5) Dog instantly jumps up into bed with me and goes right to sleep.

I Have An Old Dog Who Loves Me - Guess Where This is Going

So, crack detectives, put these facts together.

1. My Dog is over 10.

2. He is fed a daily diet of Minute Rice, Bob Evans Turkey in Gravy, and Paws Kibble, except he hoards the Kibble for later.

3. His favorite place is on top of my head. Scared? Climbs on my head. Lonely? Climbs on my head. We're in bed? Climbs on my head.

So, lately, the dog has taken a fancy to bare-dog on bare-head action. His bare dog spots are a) his anus and b) his teat area. My bare head spots are essentially my forehead and face. If he is feeling secure, he'll just creep in by the headboard and jam his anus up into my temple. But, if he's distressed because of a storm he'll face away from the headboard, straddle my skull, and drape his teat area across my forehead and nose. My mouth is crushed by his chest, but he's so relaxed I don't mind suffocation.

But then I hear a little "pft" sound.

When dogs are young, they don't break wind. When they are middle aged they might break wind - and while you may smell it, you don't hear it. Now my old dog breaks wind every night. "Pft." In my HAIR. Several times. I imagine it's still a bad smell. I don't breathe a minute or so after the "pft."

Some mornings I really have asked Gary to smell my hair to see if I wake up with dog fart hair. He says no.

Thanksgving Miracle

I could go into greater detail but my head IS going to explode.

Let Mac the Dog out.

Began making Green Bean Casserole.

Heard a dog howling and baying.

Looked out to see if it was Mac.

Was not Mac.

Then a deer loped through our yard and was in my peripheral vision before I registered - "DEER!"

I screamed "Shit!"

Deer hopped the fence.

Mac was surprised then peed on the fence the deer had hopped over.

I ran out in the street in my pajamas looking for more deer.

On Dogs. By Rudyard Kipling.

I hate it when dogs die, especially excellent dogs like Marcia / Friend #3's Ricky. He isn't gone yet, but let me tell you this dog was a pooper. He telegraphed his intentions, he did his business, and he picked up a pine cone to let you know he was ready to go back in. He indeed produces spectacular poop.

In addition, he does all the love and loyalty stuff so many admire in dogs.

After he's gone, we will try to comfort Marcia as best we can, and then when a discreet mourning period has passed we will send Marcia this poem and hope it makes her laugh as much as it did the first day we found it on the Internet:

I Wish Someone Had Given Jesus a Dog
I wish someone had given Jesus a dog
As loyal and loving as mine
To sleep by His manger and gaze in His eyes
And adore Him for being divine.
As our Lord grew to manhood His faithful dog
Would have followed Him all through the day
While He preached to the crowds and made the sick well
And knelt in the garden to pray.
It is sad to remember that Christ went away
To face death alone and apart
With no tender dog following close behind
To comfort its Master's Heart.
And when Jesus rose on that Easter morn
How happy He would have been
As His dog kissed His hands and barked its delight
For The One who died for all men.
Well, the Lord has a dog now, I just sent Him mine
the old pal so dear to me
And I smile through my tears on this first day alone
Knowing they're in eternity.
Day after day, the whole day through
Wherever my road inclined
Four feet said, "I am coming with you!"
And trotted along behind.

by
Rudyard Kipling

Well, no, as it turns out. Rudyard Kipling did not pen I Wish Someone Had Given Jesus a Dog, even on his off day. He did write a number of sappy dog poems, but none have the genius that is I Wish Someone Had Given Jesus a Dog.

However, one does contain a middle stanza with the "Four-feet said, 'I am coming with you!' " part, but but it is mercifully shorter.

And it isn't about Jesus' dog.  

Jesus' immortal dog, Rex of Rex. He was the Alpha and Omega dog.  He ate Lamb of God with Rice. On a tasty bed of Almighty Dog. You could go on and on.

Twenty-First Century Dog

Mac the Dog is using his effluvia to run our lives.

He has had what Gary calls soft-serve poo. The vet says Mac has an infection, so now he's on a course of anti-biotics and anti-spasmodics. That, plus Metamucil sprinkled on the food, resulted in perfect poo. For a while.

We came home Friday to Blasts of Crap all over the wood floor. Watery poop puddles surround by a perfect spray pattern. Very nasty. Dog wouldn't eat. Great concern. Back to the vet.

The vet explained that Mac still had an infection, so more anti-everythings, and that perhaps it wasn't a good idea to feed a dog ready-made Tyson beef chunks.

So we put Mac on Chicken and Rice.  Ready-made chicken and ready-made rice (even though I told Gary I can cook rice, for God's sake). Plus a little bit of chicken or cheese to take the pills.

Mac is refusing the pills, which come from me, and lapping up the chicken and rice which comes from Gary.

Gary just asked, "How do I keep this rice from getting dry?"

"Well, if I'D MADE THE RICE I would put it in the microwave with a little water. I don't know about this Minute rice bag stuff." Sniff.

So, this was the conversation in my computer room the last two minutes.

I said, "The dog's poo was more normal this morning. B ut he still has to get all better before we take him to the kennel at the end of the month."

"No problem. He likes his chicken and rice, especially when it's all hot from the microwave."

(Silence and a look from me.)

He said, "No, I won't tell the kennel to microwave his food." (And toss the chicken with the rice, then shape it into a cone, and break and sprinkle a Metamucil capsule on top.)

"Which pill did he throw up this morning?" I asked, "I'll look it up - Damn. No, I won't. The Internet's down."

"Uh-oh, I can hear him vomiting again." Gary rushed into the other room. "Oh!  Mac  just puked into the router."

Obviously, since you're reading this, Gary got the hairdryer and fixed the router. But I think it was very spiteful of the dog.

Doggyblogging

And now, a word from your canine.

Mac here. I'm here to let you know what's up in this household.

First of all, the hairier of the Furless Ones has been off work. It's been a Testicle Festival here! (To be honest, I don't know what testicles are. It must be a human thing; the smaller Furless One has been saying it since she heard it at some party last Saturday.)

I am now twice his age in dog years. I can't wait until he's in his seventies, just so that when he breaks wind I can scream, "Oh my GOD! What the Hell! What is wrong with you? Ellen, run!" And then Ellen will sigh, "Why is it necessary to make such a big-- GAHHHH!"

I had a run there of about three nights in a row when I got a second dinner by barking at one in the morning. Then for some reason they just stopped responding. I know they were awake, because I heard them say things like, "Hang in there." "Be strong." "If he doesn't stop after an hour I'm going to a hotel."

What do they expect? They stay up until one watching gymnastics and feed me then. Of course I have gas. And they don't let me eat the metal that calms my digestion, damn them.

Update Du Dog and Other Household Pets

Gary's has been feeding the dog nothing but a few scraps of Mighty Dog with an avalanche of this on top:

Mac the dog gets a lunch-plate full of this twice a day. 

=======================================

The other day I was running the Roomba in the kitchen and dining area. I was sitting on the other side of the house when I heard the Roomba getting stuck on the stair trim. (There's some trim on the floor by the basement stairs and the Roomba dry humps it for at least three minutes before it makes its sad "I'm Stuck" sound.)

Then Mac began barking madly from the kitchen. I went in to find the Roomba, not stuck on the stair trim, but gnawing on Mac's completely full food dish. "NOM NOM NOM!" Roomba said, pushing the plate across the floor. Mac bounced behind it, barking, gobbling up the trail of food Roomba Monster left behind.

=======================================

The next day, Mac turned his appetite elsewhere in a huff. "If you are going to feed Beef Tips to the Roomba, then screw you! I'll eat what I want!"

The one thing we have discouraged the Pica Puppy from eating is metal. Mac the Dog loves metal. He will slobber for an hour trying to eat a paperclip. If you have a tea party, he will try to eat the guest's jewelry.

Well, I looked around the day after the Roomba misunderstanding and he has eaten all the zipper pulls off all the pillows. He had to burrow into the pillowcases to hunt out the zipper pulls. Gary should just sprinkle zipper pulls on top of Mac's Mighty Dog.

Přitulit se!*

My poor dog is exhausted. Gary has the flu, and the dog is really earning his keep by snuggling with Gary's sick self. Mac the Dog  just trundled into this room and flung himself on the floor.

"Jesus. What a baby," his eyes said. "He's really bringing me down. Do you still have those pretzels?"

What would make the dog think he has to stay with the sick member of the litter? He could be hanging out with me and wallowing in the down comforter. But I guess it's his job.

In related news, I picked up a book of "Lateral Thinking Puzzles" and this was one:

Puzzle: Part of the Police Manual gives instructions in a language few of the policemen speak. Why?
Hint: Very few, if any, criminals speak this language. It is chosen for its rarity. A handful of words are included, but they are important.
Answer: The instructions given to police dogs are normally in a language not often spoken in the US, such as Hungarian or Czech. This is to make it unlikely that any person other than the trained police officers will be able to control the dog.

*Czech for "Cuddle!"

Gina asks: "How is Tinkerbell?"

When Gary ferried Mac and I to the in-laws for Thanksgiving dessert, I asked, "So, how is Tinkerbell behaving?"

"She's a biter," Gary said, "So far she bit Mac and Moses. She hasn't bit Willow yet."

"What's Willow's secret? Does she run? Show her belly?"

"Mom says Tinkerbell doesn't like boy dogs because she was, as Mom says .... " (he whispered) "Are-Ay-Pee-e-Deed."

It took me a second. "Oh. Well, you can't make assumptions. Maybe it was consensual."

Dog Drama

What do you do with a dog who is happily standing with his full weight in a pool of his own blood? No pain. "Yeah, I'm bleeding. You don't have carpet. What's the big deal?

If you are Gary, you scream at your wife. Then at some point, you realize the dog needs medical attention.

Gah. Mac now has one less toenail, for some unknown reason. The upside is that Mac is defiant about the protective head cone.  Doug would just try to walk while dragging his entire head on the floor. Mac tries to leap up out of the cone. It's sad yet funny.

Mmmm Lung

Gary arrived home after visiting the Petco pet store. I could tell he was home by the distinctive way he screamed, "Honey! I'm home!" Actually, he screamed, "COME SEE THIS THIS IS AMAZING YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS THING I FOUND AT THE PET STORE!"

I went to the kitchen and found out that the amazing thing was a new snack, Lamb Lung Chips. I swear to you, it's dehydrated lung alveoli. From iddie bidda bayyyyby lambkins.

I asked Gary, "That sounds tasty and unusual. Why don't they make lamb chunks for people snacks?"

"They do! They're called ... something."

"Sweetbreads?"

"No," he said, "Those are the testicles, not the lungs."

I paused a moment, then said as I headed for the PC room, "Excuse for me a moment. I need to go write something down."

"No! No! I was wrong. Sweetbreads are the ... thymus?"

"Okay. So we'll be feeding our dog chopped up sheep lungs."

"Not sheep. Lamb. Because they are younger and their lungs are tender."

"Right, because it's when they hit adolescence and start smoking, then you can't use the lungs."

"It seems a little inhumane to eat the lungs. Think of all those baby lambs trapped in little iron-lung machines after they've had their lungs removed."

So Cute It Will Make You Puke

Look at this sweet face:

(And don't ask me what the story is with the green eyes. It happens even with the red-eye reduction on or off, which is ironic.)

He doesn't look sick, does he? No. He looks a healthy puppy. Granted, he looks bald for a silky terrier; they usually look like this:

Yeah, like we're going to maintain that coat. I barely brush my own hair.

He and I bonded pretty closely while Gary was out of town, especially since he refused to go for walks and held his water waiting for four days for Gary to get back. He's taken to pinning me down while lying across my breasts or belly (whichever is larger at that moment) and staring at Gary to ensure he doesn't leave.

That was the arrangement when our dog-human hybrid pack was all snuggled in bed, listening to Gary tell a story his Mom had told him today. It was about Arhan-fay and the assumptions his fiancee is making about family life. It was particularly tragic since it had been through the Sandy Exaggeration Lens, then through the Wilma Poetic Justice Lens, then through the Gary Comic Relief lens (in short, the fiance is acting like Sandy did twenty years ago). Gary gesticulated at the ceiling. Mac and I listened patiently. Mac listened patiently while until at one point he could take no more and vomited in Gary's face.

Mac doesn't vomit like we vomit. It might have something to do with the Silky Terrier Hair, I guess he knows no sister Silky will be there to hold back his hair. but he takes great pains that the puke doesn't land on his paws or face. As he barfs, he does this full-body shudder that strafes the vomit over a wide area.

And, it is sudden! There's no horking or burping beforehand. He's just sitting there calmly on your chest, looks up, ARRRURRPPP, vomit convulsion! licks his lips, then settles back down while everyone else screams and clears the bed. And, in this case, gets the camera.

Caution! Disturbing Image Warning! But funny! Funny like a guy covered in dog barf funny! Click, you know you want to!

And, yeah, that's dog barf on the pillows in the background.

Guest Post of the Week: Mac the Dog

(Ellen says: The dog has been fidgety lately, so I decided to let him post.)

Pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Mac the dog. Technically, I am McDonnell the dog (nee), but now that my cohort Douglas is gone the furless ones just call me Mac.

I need a forum to express my concern that some of you might be considering a Presidential candidate who would do this to a dog. I realize the article explains the dog liked being up on the car roof, but I doubt anyone from the Times interviewed the dog. As for the contention the dog liked being up on the roof because he "scrambled up there every time [they] went on trips," well -- not to sound breedist, but he's an Irish Setter. They aren't that bright.

Things here in the house have been interesting. The furless ones have been squabbling more than is usual. The smaller one, the one with the grotesquely swollen teats and the huge ankles, has been reading marriage counseling books for some work project she has. This has provoked absurd conversations between them about their "love languages." No one has asked me, but here is my take on these love languages.

Acts of Service (or as Dogs call them, Acts of Carrion)
I know some dogs (ahem - Irish Setters) chase and kill mice, deer, and such, but that doesn't appeal to me. So, I don't show love in that way. I also don't accept love when it is granted as an act of service.The larger furless one at times will try to wipe off my bottom, but I don't feel loved afterward. I feel slightly violated.

Gifts
The Furless ones and I have worked past this. For a while, they tried to show their love by giving me squeak toys. They would throw them and look at me expectantly. As if I were (and I'm sorry, but it's true) an Irish Setter. Of course, when I realized the importance they placed on gifts I tried to give them some gifts in my own way, but they just scream and throws my gifts in the trash dumpster. Hmph. So sorry I can't produce gold jewelry from my butt.

Talking
I'm a dog. They are not. We can't talk to each other. Someone, explain that to them.

Quality Time
The Furless ones seem to think they need to spend every minute together. Usually they are just watching the noisy box, and the noisy box bores me. Especially when that Chris Matthews guy is on.  As long as they check in before for dinner, we might spend all evening in separate rooms.

Touch
That's my love language. Oh, yeah, baby. I love the touch. Big Ankles has fingernails on her right hand, and sometimes she will scratch the base of my tail, or my teats. Mmmmm. Strangely, they don't like it when I do this to them. I'll make a special trip over their teats up to their heads and claw them violently, and they don't like it! They scream things like, "You are going to gouge my eye out!" and "I think he drew blood!" and "WHAT DO YOU WANT DOG IT'S FOUR A.M."

It's so hard, sometimes. Maybe I should try giving them some more of my special homemade butt gifts.

Ooooz A Good Boy?

An exchange this morning:

Gary: "Here you go, Mac. Here's your breakfast."
Gary in 'Mac' Falsetto: "Thanks Dad!"
Gary: "See, I made it just the way you like it."
Gary Falsetto: "That looks great Dad!"
Gary: "See? Mom just stacks it up, but I made it into a cone shape. I know you like that the best."
Gary Falsetto: "I do, Dad, that's the best! Mom doesn't do that."
Gary: "No, she doesn't."
Mac, the actual dog, because I can read his thoughts: "You are retarded.  Or, perhaps you are a paranoid schizophrenic. It's a tough call."
Gary: "Oooo, look at you eat! You are such a good dog! Good boy!"
Gary Falsetto: "Yes, I'm a good boy! I love the Cone of Food."
Mac: "Yeah, you know what I like? Honey-Baked Ham Tea Party Leftovers. Break out some of that."
Gary: "You like the way I make your food, on the big plate, in a cone shape!"
Gary Falsetto: "I love you, Dad!"
Mac: "Yeah, whatever. Why isn't that fat pasty woman making my breakfast anymore? And, hey, stop talking that way. I don't sound like that. I don't sound like a girl."
Gary: "Yes, that was yummy, wasn't it?"
Gary Falsetto: "Yum, Dad!"
Mac: "Jesus!"

A Haiku for My Dog, In Case of Thunderstorms

Thunder came before
Your ancestors went soft. Do
Dingo dogs do this?

Dog Thanksgiving

You may have noticed I haven't said much about Turkey Day at the S_______s, except there was, of course, pie. I've been working out exactly how to explain this year's unique brand of chaos.

See, Gary and I had girded our loins for the explosive combination of Sandy and her brood reacting with the rest of the S____ family after the ill-fated summer visit. (Things did not end well this summer after the kids left our house and went to the more restrictive environments of the S_____s and Wonderfuls.)

However, on Thanksgiving everyone was on their best behaviour, and I use the Canadian spelling because the behaviour was that good. Teenagers laughed. Politics were not discussed. I had a heart-to-heart with Arzaana-Fay and was not accused of grandchild stealing. The Kansas City contingent was three hours late, therefore the turkey was dry and stringy and NO ONE SAID A WORD.

You would think there was an undercurrent, but there wasn't, and that's what's so odd. Usually, after a big Blowup like the Summer '06 Blowup, there would be an air of strained politeness and eye-rolling. What I've decided is that the in-laws transferred all their hostility to the dogs. There were the half-Muslim KC dogs (Willow and Moses - yes, Moses is a big dude in Islam, but not so big you can't name your dog after him), then there were the S_____ Nazi dogs Ferrari and Mercedes (they didn't name them), then the Wonderful dogs George and Gracie, and then Mac. And as dogs will, every 20 minutes dogs would chest-butt each other and scream and shake their jowls.

This would provoke ten minutes of in-laws screaming and vaulting off the upholstery to protect their dogs, check their dogs for injuries even though no contact had been made, and lecture their dogs on how they should love the other dogs because they were cousins. Mr. and Mrs. Wonderful would speak sternly to everyone else's dogs and not their own. Sandy and I would have a dry little conversation on how these were dogs, not diplomats, and they should be allowed to act like dogs. Gary's mother, I swear to you, would get a newspaper and slap her hand with the paper. She claimed the noise of the slapping paper is what upsets the dogs, and it is unnecessary and cruel to hit the dog.

So, viewed from the dog's perspective, this was our Thanksgiving:
Mac: Hey.
Willow and Moses: As-Salāmu 'Alaykunna!
Mercedes: Who's that? I can't see.
Ferrari: I can't hear. It smells like those young pups. It must be a holiday.
Willow: Yes, it's Thanksgiving. Doesn't it seem like the most boring Thanksgiving ever?
George: Are they all on drugs?
Mac: My Mom's on drugs.
Gracie: It's too quiet. Ten bucks for the first one who gets someone to say their dog was abused as a puppy.
(Willow and Gracie squabble. Much screaming.)
Willow: Aahhhhh. That's more like it.
Ferrari: Heh heh heh. That was good. Watch this, I can get my Mom to beat herself with a newspaper.
Mac: Cool!
(Ferrari attacks Mac. Wilma runs toward them beating herself with a newspaper. Then, a few minutes later:)
George: I'm kind of sensing Sandy's been calm too long and she's going to bust. Let's get her riled up next. Moses, steal some ham.
Moses: So let it be written, so let it be done.

Picture hours of that. I only overheard two human squabbles. Hopefully, the dogs will take on Squabble Patrol for Christmas as well.

In Which the Mets Experience the Willful Cruelty of the Baseball Gods

"We barely beat them at the end. Which was exciting." - Some dude who handed out the trophy.

Video editing at onetruemedia.com

In Which we Mock Dog AND Husband

I would like to think my dog is housebroken. I would like to think that. It is a lie, but I would like to hold on to that lie.

I have only two dog rules:

1)       Do not move your bowels inside the house.

2)       Do not void your bladder inside the house.

I think the dog understands my list; he just has a longer list of loopholes and clauses that often override my two rules. If he could list his exemptions, they would be:

1)       I, _________ [state dog’s name] believe there is a rain and snow exemption to the two human rules stated above.

2)       I believe if a human is not watching me perform the act outside then I should “go” inside so they can appreciate it.

3)       I believe my urine protects the inside of the house from predators if reapplied daily.

So, he really isn’t breaking the rules, I just am not aware of all the conflicting dog rules. This applies to my husband as well. I have a very few limited rules, and while it seems that he ignores them, it’s just that his set of rules are sometimes in conflict with my rules. My rules are:

1)       Move your bowels and bladder inside the house and never let me know about it.

2)       Do not talk to me when:

a.      I am on the phone with someone else

b.      I am listening to music in the car and Steven Page is singing

c.      I am asleep

3)       If we have a party, do not make extra work for me to do.

4)       If I am working around the house, do not follow me around and suggest how I could be doing that housework more effectively.

Gary’s unstated exemptions to the above rules are:

1)       I, Gary, feel the first bathroom visit of the day should be announced so all inhabitants of the house know that elimination production is meeting normal standards. And I deserve a treat and a belly rub for that.

2)       I believe that:

a.      The people you are on the phone with would like to know I am still around.

b.      You need to be kept alert in the car.

c.      If I talk to you when you sleep you talk back in your sleep and say funny things with which I can mock you when you waken.

3)       If we have a party, and the books are not in Dewey Decimal order, you just don’t understand how that reflects on the man in the family.

4)       But don’t you want me to help with the housework?

Dog Death with Dignity

One December morning I was making Christmas cookies with my friend Carol. The house was full of Christmas Crap decor - all the stuff that waits 11 months in the basement to come upstairs and clutter up your house during the holidays, and you have to move out your regular crap to make room for the Christmas crap? That stuff. Anyway, it was morning and Gary was sleeping and the dogs (I thought) were tooling around underfoot.

Suddenly Gary screamed from the bedroom: "Auuugghghgh! Augghgh! Damn it Ellen, the dogs have a bag of chocolate chips and they're eating it!"

Well, you with dogs know this is a crisis. Carol and I dropped our spatulas and ran into the bedroom to find McDonnell and Douglas in the closet chewing, this was true, on a noisy cellophane bag.  A bag that contained Fred. Technically, the cremated remains (cremains) of our late dog Fred. What sounded to Gary like dogs chewing through to chocolate chips was actually dogs chewing through to the well-done remains of their predecessor.

The dogs looked up guiltily for a moment. Then over the screams they turned back to their task. We grabbed the dogs and pulled them away from the store of non-Christmas crap that had been stored on the closet floor and surveyed the damage. The box that had previously contained the cremains had been torn open, the cremains bag pulled out and gnawed on, but luckily Fred had been double-bagged and I did not have to clean cremains into my Dustbuster.

Mad Dogs and German Men

Doug, the Sickly White Dog, has been increasingly sickly.   He was feeling pretty peaked when he went for some dental work . Gwen the assistant even commented he was not looking in top form and had lost weight. I commented this might be because he is Bulimia Dog and has puked every day for a week.

The dental work led to some antibiotics. Two days on the antibiotics and I had a different dog. Formerly, Doug would wake me up at 6:30 by whining his Little Whiny Song. Now he was waking me up at 6:30 by barking: "BITCH! Get UP!"

And he was kicking Mac's tail all over the house and snarfing down food. Antibiotics stopped, two days later, Sickly Doug was back. Started antibiotics again, puke dried up, Feisty Doug returned.

This led to some more lab work. It looks like he might have Addison's disease and might need some special medication. I mentioned this to mom, who said:

"He'll become horny."
"Huh?"
"Kennedy," she said. "JFK had Addison's. I think they said the medicine is what made him horny."
I sighed, " Some woman at work said her dog died from Addison's."
"You never know what might happen," Mom reassured me. "Doug might be driving past a grassy knoll and be shot by a lone gunman."

He hasn't been definitively diagnosed with a special Presidential Illness, but currently Doug's on dose three of the antibiotics, and a new dose of anti-spasmodic for his belly, and has figured out all of our pill-giving tricks. Pill hidden in peanut butter/ cheese / Vienna Sausages? Doug's not buying it. Pill poked down back of throat? Doug horks it up, gums it, and I find little white pills adhered to his lip-fur days later. Pills ground up with a mortar and pestle and sprinkled on the moist dog food? For a week Doug took minuscule nibbles of his food and spat out the bits contaminated with pill powder.

Now for the past two days he has stopped eating his dog food. I serve it, he looks up and sends me the psychic message: "Don't think I'm falling for some type of invisible pill you have in there."And of course, my puppy-whipped husband has decided we should feed the dog anything that will give him calories. So today Doug - and of course, Mac - have had:

1) A breakfast of  Vienna sausages.
2) For luncheon, shaved mesquite-smoked turkey.
3) A mid-afternoon snack of peanut butter licked off Gary's fingertips.
4) Smoked turkey flecks mixed into dog food. Doug used great tongue contortions to worry out the turkey and leave the dog food.

Finally I convinced Gary we could grind up the pills, mix it with something palatable and water, pull it into a syringe like the vet suggested, and fire it into the back of Doug's throat. I am sure Doug will soon adapt and begin projectile vomiting the medicine right back in my face.

Mac, the Barom-o-Dog

Killer tornadoes passed -- sorry, ripped -- through Missouri two nights ago. I knew this because my dog McDonnell was shaking and panting and sitting on my head at 2 a.m. I tried everything. The Full Body Dog Take-down. The Comforter Tent. The Tough Love Choke-hold. 

Mac the Mighty Weather Dog-ometer needed to alert me that dogs were being rained on somewhere within a two-hundred-mile radius. There was no rain outside my house, of course, but North Central Missouri evidently had tornadoes. Mac wanted me to know that little rural dogs were in danger of being swept up. (He has never seen The Wizard of Oz, thankfully.)

So, knowing the dog was reaching Emergency Alert System levels of panic (even though there was no rain here) I turned on the Weather Channel at 2 a.m. and I swear he watched it. He stopped shaking and studied the red tornado watch boxes closely. A commercial came on and he went back to pacing.

"I know, honey" I cooed, "There's a tornado two hundred freaking miles away. Do you think I can do something about it?"

"PANT PANT PANT!"

At least he contained his bowels, which is more than I can say of our late dog Fred, the Seismo-Dog, who could tell if an earthquake was happening.  I discovered he had this skill when one day I called the vet, complaining Fred was fine yesterday but this morning he had strafed the house with watery diarrhea.

"It's just the earthquake" the vet said, quite blase , "All the dogs are doing it."

"Huh? What earthquake?"

"There was a 2.5 earthquake at the New Madrid fault this morning. We can't feel it, but dogs can, and they panic and have diarrhea."

Since this is the vet who sometimes eschews the Scientific Method (see Dogs and Kangaroo), I thought it best to check with another source. My co-worker Barry's wife worked for Dog Fancy Magazine, so I asked him, "Barry, have you heard anything about the way dogs behave during earthquakes?"

"Yes" Barry said authoritatively, "They slide into the chasms right along with the buildings and the trees."

Still, Fred did seem to be a Discerner of Earthquakes, and McDonnell can certainly sense a tornado at 200 miles. Douglas it appears has no natural talent, unless someday he starts barking and chasing his tail and we are promptly flattened by a tsunami.