Saturday, December 8, 2007

Why can't we eat dogs instead of cows??

I have been up for almost 20 hours. And even though it is nearly 3am, I cannot yet go to bed.

This is because my dumb ass of a dog will not come in the house. I have been trying to lure her inside for the past hour and finally gave up and decided to completely ignore her.
Every five minutes or so she yips and scratches at the door, which means that I must then go open the door ostensibly to let her stupid ass in--at which point she runs away from the door and starts barking while running sideways with occasional mountain goat leaps into the air. I think this must mean "Hey Mommy!!! Come out and play with me in the disgusting slushy and muddy yard!! Pleeeeeeeeez Mommy play pleeeeeeeze!!!!" Which I am not going to do, because it is fucking cold out there in addition to being slushy and muddy. So I am then forced to walk part way into the yard, while hissing "LUNA! GET IN HERE GODDAMIT!!!" which of course doesn't work, so then I switch to my most dulcet, dogcharming tones and say things like "Come here you little shit, get in the goddamn fucking house before Mommy skins you and makes you into a nice pair of fur lined boots!!"

I hate golden retrievers.

It is now officially 3am and she is still out there. Making the most pathetic little whines possible. Which at one point in my life as a mommy could catalpult me out of an absolutely sound sleep. And which now are making me feel really, really murderous while wondering if perhaps the Koreans have something to teach us about dogs as food.

What makes this even more annoying?? She did the same goddamn thing LAST night.
Last night, I let her out at 1:30, which was already late, and she proceeded to elude capture until 2:54am. And last night, it was not raining but it was also less than 20 degrees out there.

I am so afraid that the only reason my neighbors have not yet called the police on me is because they are too busy filming my pathetic efforts and putting it on youtube where Keith Olbermann will see the ridiculous spectacle of a grown woman in an oversized flannel bathrobe trying and failing to outsmart a golden retriever and decide that it is the perfect thing to highlight on his Oddball segment.

Hate dogs. Hate winter. Hate complete lack of dog-parenting skills.

I wonder if anyone will call Dog Protective Services on me if I just leave her the hell out there and go to bed. I'm willing to risk it.

Saturday, December 1, 2007

Something I Do Not Recommend

Have you ever seen what two pounds of pork looks like after it's been inside a golden retriever??


Consider yourself deeply blessed, then.

I have seen, and worse, smelled this.

I was sitting at the computer rambling on in yet another entry about my pathetic lack of a love life, when suddenly I realized that the dog was no longer in the room with me.

I heard one, tiny quiet rustle of plastic. DAMMIT!!

I lurched into the kitchen to find the dog's head buried in the garbage bag I'd been meaning to take out for the past three hours. I yanked her head free, and executed a savvy motion intended to push her away, grab the garbage bag with my other hand, and lift it above my head. Instead I fell face forward onto the kitchen floor and my hand landed in something that looked like jello. Made out of blood. Hmmmm. I then heard a strange choking, gagging sound and twis
ted to see the dog sitting in a hunched over position with her poor head stretched out and drool coming out of her mouth.

Unfortunately, I recognized this pose. It's what she does right before she throws up everything she's ever eaten.

In her entire life.

All at once.

Somehow I got her into the yard, because my vet has told me repeatedly that dogs don't like to throw up in the house.

I don't like to dwell on the next ten minutes in too much detail, except to say that if you have ever had a golden retriever you are probably familiar with the fact that when they do vomit, they immediately try to eat it, which causes them to vomit again immediately, which makes them eat it, and so on. I believe the reasoning here is, "Hey, I already ate that once, and dammit, I'm going to eat it again [and again, and again] until it's good and eaten!!"

Since at this point I had NO IDEA what was making her so violently ill, I was particularly worried. And so ensued a period of time in which she ran away from me heaving wildly, then vomiting, then energetically chomping at whatever was trying to exit her mouth while I screamed "STOP IT!! STOP IT!!! DON'T EAT THAT AGAIN!!!" and flew around after her like a giant plaid flannel loon in my bathrobe and bare feet.

Once, when the dog was only about four months old, we were out in the yard enjoying a lovely spring day. The sun was shining. The sky was blue. The leaves were that lovely shade of spring green. And a mama bird was teaching her adorable little baby bird to fly, right there in the yard! Mama would make odd little cheeping noises and push Baby away from her, and Baby would flutter her little wings and get a foot or so off the ground, and then Mama would rush to her and preen her feathers as if to say "Good job, Baby Bird!! What a good smart little Birdie you are!!"
Suddenly out of nowhere a blinding yellow flash swooped down on Baby Bird and with one giant bite, scooped her up and took off running. For a minute I couldn't understand what was happening. Then I saw the feathers hanging out of my sweet puppy's fuzzy little muzzle, and heard the horrified squawking of the mama bird. "No!!!! NOOOOOOOO" I screamed, running wildly after the dog, who delightedly took off even faster at this new fun turn of events. What a good game!!! She zigzagged around the yard like a downy yellow demon, and I stumbled wildy along, continuing to scream "NO!" and "DROP IT!" and many, many other things which had absolutely no meaning to the dog except "Wow, Mommy is getting really excited!! I'll run faster!!!"
Finally I thought to yell the one command she did know, SIT!!!.
And she did. And as she sat, and I finally reached her, she GULPED.
And that dear little baby bird was no more.
In horror, I grabbed my puppy and instinctively rammed my fingers down her throat, where, unbelievably, I could feel the bird wings still fluttering. I tried to grab them and pull, but another GULP and down went the birdie.

This was a lot like that time, only this time it was about 20 degrees outside and well after midnight. I bet my neighbors don't even have cable anymore. They can just watch me and my idiot dog instead. And this time, when I managed to get to her and force my hand into her mouth to make her stop chewing, I came away with something brownish with a spot of bright red jello like substance on it. Oh no. What can that BE???

Finally the heaving stopped, and so I brought the dog inside. Where, damn that vet, she began to vomit for England. Since I was in my pajamas, I hopped into a pair of pants and grabbed the leash, thinking, that's it, she's dying, we're going to the emergency vet. Suddenly the poor dog gave a great heave. A flood of foam came out of her. I thought I might faint. "This is it, I am watching my dog die right here, and it's all my fault because I am too damn lazy to take out the trash. I've killed her. I've murdered my dog!!!

And then, before I could move, she gave an even greater heave and deposited the unchewed, undigested remains of the pork roast with cranberry chutney that I made on Monday night. Which had been in the garbage bag. It, in fact, looked exactly as it had when I put it into said bag, except the cranberries [Aha!!! Blood jello!!!] were gone, and it was coated in a rather sticky film of mucus.

With awe, I looked up at the dog, who shook her head as though to clear it, burped, and then began to wag her tail happily and sidle towards the now twice cooked pork.

She's fine now. I am definitely going to become a vegetarian again.