Three's a crowd

Corey left for Las Vegas today.  I think his nerves got the best of him last night.

2:30am
"Beetle, my stomach hurts.  I need the dog up here on the bed."

"(mumble grumble) ok..."

"Oliver.....Oliver.....Oliver....."

Our 75-pound Oliver jumps up on the bed and settles in between us.

"Beetle, move over.  You're crowding him."

"But I'm at the edge of the---"

"Shhhhh."

There is something about a man and his dog.

...and there's something about a dog's ability to gain full access to the best spot on the bed.

It's the sound of love...and angry beavers

It's almost hilarious how loud and chaotic our house is.

Almost.

As in "I would find this hilarious if I wasn't crying from sheer frustration-slash-exhaustion from needing a friggin' minute of silence already".

Equally knee-slapping funny: my house consists of myself, one grown man and a dog.

And possibly a nest of centipedes yet to come out of hibernation.

So between Corey and Oliver I find myself in a never-ending cacophony of ultra-loud talking, licking of one's privates, blaring music, random gibberish and the shaking to death of Christmas Bear.  At some point you would think one or both of them would tire and curl up in a ball at the foot of the bed.

No.

That never happens.

There is always a  panting head hovering withing five inches of my face at all times, and I am never unaware of Corey's location in our apartment:

"What time is your meeting?.....WHAT?!" shouted from the bedroom.

Or:

"Who was on the phone?.....WHAT?!" shouted from the kitchen.

These days I come home around 10pm and I find all of the questions and gibberish and licking and panting are bottled up and saved just for me in that magical hour of 11 o'clock which I normally devote to, you know, sleeping.

Hi-larious.

But deep down, like way down in there, past my secret love of Hootie and the Blowfish and sleeve tattoos I know this is just how the boys show me I'm missed.

And loved.

And special.

...

...but I really would like my sleep back.

On Oliver and life's little adventures

My darling little Oliver-dog.

Mama's little tootie pie.

I believe I've had my last "kiss" from this mutt for a very, very long time.

You know what you did, Oliver.

You know how sometimes you find yourself in that "perfect storm" kind of scenario where your mouth is open mid-sentence just as your dog is jumping up to lick your chin where he found a dallop of ice cream the day before and you end up with a tongue all up in there?

Mmmhmmmm.

And then you get all grossed out but still semi-ok with it because "dogs have the cleanest mouths in town, for realz"?

Right, right.

But then there is a brief moment when you remember that time you caught him sampling cat doody and your insides curdle ever so slightly?

Yeah.  Me too.

See, our little munchkin has been having some digestive issues lately; in that he walks away from the pooping grounds with a dingleberry clinger, a poo-nugget, if you will.

The first time he brought his little friend inside and deposited it in the form of a poo smear on the carpet.

The second time Corey managed to dislodge it while still outside. 

Thank goodness.

And this last time, just last week, Oliver-dog took on the big boy responsibility of removing that little dangly crap nugget himself. 

What a big helper!

Only Oliver does not have hands.  Or fingers.  Or a plastic baggy to place over and protect anything that must go near that region.  He has his tongue.  That multipurpose tool he uses clean, eat, and collect pee scents from neighborhood shrubs.

Grrrreat.

So there I witnessed my nighttime cuddle-bug, hunched over, going to work on that turd like his life depended on it.

And maybe his life did depend on it.  Because how comfortable can it be to lay around all day with this thing just hanging out down there?

Anyway, to end a long story that could have been made very short about seven paragraphs ago, I ended up grabbing a piece of ice and stepping in to assist.  Successfully. 

However, I would say none of us walked away from that situation as winners.

But life-lessons were learned that day.

Survey: What would you do?

I'm going to give you a purely hypothetical scenario and I would like to know what you would do, hypothetically.

It's 11:50 New Year's Eve and you wake up on the couch (after falling asleep to the Big Bang Theory marathon, hypothetically) to your dog staring intently at something.  A something that appears to be swooping through your house.

You follow your dog's gaze to what could be a bat.

Then you confirm it is a bat as it flies at your head.

Now, let's say you live less than a block away from a park in a house that gives you a perfectly unobstructed front row view of the fireworks that are set off for two different occasions: July 4th and New Year's Eve.  A feature of your living arrangement you brag about to your friends endlessly, hypothetically.

But in this scenario you find that because you're less than a block away from a park, when those rockets explode and you're already terrified of contracting rabies you find yourself unable to control the urge to scream, pee or sweat profusely.  Hypothetically.

Now, let's say you have a rather large dog who is terrified of fireworks.  A dog who uses the tactic, "If I bark loud enough they will go away," further scaring the bat and causing it to swoop even more erratically in the region near your head.

So as you lay there, in between your couch and ottoman, on top of your shaking Golden Retriever (hypothetically) you ask yourself what in the H-E-double hockey sticks you should do.

Well friends, what would you do?

Stacie says: "Love your animals, Please!"

I've put my stamp on this day: it's not going to be good.

I'll make this quick because I'm a total emotional basketcase when it comes to most certain things.

Like animals.

Oh I love me some animals.  And I've had plenty: dogs, fish, a rabbit, a guinea pig, a turtle, some lizards, a couple birds, ducks, ferrets and probably more I'm forgetting.

And when I see even the slightest hint of mistreatment I'm affected.

I saw a guy yell at his puppy for barking and then yank up on his collar while walking in Saratoga Sunday and I had to call Corey in tears.  I don't know why I'm like this, but I am.  Corey definitely doesn't understand it.

And today is the worst of it: a friend of ours has an appointment this afternoon to put her dog to sleep.

Her perfectly healthy seven year old dog.

I'm not going for "misery loves company" here, I have a point.

This dog, Dierks Bentley, is a pit bull that lead a much different life before he found his permanent home with our friend.  He was abused and mistreated and taught to be aggressive.  They were his formative years and so he carried this aggression with him.

Corey and I looked after him not too long ago.  He's sweet and loves to play, walk and chase squirrels.  His only flaw, besides shredding expensive comforters, is this strong desire to attack other dogs.  He got that chance on Sunday.  Due to a situation beyond our friend's control Dierks came into contact with a small dog and killed it.

So now he is going to die.  This afternoon.  I tried as hard as I could to find a better alternative; rehabilitation or placement at a farm far, far, far away from other dogs but what I found is that there are thousands of pit bulls in this same situation just in our region every single week. 

And they are put down too.

This is too much for me, people.  I hope it is too much for you too.

You don't have to be like Corey and me and have a special blanket so your dog can climb up on the couch because the floor is just not soft enough or make special trips for the treats he really likes.  But you should, at the very least, show your animals the respect they deserve as contributing member of your household.  Because they do provide in some way; either through companionship, protection or entertainment.

To treat them any other way is cruel and always leads to pain further down the road.

Let people know that.

Gobble Gobble

Where do I begin?

I mean, Thursday was technically the gateway into the holiday season, and that's kind of a big deal so of course I'm going to have a story or five to tell.

But where do I begin?!

...

My BFF came into town Wednesday night with her toddler, Lucy.  It was unplanned, but not unwelcomed.

Just....unplanned.

Have I mentioned Corey and I do not have children?

Or that our "baby proofing" previously consisted of moving items that would be attractive to a Golden Retriever mouth?

A few mistakes:

• left Oliver-dog's food bowls on the floor
• left wool for felting on ottoman

If you put two and two together you get a few necklaces and bracelets smelling like salmon and beef jerky.

We did our usual two meals on Thanksgiving.  First with my family where I swore I would not stuff my face, but stuffed my face anyway, and then with Corey's family where I had no more room to stuff.

So I stuffed my pockets.

Just kidding.  But, seriously, I wish I had.

On Friday I replaced my dad's and my traditional 3am Black Friday outing for an 11am shove match at the outlet mall where I found a pair of red corduroy stretchy pants at Banana Republic for $10.  I'm so glad I like the clothes no one else wants.  I lean toward stretchy now that my Summer of Carbs has turned into a Fall of Cookies and I'm getting all squishy.

By then our house was baby free and in the afternoon while Corey let loose with the vacuum I was able to felt my way to arthritis.  The process I now use involves stabbing small balls of wool with special needles, so I guess it was appropriate that I stabbed away to the 48 Hours Mystery marathon on TLC.

The rest of our holiday weekend was slow and uneventful.

I declared Saturday to be a day of inside projects and that is where I stayed.  Inside.  Washing sheets, felting, eating and not showering.  And on Sunday I accidentally got a spatula stuck in my stand mixer and flung cookie dough across the kitchen.

Corey was mad.  I think he's glad I'm back to work and away from his kitchen where I tend to make messes.

I made quite a few messes.

First with the two pumpkin pies.

Did you know I have this thing about making my pies from scratch?  It takes me three hours and I do actually get flour on everything, including the dog.

Then I made a green bean casserole.

Did you know I have this thing about making my cooking projects more difficult than they need to be?  I may or may not have sent Corey on a mission for bacon Thanksgiving morning.

Then I made dog treats for each of the ten dogs we encounter in our whirlwind, cross county Thanksgiving tour.

Did you know I have this thing about turning myself into Martha Stewart?  Fancy packaging, dog bone labels, wood basket and all?

Lord help me if I were to ever be a full time housewife.

And Lord help my waistline.

But now, finally, I'm back to work.  The daily grind.

...counting down the days until the next round of holiday madness.

Dog Fights and Downpours

Oliver has had a rough week.

His life is one big routine of walk, eat, drink, watch me get ready for work, eat, sit, lie, walk, lie, eat, sleep.

Starting last Friday we've thrown in medication two times a day, constant digging through his ears, checking is gums, staring at his eyeballs.  We roll him over every other minute to check his rash; is it spreading?  is it getting better?  why is he wet?  ohmigosh is that pee?

Then last night the poor guy was attacked.

By a Boston Terrier.

Corey let Oliver out to do his business while I waited inside. 

No big deal.  They do this every night.

But this night I hear a blood curddling scream come from outside.  It was definitely a dog.  But what dog??

Oh Christmas candy, that dog has finally killed something.

I seriously thought my dog, who has aggression issues toward most dogs, had finally done damage to some poor, innocent creature.

The shame...the anguish.....the vet bills!!

I ran out the door, so did my neighbor.

"Was that your dog??"

The rest of our building was already outside.  Including one of the neighbors holding his little -4 lb Boston Terrier.  He was upset.  Corey was upset.

Oliver was confused.

I was confused.

It wasn't until we were back upstairs and Corey had texted our vet before I found out what happened: the teeny little dog was also outside doing her business when O-dog came down.  Being super excited to see who he thought was his friend, her brother, he rain toward her.  She, being not entirely pleased, lunged at him, grabbed ahold of his neck and did not let go.

Enter dog screaming.

Corey and another neighbor were able to seperate them.

I checked for damages and judging by the seriously awful sound of his screaming I was looking for missing chunks of skin, maybe a tooth.

Nothing.  Just some redness, a little bruising, and one littttle tooth hole that produced half a drop of blood.

Fine.  Everyone was just fine.

Except Corey.  And the neighbor who owned the dog.

But boys will be worriers.

...

This morning was the icing on the cake.  Out for our morning walk I noticed dark clouds rolling in.

After everything that's happened, wouldn't it be just great if it rained on us?!

Famous last thoughts.  It did rain.  And it was not great.

Oliver and I were stuck in a downpour a little less than a mile from our apartment.

Do I wait it out under a tree?

(rains harder)

Do I run all the way home?

(rains even harder)

I ran with my glasses in my hand, Oliver shaking off every 10 feet, water in my eyes, cars driving by most likely commenting on how dedicated an athlete I am.

Corey was waiting for us on the porch with a few towels.

...

Great way to start the day!  Possibly a hint of what's to come for the weekend?  Let's hope not.

Dog Whisperer...Or Not

Corey and I chat every now and then during the day, sometimes on the phone, sometimes online.

Usually the dog comes up.

"So Oliver called, he's having chest pains."

It's nonsense.  Obviously, but we have a lot of fun seeing how far we can take the conversation.

Like yesterday:

"I talked to Oliver, he said there's a leaky faucet."

"Yeah, I know.  I just told him to call Jack."

"Oh ok, because I told him to go down to the Stadium for a drink and forget it."

"He's meeting Jeter there (corey's friend's cat)."

"Oh great."

"He's fine."

"No, that guy has terrible language.  Probably gets it from his dad."

...and so on.

Later, on the phone we laughed about the whole conversations.  Then Corey asked me:

"You do realize neither of us talked to the dog today?"

Un-salute

Let me clear up something from yesterday: 

Just because I think President Roosevelt is one cool dood for making wide open green areas for me to run around like a carefree pre-teen doesn't mean I'm not super annoyed that my dog can't go one stinkin' hour on my day off without whining and giving me those "we both know where I want to go" eyes.  We both do know.  He wants to be in one of those dadgum parks.

So, thanks again for those parks, Mr. Roosevelt.  (If you were alive to read my remarks I hope they would come across as sarcastic, because that is my intent.)

I. Heart. Dogs.

I really do. I might also be a dog whisperer.

I pet mean dogs, and I've never been bit.

I kiss strangers' dogs, and I've never been pepper sprayed!

I pick up all little dogs, and I've never been peed on!!

If that doesn't make me an anomaly, I don't know what would...besides being Big Foot, an alien, or a 68 hot dogs in 10 minutes eater.

Wait, do I have that definition right? I'm trying to use my words-I've-heard-once-in-what-I-thought-was-the-right-context bank.

But I digress.

People (my future husband and his entire family) don't understand my dedication to the domestic dog.

I've ingested at least a pound of dog hair.

I've been kissed In My Mouth by random dogs.

And I've actually contemplated "expressing" my own dogs anal glands.

None of this bothers me.

I think I can attribute my love of dogs to my first Golden Retriever, Lucy. It was a long time ago, so I don't remember much of what made her special. I do know I cried for three years after she died of cancer at only four years old.

Now, I am the proud dog-mom of my third Golden, the most handsome dog in the world. (that is actually a fact, it's on wikipedia)

And I'm the future mom of this dog:

It's a Golden Doodle. His name will be Franklin. Corey...um...doesn't know about this yet.

Oliver: half dog, half monster, half goldfish

You'd never guess our big 'ol Oliver was, at one time, afraid to go in the water. It took weeks of gentle...and then not so gentle coaxing to get him into the water up to his armpits. Then he finally took that last step that found him without any footing.

It was all over from there.

If the gate is open in the backyard, Oliver is doing laps in the pool.

If it rained last night, Oliver is rolling in the puddles.

If there is a decorative pond, Oliver is standing in it.

This is our new weekend routine at the lake. And it doesn't end until he has collapsed...which takes about eight hours.

Oliver loves cars

The wind in his ears, the smells on the street, the feel of freedom.

Oliver loves cars. He loves to be in cars, around cars, jumping up on cars, watching cars, etc. The poor guy also loves to chase cars. This nasty habit almost left him in a brass urn, to be scattered over his favorite swimming spots.

One fall afternoon, as we were in the yard raking leaves, Oliver spots a slow moving SUV turning onto our road. He sprints toward the car.

At this point I'm not sure if he even knew what he was going to do when he caught up. Will he jump up to the window to see who is in it? Or will he chase it?

He does both, simultaneously.

As he catches up to the car, he jumps head first into the rear passenger side door. This flips him over and spins him around, giving him a nice piece of road rash on his foot (which later required acupuncture. shrugs shoulders). Dazed, he limps toward me. I'm shrieking, of course.

It ended much better than it should have. No broken bones. Small boo-boo. The only negative outcome is that he is still fearless when it comes to these hairless people boxes.

We are a family that shares

109 days...

The weekend is over. No exciting stories to tell. Corey and I picked out our wedding bands, we registered for a lamp, and he bought some pants.

Is this what married life is like?

Should I expect weekends full of plant shopping and doing dishes?

I hate doing dishes.

I never pair "mundane" and "Corey and Stacie" in the same phrase. Here’s a scenario of a typical C&S outing:

C&S take O for a walk through town. They stop for a nice lunch and are seated at an outside table. O lays down on the other side of the railing with his leash securely tied. C orders pasta, S orders pizza, O gets bread crusts. Dog #1 walks by, no reaction from O. Dog #2 walks by, O slightly agitated. Dog #3 walks by and stands with his owner, O now needs to be restrained.

Dog #3 starts to walk away, O decides to go with him. He breaks free of C, breaks free of collar, runs free through downtown Saratoga Springs. C runs after him, nine other people run after him, S stands at the table shrieking.

O is finally caught. S grabs C’s credit card, runs across the street to Dawgdom and buys the cheapest collar she can find. O now wears a rather feminine wide green collar with brown polka dots.

A tribute to the Dog.

Corey and I own a dog. Oliver.

Also known to me as Oliter, buddy, bud, buster bottoms, sugarkins, and psycho.

Also known to Corey as dog.

If he had an online dating profile it would read:

My name is Oliver, I am a 4 year old golden retriever who loves the outdoors. Although I'm a cancer, don't expect me to be independent. I will latch onto you like a tick, which I've had. My hobbies are: swimming, hiking, rolling in the grass, rolling in the snow, eating stuff people drop on the floor, cuddling, and chasing my back foot.

I am looking for friendship, anything more is physically impossible. Pee on a stick in Congress Park if you're interested and I'll track you down.