Monday, December 28, 2009

Nowhere to Go

I took all of the pets with me to Mom's house for the Christmas holiday, including Ginger. I also took all of Ginger's possessions: toys, sweaters, grooming products, and food. Why? Because now that she's feeling better it's time for her to go back and live with her mommy.

But Mom didn't see it that way. Instead, she refused to allow Ginger to go back to living with her. What? You seem surprised. Oh, that's right. I didn't tell you. My mom is a self-serving, insensitve, overly-critical banshee.

That said, Ginger is still living with me and my brood. It's ok with me; I actually think she's happier here because she can roam the house freely (and I think she would literally die if she had to spend a day without Wilbur).

I hope my babies don't ever feel as unwelcome as my mother made Ginger feel. I know that feeling and it is very unpleasant. And I hope that I never make anyone feel that way. Ever.

Saturday, December 26, 2009

Eye Quite Shut

I am allergic to hay. Wilbur's diet consists of 50% hay. My diet consists of one Zyrtec daily. I have been without Zyrtec for 3 days. I know you see where I'm going with this.

Basically, I'm typing this with one eye.

He's lucky I love his furry tail.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

Talking like a Pirate

This morning I woke up to a voice message from my human friend (he's not yet my boyfriend and I'm not sure what other moniker would be acceptable). It was short, sweet, and a little groggy - which made it all the more endearing. As I set off about my morning routine, I got the feeling that something was not right.

But I couldn't let it get me down. Instead, I decided to press forward with a smile on my face and a song in my heart. And then I saw it (insert ominous music). A luke warm pile of poo (duhn-Duhn-DUHNNNNNN). I was PISSED!


(You may think this question is not effective but I really only had a 50% chance of getting it wrong and I'm not above punishing all for the unconfessed sins of one.)

Hypothesis: Ginger crapped in my house, under the Christmas tree.
Goal: Find out who should be punished.
How: Ask (using teacher-voice "WHO'S POOP IS THIS!?!".
Result: Ginger slank away abashedly and Klea looked at me like I was crazy for not having doled out her morning treat yet.
Fact: Ginger crapped in my house, under the Christmas tree.

Now, I'm going to be straight with you. I knew it was Ginger. I'm a mom. I know the difference in their poop. But I didn't want to jump to conclusions, so I let her confess her sins and then rubbed her nose in it.

And that's just how the rest of this day has gone so far. Random shit just keeps showing up trying to steal my sunshine. But alas, me harties! I dreams of treasures told by the tales of men. I can see it gleaming before me eyes. For men, it's Christmas time! And I'll be damned if you can stop me from getting what's mine!


Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Pardon Me.

It dawned on me, late yesterday evening, that I never properly introduced myself or my brood. I didn't even take the time to explain why I started this blog (especially since I have another).

Well, this blog is for the sole purpose of posting about the shenanigans of my every day life as a pet parent. I love the little guys, but as any proud owner knows, life with them is always a wild ride.

First, there's Klea, my Pembroke Welsh Cori. Her full name is Klea-Wea. She's 4 years old and a little pudgy, but so sweet. She has a very calm demeanor and her ideal evening is one tucked under my arm, watching movies while I stroke her belly. Her 8 things are:

1. Loves to play
2. Loves to be petted (but new people make her "happy pee")
3. Welcomes everyone (especially those with treats)
4. Very calm
5. Grounded and well-rounded
6. A bit pudgy (she has an appreciation for good food)
7. Loves to run
8. Very obedient

Next is Ginger. She's my sister's dog really but she's staying with me while my sister couch surfs. Ginger was bought from a pet store so she's less apt to trust and barks. incessantly. at wind. at rain. at the radio. at the tv. at guests. It's enough to drive one crazy, but she and I are trying to work through that together. She's a 5-year-old Cairnpoo. And lately, she's been falling to some of the ailments of her breeds, like Poodle's knee and glaucoma. But she's still got a lot of spunk left. Her are her 8 things:

1. Loves to fetch
2. Hates to share
3. Very hoity-toity
4. Extremely territorial and sometimes hostile
5. Slow to welcome new people
6. A bit high strung
7. Performs tricks for treats
8. Loves to curl up in blankets

Finally, there's Wilbur. He's a guinea pig. Judging by his short hair, I'd say he's Abyssinian. He's all white with chocolate brown eyes (thank goodness! red eyes = genetic defects). At only 8 weeks old, he's still not fully grown and very skeptical of the world. He was born to Snickers - whom we thought was male but was in fact a pregnant female (Ha!). Wilbur has only been a part of the family for 5 days, so I don't know much about him but here are the 8 things I've learned so far.

1. He still calls out for his mama (and doesn't appreciate it when I answer)
2. Poops. A lot. especially when Klea barks
3. Has no respect for when or where he will poop
4. Hand training him is hard work
5. He calls out for his mama and is ok with Ginger answering
6. Enjoys treat logs but not treat bits
7. Hates oranges
8. He poops. A lot.

Now, to talk about me. I am a twenty-six-year-old woman whose only real commitment is to the animals she cares for so deeply. I love them and truly bend over backwards to please them. Here are 8 things about me:

1. Loves cake but really should give it up
2. Loves animals and has a hard time saying no to them
3. Has a hard time saying no, period.
4. Has a big heart
5. Has big dreams
6. Needs to open herself up to more opportunities
7. Is a master procrastinator
8. Will finish this post later ; )

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Are they ready for me to date?

Every parent forms a bond with their children. This enables the little ones to know that they can trust you implicitly. Without this bond, there is chaos and no trust. Without trust, there is no respect. Without respect, there can be no love.

I'm proud to say that my little home is filled to the brim with love. But as a single pet parent, I've had to work twice as hard to make sure my little ones needs are met. Basically, I've put their needs first for so long that I'm not sure I know what mine are anymore.

And that's where my problem lies. Yesterday, after coming home from work, I did what I always do. Walked the dogs, played with them, fed them, let Wilbur out to run around, cleaned his food, gave him fresh water, and spot cleaned his cage. By the time I began to cook for me it was 6pm.

Realizing this, I thought that I could shift some of this to the morning. But let me tell you, Wilbur is no friend of mine at 6am. He's actually quite the little bastard - kicking turds and such. So here's my dilemma: where the hell am I supposed to find time to date a human?

I know this question may seem unreasonable on the surface but I cringe at the thought of packing them all off to a kennel so that I can have some sordid weekend affair. Will "he" be worth it? Will the little ones suffer? How will I find balance? Am I using this simply as an excuse for throwing away NFL before we've even begun? Can I use "we" when we've not gone on a real date?

Ugh. You can see why I've come to you for help. Because as much as I hate to admit it; this isn't about my little ones. This is me looking for ways to justify my fear of a stable, mature, adult relationship - or at least the possibility of one.

Will someone please come and b*tch slap me into sanity?

Monday, December 21, 2009

SoMe PiG!

I have a guinea pig. His name is Wilbur after the little white piggy in Charlotte's Web. He's only seven weeks and was born in captivity. And after just 3 days, he's already stolen a big chunk of my heart.

I don't have any human children so this analogy probably doesn't fit but I love to watch him grow and change. Everything he does is so instinctive and exciting. The first time he drank from his water bottle, I cooed, "You're so smart! Who taught you that? Learned all by yourself. Yes, you did".

Yup. I'm that person. The one who takes her puppies on a trip to Dairy Queen because it's 90 degrees in the shade. The one who lets them go for dips in the lake and carts them to and from Doggy Day Camps. I'm the woman who MUST be home at precise hours to keep everyone on their schedules.

If this house were a ship, it would be sailing on water smooth as glass. Now, if I could just find the balance that would allow me to maintain a social life.