Crime Scene: Scene of the Crime

I have been made victim of a hate crime.

And this is the perpetrator.

She looks unassuming but I know the truth.

It's in my bedroom.

In my living room.

Even in my kitchen!! Don't judge me. It was buy carpet or wear socks and I ain't wearing socks.

I think it's from the steroids. It better be from the steroids.

Because last night she just waltzed in front of the TV, put her haunches down and pissed all over the place. She's going 3 or 4 times per walk and we've put in two extra walks to try to get all this liquid out.

Her water consumption is off the charts. Two bowls a day. Which is 4x what she was drinking before.

Me and the vet are going to have a chat about this. 'Cause I'm tired of cleaning up puddles everyday when I get home.

Weekend Plans

This past weekend, Klea and I played it pretty safe. I spent more time at home than I have in the last month and she spent all of her time trying to bury the rawhide bone I gave her over a week ago.

First, she put it in my shoe cubby. Which I discovered as she growled at me while I was busy putting away my shoes. Then she put it in the storage room between the ironing board and the pantry shelf. But she nearly lost her mind when I went to fold the ironing board up and put it away.

When I was tired of picking up and decided to sit down to a delicious Greek meal, she hopped up on the sofa next to me and did this:

That's her digging up my coat to plant the bone safely beneath it. (I got several shots of her nudging the coat back over it to rehide her bone but they didn't come out as well.) She took one look at me looking at her and promptly unburied her bone to hide it someplace new.
This morning when I woke up, I stepped on the doggone bone. There it was, laying in the middle of my bedroom floor unattended. She came speeding into the room when she heard me yelp and after looking at me with indignance, picked up her bone and carted it somewhere new.

I really want her to just eat the stupid thing already.

Early Morning Snack

This morning Klea managed to eat something while we were on our morning walk.

Yes, this is blog worthy. Because over the last 4 weeks, we've been having a major power struggle. She's getting more attention than she knows what to do with. Everyone loves "that kind of dog". Even I knew that I loved Corgis before I knew the name of the breed. One neighbor expressed breed envy with his Dachshund in tow.

The Old Marine looks for us everyday at quarter to six. Where he'll mosie from his porch with treats in his hand ready to tell another tale about the Corgi his father used to have. Klea and I stand and listen to another one of his stories before we all part ways. I think she likes this time the most.

Yesterday during our afternoon walk, she sniffed and sniffed and sniffed the same spot until finally! She sat down. I was flabbergasted! A passerby thought that was just the cutest thing ever and asked if he coud pet her. "Of course!", I say, "She's a good dog". He rubs her back and belly. She looks at me like she just stashed 50 million in jewels. He points out where he lives and lets me know that if we ever stop by he's got treats for her. She knows that she's won.

I've been trying to cut back on her treats and food. She's getting 1/4 cup less than normal because, quite frankly, she's 10 pounds overweight. And her legs are so little that I'm sure it's not going to be good for the longevity of her joints. Besides, she's a herding dog that's not herding. And if I can't get her the activity she needs to stay fit then I've got to regulate her caloric intake. It's the good mom thing to do.

Only she's resisting all of my efforts to get in shape. She likes to sit during our walks. And she won't fetch unless I run for the stick as well. Her GMa had been putting chicken stock on her food but I put the kibosh on that, so K-Dubs decided that she would eat... and then throw it up an hour later.

And since I won't give her 3 treats a day, she now tries to eat  absolutely anything she finds on our walks, up to and including, a dead goldfish, another dog's poop, a popsicle wrapper, a squirrel, a dead bird, unidentifiable roadkill, Burger King trash, lunch box remnants, ants, spiders, the contents of any abandoned cup, and a chihuahua. Yes, a chihuahua. The poor guy got loose and wasn't trying to go home. Klea was gonna send him to Jesus.

I've stayed vigilant. Carefully inspecting anything she puts her nose against. Always on the lookout for "the sideways glance and nibble" - the move that let's me know that she is definitely up to something. But this morning she got me. She managed to pick "it" up without skipping a beat. I'm convinced that her nose never hit the ground because one minute she was beside me and the next she was two steps ahead happily munching away.

Gotta love a good win.

This Is The Face Of A Killer

Yesterday, I came home to find things amiss in the new apartment. It wasn't just that my coffee table was moved. It was that Klea didn't want to go outside. She was leading me to the storage room where I found everything moved.

The dresser was in the middle of the floor with all the broken down boxes thrown around randomly. My luggage was thrown on top of my collection of grocery bags. I use those for Kay Dubs waste. And my black storage shelf was crooked.

My first inkling was to not panic and to call my Mom. I mean, Klea was just fine. And it didn't look like anything was stolen. After 30 seconds on the phone with Mom, it was clear that she hadn't been there. So I grabbed Klea, her leash, and my purse and headed to the car where I planned to call the police. That's when I noticed the ivy was missing.

I called Mom back and told her that I figured out the mystery and it had to have been the maintenance people. I did a walk through of the apartment and all of the little things I'd put on the move-in checklist was in a state of repair. I let Klea do her business and then booked it to the rental office. We had a contentious conversation about the purpose of a move-in checklist and the importance of 24-hour notice.

Apparently, Kay Dubs bit a repairman and I told them that's her job - she is a dog after all. We discussed appropriate scheduling for them to come and complete the work; it will be on Friday. And you know what else is happening Friday? I'm getting one of those sturdy chain locks that can also release by key. If they stomp in here again unannounced, I'm pressing charges.

R. Kelly Syndrome

Someone told me that it's not the dog that's crazy, it's the owner. So, let me make it very clear that Ginger is not my dog. There. That's my full disclaimer.

We all know that she likes to chase things. There's nothing better than baby geese in the morning. But on yesterday's evening walk, she did something she's never done before. She tried to chase birds... that were flying. She just kept jumping and jumping. Throwing her body into the air. Limbs flailing. Looking re-damn-diculous.

Now, I hate birds as much as the next person. Wait. Allow me to clarify. I hate birds in the morning because they don't seem to understand that the sun comes up at different times throughout the year and just because it's up doesn't mean I need to be up so they should just shut the hell up. And I hate birds when they are flying because I had one crap on me when I was walking, once. Unpleasant to say the least.

In my humble (ha!) opinion, the only good birds are fried or filled with a savory stuffing. I fully advocate the dogs submitting to their natural instincts. I don't want them getting too comfy. They need to become stone-cold killers if someone tries to break in. However, I'm beginning to wonder if Ginger has a disease. Or maybe she's just playing mind games with me.

You know, like that guy from M*A*S*H. He pretended to be gay so they would discharge him. Maybe Ginger thinks that if she acts super duper crazy and makes me look like a fool then I'll give in to all her crazy whims like 24-hour toy play (all toys, all the time), or 3-day long walks, or ice cream stops every time she gets in the car. Do you think she's trying to wear me down emotionally? I feel like I'm in Animal Farm and that any moment she's going to start walking on her hind legs and using Wilbur as her bodyguard.

Oh Gawd. I think it's already too late.

Four-Legged Lawsuit

Yesterday, when taking the dogs on their afternoon walk, Ginger was feeling frisky. She had tried to chase a rabbit, a new family of geese, and a bathing bird. There was also the occasional leaF or piece of trash but for the most part it was the live prey that she watned.

So I shouldn't have been surprised when the following occurred.

We were crossing the bridge that divides the complex into good and Mexican when a cyclist rode past. She was going pretty slowly and didn't announce herself (I suppose she didn't want to startle the dogs). Neither of them seemed to notice she was even there... I thought. Because as soon as her ankle got within sniffing radius Ginger leapt forward and started barking and snapping. Scared the poor woman clear off her bike! And onto the ground! And I'm.laughing.too.hard.to.type.

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAAAA!!!!!!!!!

Oh goodness.

So, after pulling the dogs back and reining Ginger in, I ask if the woman is ok and tell her I wish I could help her up but "...you know. My dog and all". Oh! Oh! That was the best walk ever.

Who Runs This?

Last night was supposed to be a peaceful night. I got off work early and was looking forward to a leisurely afternoon of picking up, straightening, and - finally - yoga. All was well until yoga.

I set the mood with soft lighting, calming music in the background, the room was a perfect 70 degrees and I stood ready in my flexi clothes and bare feet.

Somewhere around minute 15, the dogs began to wrestle. I chose to ignore them because that's the key to yoga - blocking out the rest of the world. Then around minute 20, I hear snarling but I'm not going to let them do this to me. I deserve some rest.

During minute 24, in between my third deep breath, I'm in downward dog and then get bumped in the left ankle. Frustrated, I look up and then fall to the ground in shock.

Klea is trying her best to run away with Ginger on her back... thrusting... feverishly.

I can't handle it so I yell, "Get off of her!!" and immediately reach for my phone. Obviously, Ginger needs to have a chat with her Momma.

I'm telling you right now, that these two need to work out their issues because it is stressing me the F out.

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!

AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

(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!

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

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 ; )