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.

Mommy's New Room

Little Miss is having the time of her life in the new place. You can't really tell in this photo but the whole apartment is jammed as tight as my room is. It's weird trying to fit 1100 sq ft worth of stuff into 600 sq ft of rooms. But that's OK, Klea seems to be acclimating well.

At least before the night drags on. I've put risers under the bed to lift it higher. She can now walk under it without stooping but it's harder for her to jump up onto it. A plus for me. A HUGE minus in the Book of Klea. She's used to sleeping right next to Ginger or in her crate. Her crate is set up in the storage room. She's not about to sleep in there by herself. And Ginger didn't make the transition with us. I've noticed that she keeps checking every room; presumably for Ginger.

She looked a little sad when I left this morning. It's not the first time I've left her in the new place. Sunday, I made sure to leave for little stretches of time just to get her used to the idea. And yesterday, I was gone for several hours picking up new things for our small place. But today, she seemed to understand that I'd be gone all day. It breaks my heart that she will be alone all day but Klea is pretty easy-going. And she acclimates well.

Fingers crossed for a smooth transition.

Trying To Leave For Work

Please ignore the jeans and clothing baskets you see scattered around haphazardly (I'm one week away from moving to a new apartment) and just look at that sweet little face. Blocking my way, of course, to ensure that I don't leave without her.

Final Post

I'll be closing down this blog soon.

When the summer ends, major changes in my life will occur. Ginger will go back to living with her mommy and Wilbur will be in the hands of some adoring little child (or God, whichever really).

Klea and I will be living in a much smaller place on a completely different side of town and loving it.

And so, I bid you all adieu.

I hope your days are filled with your own pet's shananigans.

Unbreakable

The worst day of my life was the day K-Dubs ripped up the carpet at the foot of my stairs. Sure, she was a teething puppy, but I was certain that she should know better. And then she threw it up. All over the place. Yellow, runny fuzz was dispersed throughout my downstairs area. I was disgusted and livid.

Then she pooped in my house.

You know, I used to think that there was nothing worst than poop on the floor in my house. Then I was exposed to doggy diarrhea. I tell you, I was so elated to see regular poop on the floor again because it didn't involve rubber gloves, paper towels, rags, and a bucket of scorchingly hot, soapy water that I could have hugged her just for feeling better.

Not to say that I wanted or would allow her to continue pooping in my house but I had come to terms that things could definitely be worst. Much, much worst. Over the years, I have managed to break Klea of many things (except her constant need for petting and attention - but I think that's just her thing).

Ginger on the other hand was never broken. To this day she still does whatever the eff she wants. You can take it or leave it. And living with me these last two years hasn't broken her of her bad habits and Klea only tries them once in a blue moon so I've not been too terribly hard on her. But all that's about to change.

Last night as I relaxed on my couch, I smelled poo. It was volatile with the way it attacked my nostrils. I searched the apartment high and low, under tables, moving boxes trying to find this horrible stench. It wasnt until I went to check under doggy tails that I realized the stench was coming from Ginger. More specifically, her mouth.

I ran and threw up.

They get walked at least 3 times a day. She's not malnourished. She's not underfed. The very expensive food that they eat is because of Ginger's very delicate stomach and her allergic reaction to corn. So, I have deduced that this is just her way of winning. Again.

This is her "Aha, Bitch". Because she knows that if I find poop on the floor, she will spend some quality time in her crate.

No evidence, no crime.

Well, someone told her wrong because we've got a whole different kind of battle on our hands.

Oh, Damn!

Wilbur is a girl.

She is in heat.

Her name is still Wilbur.

I'm not about to change that because a vet can't tell the difference between a boy guinea pig and a girl guinea pig.

If she has babies, I'm putting her out on the street for being a harlot.

And for not paying the house.

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.