You See Your Gypsy: Lace and Paper Flowers Not Included

Hi, friends! It's been a while, yes? I had to actually take a peek at my blog to see where I left off. A lot has happened since my last post...

We sold our house

Goodbye House! In my grand tradition, I made a Shutterfly book to remember it by.

As I was driving around with my Two Mutts and a Tot while Real Estate Agents showed my house to potential buyers, I had all sorts of blog inspiration to write about my experiences selling my home. I may go back and post later on, maybe not. I had the good fortune of getting my house under contract in a mere eight days, and was given 26 days for my home inspection, appraisal, making requested home repairs, packing, securing temporary apartment housing...it was a whirlwind of planning and activity that left me too preoccupied to blog!

We were homeless...for seven days

All of this change has been rough on Robinson

Big thanks to our friends and family who graciously welcomed us into their homes during the week between vacating our old house and taking possession of our temporary apartment! It turns out that there is a difference between sleeping in someone else's home because you're on vacation and sleeping in someone else's home because you have no home. We're lucky to have good friends and family to help make the transition as smooth and comfortable as possible.

My brother got married!

The Happy Couple

In 2000, I was working as a hostess at J. Alexander's with this fabulous girl named Kelly. We soon became friends, and, as friends often do, we went to parties together! It was at one of these parties at Steve's apartment that I introduced her to my brother. The events that unfolded, and the ways our lives intersected over the eleven years that followed is the stuff of romantic comedies. Like all romantic comedies, this story has a happy ending: a wedding! I am so happy, and I have to tell you--their wedding was so fun! Like, so fun that I want to do it again. I wish I had a wedding photo to share, but maybe later I can update.

Photos by Steel Photography

Two Adults, Two Mutts, and a Tot in 600 Square Feet

I slept here ^

"It's only six weeks, let's move in with the least amount of stuff possible..." Yeah. So, the mattress is on the floor, the clothes are in suitcases, and the food is of the microwaveable-comes-in-its-own-bowl variety. If you want to look at our living situation as "camping", I'd say it's a pretty sweet set-up. We have electricity, cable, and indoor plumbing. The only downside is the dogs have wicked separation anxiety since I picked them up from vet boarding after nine days. Laney acts like she just graduated from a Scared Straight program. She has barely so much as grumbled at Rob since returning to us. It's as if she believes she was sent to the kennel for being aggressive towards my son. Their anxiety has reached such a fever pitch that they cannot be left alone, for fear that their incessant barking would lead to our eviction--and as I've covered previously: homelessness < not being homeless. I imagined these six weeks would fly by, enjoying the outdoors with Robinson, running errands, picking out paint and fabric for the new house...if I want to do any of those things, I have to load up the dogs and take them to Steve at work. You see, when disclosing my pet information to the apartment leasing manager, I sort of fudged on Laney's size...and neglected to mention Libby altogether. You can probably understand why I'm trying to keep a low profile. So, that's the story of why we are hunkered down in this campsite like gypsies. Today is day 15 out of 42. Sigh.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, Two Mutts and a Tot outdoors together = Mama tangled up in leashes, skittish mutts and screaming Tot.

We Are Getting A New Home for Christmas!

We're so excited, we can hardly stand the wait, but it will be oh-so-worth it!

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone! Our family is extra thankful this year! xoxo

Bye, George.

I lost my George last week, at the age of five. It was very sudden and unexpected, and caused by "a neurological event" (exactly what, we could not determine without a $3000 MRI and a time machine) and a myriad of genetic flaws that went undiagnosed until the day before his death. Over a period of about a week his body completely shut down to the point where he lost all the qualities that made him George, and he no longer had the functionality to do any of the things that brought him joy. I'm being purposely vague to save myself from launching into a detailed, tearful explanation of George's medical problems, which were shockingly vast. This entire experience has been excruciating. George's genetic problems are the result of inbreeding on a level that is to me grossly negligent at best, and at worst, highly unethical with a cruel disregard for the consequences. I had in the past raised concerns about some of these health problems that I'd observed, but they were dismissed by my former veterinarian as "behavioral problems." Even if I only learned the truth at the end, I'm relieved to know that George's quirks and problems all had a medical explanation, though nothing could have been done to save him ("George is a ticking time bomb" were my vet's actual words). In another home, George may not have lived more than a year or two. George was such a rascal, he cheated death a number of times. I grew to believe he had nine lives. Every time he found himself in a pickle, I prayed that he would survive his latest scrape, and it was such a helpless feeling to watch him die so young and be unable to help him, and to learn that I could never have helped him survive this.

My mom was by my side as we said goodbye to him. Snow Patrol's "Chasing Cars" was playing on the radio. I sobbed uncontrollably. As heartbroken as I am, I am glad George was mine. But I don't cope well with death or bad news. I'm not the kind of person who wants to be cheered up or is able to put on a smile and be a brave girl. I'm more likely to stay in my pajamas, in a dark room, listening to sad songs and eating chocolate, if I eat at all, and taking frequent naps. This grief is going to take a while to shake. Until then, I'll be on blogging hiatus.

 

"You know that place between sleeping and awake, that place where you can still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always think of you."
— J.M. Barrie

Further Proof that I'm a Better Mom Than You

If you've never read my blog, you're probably wondering what kind of smug twit would publish a blog post with such an arrogant title. You should know that it's Opposite Day here at Three Mutts and a Baby. When this is over, you're gonna be the smug one, because whatever insecurities you may have about your abilities as a mother, I'm about to make you feel really good about yourself. Even if you're not a mother, you're gonna feel superior to me, because you'll be quite certain that you'd do a better job with your non-existant, hypothetical children than I am doing with my real child (isn't that always the case, though?) Consider this post a shot in the arm to your self confidence. What can I say? I'm a generous soul.

The same week Robinson learned to crawl, I was dogsitting Bella the Beagle from down the street. That means I was taking tons of pictures, and Bella appears in many of them. Bella has never lived with a baby, so I was astounded by how gentle and tolerant she was as Robinson man-handled her.

He invaded her personal space...

 He smooshed her face...

 He grabbed and jingled her dog tags...

 He followed her everywhere she went...

 He gave her lots of love...

 But it was clear to anyone observing the pair that Rob was totally OWNING Bella.

This went on for eight days. I was surprised that Bella continually allowed Robinson to dominate her in this way. I kept a close watch, as I was sure at some point Bella would tire of being smacked around by Robinson's baby mitts and she would retaliate. I didn't have to wait long.

Moments after this photo is taken, I'm sitting in the floor, just feet away from Robinson, scrolling through the images on my camera and deleting the shots I don't like, when all of a sudden I hear a thud and Robinson bursts into tears. I look up to see Robinson, stretched out on his back, screaming in horror as Bella the Beagle vigorously humps Robinson's face without mercy.

I snatch my baby up off the floor in 0.2 seconds and immediately Robinson stops crying and I clean him up. As embarrassing as this is, I'm even more embarrassed to admit what happened next. As soon as I knew he was ok, I cracked up. The kind of laughter where you're trying so hard not to laugh out loud that your whole body shakes and your eyes fill with tears. 

This is the part where you shake your head disapprovingly.

You think I'm horrible, right? What kind of mother laughs hysterically as a frisky beagle simulates sex on her baby's skull? This one [points at self with both thumbs]. But hey, I could have been worse. I could taken the time to photograph the moment, and I didn't. So I'll leave you with this disturbing image:

Two Mutts and a Baby

Thanks to my monthly "Robinson and Laney" photo session, history will remember Laney and Robinson as best buddies. This is the untold story.

Libby thinks she is Robinson's nanny. She sits nearby and watches over him as he plays. She gamely allows him to tug her hair and pat her on the head. If Robinson spits up, Libby is cleaning him up faster than I am. It's gross. If he cries, she gives him kisses to comfort him. When that doesn't work, she finds me, to make sure I'm doing something about it.

Libby is either on the run from the law, or she's embarrassed to be seen with a baby, because she refuses to allow her photo to be taken with Robinson. I'm determined to capture at least one image of Robinson and Libby playing together for his baby book. She's making my job tough.

Libby just told Robinson a funny joke

He's laughing hysterically, but she's gone in an instant

 

Playing together

Guarding him to ensure his safety at all times

 They were playing until she saw the camera. She quickly moved to distance herself.

Libby just gave Robinson kisses 

Laney's attitude towards Robinson is...different. Laney is eight. She's been treated like a person her entire life. She's smart enough to recognize that Robinson's arrival has bumped her down a notch in the family pecking order. And what's so great about a stinky ol' baby anyway?

Laney cooperates with this monthly photo session for two reasons: 1. She enjoys having her picture taken. 2. She loves attention. She has come to resent her role as photo prop, but she begrudgingly complies.

Laney feels the same way about Robinson that The Office's Michael Scott feels about Toby Flenderson.

I'm sitting on the couch beside Laney, with Robinson in my lap. He reaches out and begins patting Laney's head and tugging her hair. She glares at him. I'm working to free her ear fur from his tightly clenched baby fists. He does it again. She grumbles. Rob waves his hand in the air. She takes his hand in her mouth and just holds it there. She looks me in the eye as if to say "Do you see what I could do to him?" Duly noted. I banish her from the couch and give her the cold shoulder for the rest of the day. I've learned through the years that Laney views being shunned as the worst punishment.

A couple days later, I'm sitting in the floor with Robinson and Libby. We're all playing together, and I'm praising Libby and giving her hugs for being so sweet to Robinson. Laney is watching us from across the room, seething. She gets up, walks over to us, sits up straight and tall with her head held high, and then--with as much affection as she can muster--she gently rests one paw on top of Robinson's head. Then she looks at me. It's as if Laney is saying to me (in Janeane Garofalo's emotionless monotone voice):

"Boy, I tell you what. I've never considered myself a 'baby' person, but with one as adorable as little Robert here, I can't help but love him. It must melt your heart to witness this tender moment between a boy and his dog. I bet it makes you want to cook me an omelet. Maybe take me for a walk."

Dissing Your Dog

When I adopted Laney at nine weeks old (and I was 21), I read every type of puppy training material I could get my hands on, and I was mostly successful in my attempts. However, there was still a disconnect with Laney when it came to correcting bad behavior, because she never seemed to recognize that she had done something wrong, even as I'm pointing it out to her. Finally, out of sheer frustration, whenever she did something wrong, I would give her a dirty look, make a snide remark, and then ignore her for an hour. So, when she would trot over to me, wagging her tail, wanting attention, moments after ripping the berber carpet up in my apartment, I pretended she was invisible, and it broke her little puppy heart.

I know. I'm shaping up to be the villain of this blog post. But come on, it's not like I slapped her. Ok, I'm not helping my case here. I got the idea from Dr. Phil (I know, I know). He says that when disciplining your child, you have to "define their currency" and use that currency to reward and punish. Basically, if your kid loves his XBox, and he's misbehaving, you don't beat his ass. You take away his XBox. He learns that you hold the keys to the things he holds dear, and that he must obey you to gain access to those things. I thought I'd apply this principle to my four-month-old puppy. Laney's currency is human interaction--preferably with me. Once I withheld my attention, and only acknowledged her when she was being good, she figured out how to be good all the time, so that I would always pay attention to her. I think my unconventional form of dog discipline could be categorized as "shunning". Shunning is something I learned about from Dwight Schrute.

So I guess from time to time I did slap Laney. With silence.

Turns out I'm not the only person to think of this. Will Ferrell filmed a fake commercial on Saturday Night Live for a puppy training video called Dissing Your Dog: How to Train Your Puppy with Mockery and Verbal Humiliation. He explains, "A well-placed sarcastic comment or cutting remark can work wonders where rolled up newspaper fails."



It's true: "There's one thing stronger than a dog's sense of smell: his sense of irony.

I never used Will Ferrell's exact verbiage when mocking and ridiculing my puppy, but I used some colorful language of my own, always in a calm, measured tone of voice:

1. While driving past the Chinese restaurant on College Street, I informed her that today's special is Sweet and Sour Laney, and that I'd be dropping her off at their back door (this really seemed to get her attention. Sometimes I still tell her the specials. Kung Pao Laney. Moo Shu Laney. Laney Fried Rice.)
2. I threatened to break up with her in the most dramatic rose ceremony ever.
3. My brother would tell her, "Your mother is a whore, and your father holds the money. And, oh yeah--you're adopted."

That poor puppy. No wonder she turned out to be so weird. But that's neither here nor there. Laney was acting like a real jerk today, so for the first time in a long time, I had to Diss My Dog. Worked like charm...
 
[I'm typing on the computer. Laney is sitting in the floor beside me and startles me with an abrupt, aggressive bark]

Me: Whoa! [jumping in my seat] You scared me!

[I smile at Laney, and she avoids eye contact. That means she's ashamed of something. Puzzled, I look down and see Robinson crawling in front of her]

Me: Wait...was that directed at my child? Really? If you don't want to be around him, then you can leave the room!

[Laney lowers her ears and looks up at me with sad eyes, but I'm unmoved because this is the second time it's happened]

Me: Guess what, Laney, you were a baby once. And just so you know, when you were a baby, nobody liked you! Yeah, imagine that. My roommates despised you, my entire family wanted me to take you to the pound, and our other dogs wanted nothing to do with you. I was the only person who was on your side. And now look at you.

The outcome: Laney has spent the afternoon casually lingering in my line of sight, giving me contrite looks, and tip-toeing around the house (yes, she can tip-toe. If you don't believe me, just ask Steve). While we're on the subject, if you're wondering if my dramatic re-telling of events are ever exaggerated, I want to assure you that I am fully capable of flamboyant storytelling without sacrificing accuracy. That is all.

It's Anchorman, Not Anchor Lady. And That is a Scientific Fact.

It was my girlhood aspiration to be a broadcast journalist; not an uncommon dream amongst girls my age. More specifically, we wanted to be Katie Couric. By my senior year of high school, I had become a bit more jaded. I recognized that there is only one Katie Couric, and that my future in broadcast journalism would most likely involve standing on an overpass in Missoula during a thunderstorm, wearing an anorak and describing the rain drops and gusts of wind to viewers of the local affiliate. This was not my dream.

Just because I allowed the voices in my head to discourage me from pursuing this "unrealistic" goal, doesn't mean I can't enjoy watching my local newscast. I rather enjoyed this segment I watched on my local morning news cast Saturday, about a dog named Valentine that was up for adoption. See if you can spot where I got the giggles. Non-essential dialogue has been omitted.

Anchor Lady: He's a cutie! Is he a Pu-- He looks sort of like a Pug in the face...
SPCA Guy: This, this is a Pug-Beagle, or better known as a "Puggle"
Anchor Lady: A Puggle? Is it bigger, is that why?
SPCA Guy: Well, it's just a Pug and a Beagle mix. A few years back there were these whole "designer breeds" where people were mixing certain purebred dogs, but uh...this is Valentine, and she's a two-year-old Pug-Beagle...
Anchor Lady: Is she normally this sort of...domicile?*
SPCA Guy: When you get her out and play with her, she's pretty energetic. She is Heartworm positive...She would prefer to be the only dog in the family. She's a very dominant dog. And her easy nature--
Anchor Lady [interrupting and condescending]: You can't really tell by her easy nature--
SPCA Guy: Yeah, well, I don't have another dog in my lap, either.

[Anchor Lady changes subject, they discuss how it's more expensive to treat Heartworms than prevent it, but the adoptive family doesn't have to pay for Valentine's Heartworm treatment. They made a few "Valentine" puns]

SPCA Guy: We're open from noon to six every day

[More "Valentine" puns. They talk about a recent fundraiser]

Anchor Lady: We're glad you had wonderful fundraising for that Beagle! I mean, Beagle...Valentine! Which is...you called her a what, a "Peagle?"
SPCA Guy: A Puggle
Weather Lady: Puggle
Anchor Lady: A Puggle! And she's available for adoption today from twelve to nine? [SPCA Guy shakes head] Nine to six?
SPCA Guy: Twelve to six.
Anchor Lady: Twelve to six!

Anchor Lady thanks SPCA Guy for joining her, and then she challenges him to a push-up contest the next time he visits. This only makes sense if you listened to the banter that segued from the previous segment. Blogger's Note: SPCA Guy wasn't a horrible slouch or anything, but I'm guessing he hasn't done a push-up since Jimmy Carter was President.

*domicile: n. One's legal residence

Doing Good Deeds: More Inconvenient Than Ever Before

I hope your dog never runs away. If your dog ever does run away, I hope I'm the one who finds it. And if I am the one who finds it, I hope your dog doesn't have some complicated, pain-in-the-ass ID tag recovery system, forcing me to jump through all sorts of hoops in order for me to return said dog to your loving arms.

Last week, Robinson and I were enjoying a nice, long stroll through the neighborhood, when I notice a big, black puppy scampering in my direction, clearly AWOL. It looks like a black lab, and it looks to be about six months old--so it's basically all lanky legs, and "it" appears to be a "she" based on the pink collar she's wearing. I scan my perimeter, expecting to see somebody running frantically towards me with a leash, struggling to catch up with this boisterous pup (it's happened before), but it's just the three of us: Rob, puppy, and me. I pause my iPod (I was listening to "Love Today" by Mika) and I'm able to read the tags on her collar. This is a delicate task with an excited dog, because you have to have a firm enough grasp in order to read the tags, but if you're not careful, the pup can pull out of her collar and then you're standing there holding a collar while the dog gallops off into the distance without her identifying information and you're stuck feeling like a jerk. Then there's the whole, "not wanting to get bitten by a strange dog" thing.

I should back up for a minute and say that I have a lot of experience picking up and returning other people's dogs. I would estimate that one out of every three times I go for a walk, I catch, rescue, return, or otherwise wrangle somebody else's dog. Sometimes I take the dog back to my house and dog sit all day, sometimes I load the dog into my car and drive him home. It varies.

No big deal, right? The puppy is wearing a tag. I'll just dial the number and tell the person who answers that I have their puppy and all will be fine, right? First of all, this was not your typical dog tag that says "LANEY" in big block letters with a phone number beneath it. It was a yellow plastic tag that displayed a 1-866- number in raised yellow numbers (so not easy to read on a squirmy puppy), and beneath it, instead of a name, is a ten-digit alpha-numeric ID. And me without my glasses! Perfect. Good thing I applied the parking break to my stroller and Robinson is content (must not forget baby, right?) because I have to dial a phone number while reading this hard-to-read tag and not lose my grip of this puppy who is growing more fidgety by the second.

After much maneuvering, I manage to dial the number:

THEN I have to wait while it rings
THEN I have to listen to a lengthy, automated message with a menu
THEN I select "English"
THEN I listen to another automated message, this time an advertisement
"Are you f*$#!ng kidding me?" I ask the puppy. She doesn't reply.
THEN I select "Report a found pet"
THEN I have to wait while it rings
THEN somebody finally answers

I'm still holding the dog, remember? It's a good thing this is a friendly puppy. If this dog were some kind of bratty mutt, it would have bitten me by now and I would have said "Forget this!" But I can't do that. I have this unstoppable compulsion to "save" every dog I see. For all my bitching, I wouldn't be able to sleep at night had I not done this.

So anyway, I'm finally speaking to a human, and he sounds like Chris Griffin from Family Guy.  I decide that he looks like Chris Griffin from Family Guy also. I will picture Chris Griffin in my mind for the rest of the conversation.

Me: Hi, I found a puppy, I better read her ID to you before she wiggles out of my grasp again.
Chris Griffin: OK...
Me: [reading off ten digit alpha-numeric] D as in dog, F as in Frank, M as in Mary, 5,7...
Chris Griffin: Ok...[reading, verifies and collects info from me] She goes by "Candy".
Me: That's funny, because she looks like a "Candy".

I'm looking down at her like, "Oh, so you 'go by' Candy, do ya? I suppose when you reach adulthood you'll insist everyone call you 'Candice'."

Me: So, um...how do we proceed? I have a baby in a stroller, a dog with no leash, no owners in sight, and I'm about a half a mile from my house. Attempting to tote this dog around could get cumbersome.
Chris Griffin: I can place you on hold and call the owners...
Me: I think that's a great idea.

I'm placed on hold for at least a minute. If the owners had just used an ordinary ID tag with their dog's name and phone number instead of using this elaborate "pet recovery system" I could have called them five minutes ago. Then I begin to wonder--are they weird paranoid people who are afraid for their dog to wear a tag bearing their phone number? Do they think somebody will find their roaming dog and use that information to hold the dog ransom, become a psycho stalker, or steal their identity? Seriously, what's the deal? As I'm crafting theories about Candy's owners, Chris Griffin returns to the line.

Chris Griffin: Ok, they didn't answer, so I left a voicemail.
Me: Alright...[awkward silence] So...where do we go from here?
Chris Griffin: If you are unable to retain custody of the pet until they are recovered by their owner, you can call your nearest veterinary hospital, and they will--
Me: Oh, no, that won't be necessary. I'll simply fashion a leash out of my iPod earbuds and we'll trot on back to my house until her owner's call me.
Chris Griffin: [pause] Oh, were you being serious?
Me: Completely.

So, Chris and I say our goodbyes and as I begin to walk Candy down the street towards home, a middle-aged man is frantically running towards me. He thanks me, and attempts to walk/carry her home. I don't tell him that his "pet recovery system" is a cluster f*$# of unspeakable proportions. After all, he did recover his pet, didn't he?

Christmas Card Outtakes

I decided to try my hand at making a Christmas card this year. I've always wanted to. It seems like a proper "family" thing to do, and now that Robinson is here, I'd say I have a proper family, so I should act the part, right? Making a Christmas card goes against my procrastinator's sensibilities, because creating, ordering, addressing, and mailing Christmas cards requires planning in advance and executing. You see, I lack follow-through. That's why I never start scrapbook or sewing projects because I don't want to have to look at a graveyard of unfinished craft projects. It just illuminates my slacker-ness.

The only person who was happy about the Christmas card photo shoot was Laney. Did I mention she's an internationally sought-after glamour model?

After an hour of unsuccesfully trying to photograph Rob using the camera on my cell phone (yeah, it's come to that), I invited Laney to join him under the tree. First, she sat four feet away from Rob by the fireplace. I motioned for her to sit closer to him. That's when she gave me this:



Season's Greetings!
xoxo,
Laney

That is a bunk nativity scene if I've ever seen one. She looks at me like, "Here's your shot. That's a wrap." Robinson wasn't digging my whole "Away in a Manger" concept.

So I tried dressing him up.

It's supposed to be a Christmas card, not an entry photo for a Baby Gap model search. Also, he looks like a first grader. Not the "Baby's First Christmas" card I envisioned. Next.

For every smiley face shot I get, there's twenty of him crying or with his hand in his mouth.

Then I began peeling his clothes off, layer by layer, til we were back to "naked baby" As you can see, this drug on for some time...

 

Most pictures were this good. Robinson is bored, and Laney looks like el chupacabra. These pictures are misleading, because Laney is pretty indifferent towards Robinson. Libby is his real-life bestie. I tried to include Libby, and she is nearby while I am shooting, but every time I invited her to sit with Laney and Rob, she tucked tail and ran outside. I think my invitation to be photographed translates in dog-speak to "I will deport you!" because that was her reaction.

I'm proud to say I have placed the order for Christmas cards with Shutterfly, and once they've been mailed, I'll share it with the blogosphere! I hope everybody is enjoying the holidays!

The Smoking Crumb

So, last week I baked a cake. Like nice wifeys do. It was red velvet, one of Steve's favorites. I knew I had done well, because he immediately went and pre-cut slices into the entire cake. Then he served himself three slices on one plate.

A few minutes later, I walk into the kitchen and notice that something is askew with cake...

Clearly this is the work of the cupcake bandit, who last struck in September. That case is still unsolved, but I suspected Libby, Steve suspected Laney. I also have to allow for the possibility that it wasn't an inside job.

You should know that I will never pass up the opportunity to feature Stains the cupcake dog on my blog. Even at the risk of getting text messages from friends that say "Nice blog, but you talk about your dogs too much". Anyway, I think this case is all wrapped up, because while I only had a hunch last time, this time I have proof! I present to you: The Smoking Crumb:



It's Libby!

I hearby find that Libby is guilty of the charge of eating dessert off the counter top: a Class A misdemeanor. I sentence her to: being crated whenever I leave the house for the next week, to keep her honest. I gave her a pat on the fanny and asked her if the cream cheese frosting was tasty. Laney sat in the corner seething that she is a good girl all the time and Libby gets frosting and she gets bupkis (yes, Laney knows Yiddish words). We shouldn't have left the cake so close to the edge of the counter. If I were Libby, I would have done the exact same thing. Now that I think of it, I should have given Laney a slice of cake to make things even. Parenting lesson learned: if one kid gets cake, both kids get cake.

Never Leave Me Again!

I mentioned in my Thanksgiving recap post that I boarded both Laney and Libby for the week, and during their stay, Steve received a report that one of them was suffering from such severe separation anxiety that she was having bouts of explosive diarrhea, barking fits, and ultimately had to be sedated. We weren't told which brown dog was doing this, but Vegas odds makers had it 3:1 as Laney.

Aren't I pitiful?

My whole family guessed it was Laney, and it turns out we were wrong! Turns out it was ol' Scrappy Do herself, Libby Leigh, having Vietnam flashbacks and suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from her days as a homeless, orphaned mutt living on the mean streets of Gainesville, Texas. She remembers how all her sisters got adopted from the pound before her, and she got left behind until the nice redheaded lady adopted her. I can almost picture Libby at the kennel on Thanksgiving, rattling her cage with her paws screaming, "I want my one phone call! Where's my lawyer?! I've been framed!"


I missed you, Sammy!

The girls are super happy to be home now. They're being quietly clingy, and it's cool because they got baths while they were at the kennel and so they smell like roses!

Cupcake Bandits

Steve offered to stop by the grocery store on the way home from work yesterday. I was grateful, and asked for basics like milk, eggs, bread, and cheese. He came home with chocolate chip cookie dough, Reese's Peanut Butter Cup Klondike Bars, Pop Tarts, and a dozen cupcakes from the Kroger bakery. As I awoke this morning to make a pot of coffee, I noticed three cupcakes were missing. I called Steve to investigate the matter:

Me: So, did you have cupcakes for breakfast?
Steve: Um, no...
Me: Well, three cupcakes are gone and the lid wasn't clicked shut.
Steve: Shut up!
Me: Um, no...the cupcakes had plastic footballs and #1 hands sticking out of them, and I found a couple of #1's in the living room. The cupcakes are sitting directly in front of the coffee maker, or else I wouldn't have noticed, because cupcakes are the last thing I'm thinking about at 7:00 in the morning.
Steve: Cupcakes are not the last thing you are thinking about.
Me: Fine, but today I wasn't thinking about cupcakes, but there they were.

Personally, I like Libby for the job. She's scrappy and has nothing to lose. Steve thinks Laney is the only one the the stealth and grace to take three cupcakes without taking the whole tray to the floor. Then again, maybe this was the work of a professional...

Let My Love Open the (Dog) Door

I haven't published any posts related to my 101 Things list lately, but that doesn't mean I haven't accomplished anything in that time. Most notably, I have helped George lose weight and taught him how to use a doggy door. Neither of these tasks were simple. Above is a photo of us trying to coax George to come inside for a treat. He wants to so badly...if only he knew how to get back in the house!

There have been some changes in our household recently: George has gone to stay with my mom. George is a sweet boy, but he requires special care and I was concerned that his needs wouldn't be met while I'm so focused on caring for a newborn.

Having George is like having a "Forever Puppy".

For reasons which remain a mystery, it's as if his mind never developed past about four months of age. Just as I wouldn't adopt a puppy at this juncture, I can't devote the time to George that he deserves and needs.

Besides, staying at my mom's house must be like going to a Sandals Resort. She sprinkles the yummy canned food on top of his dry dog food, she walks him twice a day, and he gets to snuggle. What more could George want? We miss him, but hopefully he'll be back soon.

The One Where Libby Gets Snipped

Libby is getting spayed today. Libby is three. Considering that my earliest childhood dreams were to either:

A. Be one of Barker's Beauties like my first redhead icon, Holly Hallstrom, or

B. Meet Bob Barker in Contestant's Row, play Plinko, spin $1.00 on the Big Wheel, and win the Showcase Showdown

...you'd think I'd heed Bob's sage advice to help control the pet population by having my pets spayed and neutered. So why isn't Libby spayed already? Funny story (not really).

When George ran away in October 2007, my job as a Mortgage Consultant at Countrywide Home Loans was circling the drain. It was the beginning of the subprime mortgage crisis. Everyday I came to work, the guidelines were stricter, the loan options were fewer, and layoffs were happening at any and every moment. We worked in a cube farm on the sixth floor of this office building, and at various points throughout my final weeks at work, the Vice President would walk towards our corner of the cube farm, and begin pointing at people all around me and canning them right then and there. It was like a corporate version of Nintendo's Duck Hunt and I was just trying not to get shot.

Since I was devastated that George was missing, and sitting in a cubicle waiting to be fired was stressful, and having to tell potential borrowers all day long that I can't help them get a loan was depressing, I spent a lot of time on the internet looking for George. Yeah, that was a fruitless search, but it's where I found Libby. She was staying in a shelter in Gainesville, some 75 miles from where I live. When I called the shelter and learned that the only requirements for adoption were a photocopy of my drivers license and an $85 adoption fee, I decided I was meant to save her. I promptly quit my job and withdrew $85 from the nearest ATM. That's the flimsiest adoption process I've ever heard of, and I didn't want just any old hack to take her. When I adopted Laney, the fee was $250, and I had to fill out lengthy paperwork, pass a home inspection, give a veterinary reference, and take a blood oath to give that puppy the kind of life that other puppies only read about in fairytales.

Libby was not doing so hot when I met her. Her mother was a stray who delivered a litter of puppies in a random barn on a farm. The farmer's wife discovered the mom and the puppies. When she returned a couple days later to collect them to take to the shelter, the mother was gone. Now, four months later, all of Libby's sisters had been adopted and Libby had developed kennel cough, so she had a major case of the sads. The vet tech at the shelter told me that all she needed was "love". And a course of antibiotics. The $85 adoption fee included her vaccinations, her kennel cough medicine, her spay surgery, and a microchip. I was told the microchip had not yet been implanted because Libby hasn't been feeling well, but that I was welcome to drive the 150 mile round trip to return to the pound and have it implanted once she was feeling better. Thanks, but no thanks. Libby sat in my lap as I drove home, and we lived happily ever after...

Until seven months later when somebody got her period in my bed. I was horrified! I went through my records, found the documentation stating she'd been spayed, and called the shelter. Oops, there must have been a clerical error! They spayed all of her sisters, but not Libby because she was sick. They meant to go back and spay her later, but then this nice lady adopted her...

That's when panic set in. Libby has been sharing a crate with George, who by this time has returned to our home but is still not neutered. What if they made puppies? What if Libby is knocked up? My vet offers to x-ray Libby to see if there are puppies so we can know whether or not to have her spayed just yet. You see, puppy abortion is not on my list of things to do. After the vet has a chance to review Libby's x-ray, they determine that there are no puppies in her womb, but that her intestines are full of poo and the vet tech complained that Libby passed some stinky farts during the x-ray process. Thanks a lot. I didn't need an $85 x-ray to tell me that my mutt is stinky and full of shit.

My vet would spay her for $350. Steve and I have a friend who is close friends with a local vet, and Steve was of the belief that this vet may spay Libby in exchange for golf balls. Since I would rather pay in golf balls than dollar bills, I asked Steve to broker that little deal. Two years later...

I'm sitting on my couch, holding my newborn son, when Mom says to me, "Uh oh. I see blood drops on the tile. One of the dogs must have hurt themselves. We need to check all of their paws." I don't say anything, but in my head I'm all Catherine Willows from CSI.

I'm saying to myself, "Is it blood drops or blood smears? If it's not a smear, it didn't come from their paws, and if it's a drop, then it came from...Libby's vajayjay!" I didn't want to think about it. Please don't let Libby be in heat.

Not to be outdone by me and the arrival of my baby, Libby proved that I was not the only bitch in the house capable of reproducing. She would not allow me to hog the spotlight. Neither would Gus. After two weeks in my home, where Gus largely ignored Libby, he suddenly wanted to ride her like a pony. Then, in front of Mom, Robinson, and me, Gus began to hump Libby's face. "Libby, Libby, make him  buy you dinner first!" I joked. Mom's not amused.

So here we are. Libby will be snipped by supper, thus closing the book on the Libby's Vajayjay Chronicles.