Roaring Corgi

Dog Bit Prevention--HAHAHAHA!

Did you know it's Dog Bite Prevention Week? 

Crazy Dog should be the poster child.  Of what you DON'T want.  I love this poster that tells you how you can tell if a dog might bite you. We make it easy with Crazy Dog and slap a muzzle on him. Pretty damn obvious that he will bite. 

Crazy Dog is a jerk, but then you knew that.

This dog is such an ass sometimes. This isn't any secret to anyone who has met him or has met me or reads this blog. It's just that I never run out of new examples of why he is so terrible. 

The other night I am looking for him so we can go to bed. I keep walking up and down the hallway, calling his name. He isn't coming and I don't see him on his usual perches:

- the guest bed

- Roxy's bed

- the dog bed downstairs

Then I happen to look down as I am walking back through the hallway for the 12th time and see him like this:


 

Yup. He's laying in the laundry basket. On my clothes. (They were dirty.) This same dog is TERRIFIED of the laundry basket when it's empty. But then it's not soft. It's understandable.

Empty laundry basket = cage of terrifying mutilation death. 

Full laundry basket = soft fluffy bed humans placed for me in the hallway.

I wasn't as annoyed with him sleeping on my clothes as I was at his refusal to respond to my calls to him. It was as if he knew he wasn't supposed to be there so he tried to camouflage: "Please don't find me. Don't find me!"

And that face he is making right there? It's the oh-man-I-am-so-sorry-but-not-really-at-all face. He doesn't give one crap about whether we are mad at him. He would prefer I just walk away and let him be. Which I didn't. I beat him. 

Where have all the spiders gone? Long time passing?

I kind of hate this time of year. And also love it. I am so damn conflicted. I am excited that it is fall, and, therefore, HALLOWEEN! AND THANKSGIVING! AND THEN HOLY CRAP CHRISTMAS!

But. I hate that September also brings with it this fickle, and terrible, weather. It's very much like an abusive boyfriend. <--I can say this statement because I've had one. It's the same. Almost. Really close. 

I wake up in the morning and it's all cold and freezing and I am like, I will wear boots! And a sweater maybe! Or at least just boots! And then by noon, I am sweating like it's the deep south (that is NOT a euphemism). WTF California? And I should be used to this since I have experienced it almost every year for <cough> 30 <cough> years. There that boyfriend goes: hitting me again. I shouldn't expect anything else. 

You know what else happens this time of year? (Now that we own a house)

Western Exterminator pays a visit. And soaks our yard with so much poison. DEATH TO CRAWLIES! (flips hair) Gawd, they use organic inside. Sheesh. 

I really do not know what it is but our house always has spiders. And not just this house. All the ones we've lived in. There is obviously a common denominator: spiders are assholes. 

But no really it's because we have dogs. And we leave windows open a lot and screen doors ajar for them to go in and out. 

Last week we had the yard and house sufficiently soaked with poison to end the spider camp outs we disrupt when we go to bed... BECAUSE THEY ARE IN OUR BED. 

For some reason we have yet to figure out, our house had an infestation of flies this past month. Like not 5 or 6, but very seriously like 12 at a time flying around. We would no sooner kill them when 6 more would pop up. I started glaring extra hard at the dogs to make sure they weren't pooping and hiding it. 

Roxy would do that if she had the wherewithal. 

So I thought, Ah ha! I know a solution! I will get those bag traps we use at the barn! They catch MILLIONS of flies! Except what I never realized is that those bags? How they catch flies? It's this bait in there that smells like 2,500 rotting carcasses all in one spot. I hung a bag from our stairs and within 45 minutes I was stopping my gag reflex any time I was on our first floor. 

It. Was. Disgusting.

You know who loved it?

The dogs. 

This is them: OMG THERE IS SOMETHING SO YUMMYGROSS OVER HERE!

Crazy Dog was standing on his feet, doing dances underneath the bag, sniffing the air as if the air was filled with truffles (Truffles are amazing. Stop).

Once Roxy got wind of it (literally), she then decided to be pissed any time Crazy Dog even looked in the direction of the stairs, where the bag was hanging. 

If that animal so much as even shifted his body weight, Roxy was throwing him glares and snarly faces. 

OVER ROTTEN FLY BAIT. 

Why are my animals so stupid?

Even if it wasn't about to cause a dog fight and therefore spill blood all over my nice hardwood floors (and let's be honest, half the time I get worried about them fighting it's because I have no idea if blood will come out of our carpet/wood floors), it still smelled like sh!t. 

So I moved it outside to hang under a tree. I figured if I already opened the package I might as well use it. 

The Crazy Dog Factor

I haven't been writing once a week like I promised back whenever I promised that. Sue me. I'm busy.

I have a horse to take care of now. 

So I was thinking about these friends we have. They are pretty much obsessed with Crazy Dog. Mostly because he is cute. But maybe a little bit because he's demented. It's like how you feel sorry for those starving children on TV, or how you might donate a little bit more to that charity if they show you a disabled version of that starving child. People like the sad. 

I get these envelopes in the mail. Basically filled and covered with guilt. Those bastards. They have pictures of these tortured animals on the outside and then even more horrific pictures inside. Usually there is blood and viscera exposed. And often worse. I am not sure what worse is, but I am sure it's in there. I used to open them and read them. And then I would sometimes usually cry. 

And then donate. It all started with this sad, emaciated, homeless donkey. His name was Rawhide. And his picture made me cry. So I sent them a huge sum of $10. 

NOW I GET LIKE FIVE SAD, BLOODY LETTERS A DAY. 

Be ye not so stupid. 

Sometimes they tape a nickel into the letter. And I can see it from the outside. And I think, damnit, now I need to open it to get that nickel. Because who throws away money?! That just seems wasteful. I figure that nickel goes into my bank account, which donates to numerous charities and feed my numerous and expensive pet animals anyway. It's the circle of life. 

Back to my insane animal, affectionately (and successfully) branded as Crazy Dog. He leaks sadness. And some people have an allergic reaction to that substance that makes them want to squish him even harder than a normal fluff pup.

This is, however, very VERY dangerous. As you know. 

So these friends of ours insisted on becoming his friend. We had to be very clear. It is a commitment. Like a baby. Or something. <--Like I even know. 

It requires:
- coming to our house every week or every other week to interact with him
- LOTS of supper yummy chicken jerky
- high puppy-attracting voices
- restraint

That last one is super important. But only if you like your extremities. If you rush this relationship, it's over.  

These friends weren't messing around. They came over almost every week for something like five months. And FINALLY, Crazy Dog decided they were cool and worthy of his returned affection. I assume they think it was all worth it in the end. Now that the butt wiggles are for them too. 

I think it's the only reason they still hang out with us. 

Fun for Friday: Crazy Dog Actually Plays

And isn't he super cute?! Notice he is wearing two collars. One is a normal dog type of collar, and the other one is a bad dog type of collar. That second one delivers a shock to his neck at the push of a button. It is all I can do to NOT push it just for kicks. 

 

The closest they will get to killing small fluffy things. I hope.

But they do SO like to disappoint me. 

Crazy Dog broke a tooth. No worries. He can still bite.

You thought that since my last post was about Europe and I was all, "Post number one!" that I would logically post the #2 one next. 

You obviously don't know me well enough.

Last weekend was super busy. We had our annual family park/picnic thing, and 65 people showed up. No really. That's like an average party in my family. 

We came home and I was exhausted from it (I go early to pick the spot and setup) and I was playing with Crazy Dog in the yard with one of his tug toys and he was growling and shaking and generally sounding really menacing. As he is wont to do.

And then I saw a little fleck fly out of his mouth. I assumed it was toy detritus but CD must have known it was more dangerous. What with his mental magnet to sharp things. He starts biting the white piece of thing and looking disgusted by its taste. 

It was part of his tooth. Maybe now he will understand why we call him butt breath. (Because his breath smells like his butt.  <-- for those of you missing the relationship.)

I look in his mouth to assess damage and this is what I saw:

BLOOOOOOD!!!!!!!

But it was probably more like this:

Blood! 

And then it stopped pretty much immediately. I scream at my partner that we need to make an emergency visit to the vet. On a Saturday. At 7pm. And then I realize it's Saturday. At 7pm. And I don't want to pay those vet prices. 

I yell at partner: "Never mind! He'll live! We'll go Monday!"

And he lived (kicks dirt. dammit).

Gross awesome closeup for you of the tooth we ended up pulling (because if I can post an image of Roxy's poop on here, I can post this):

 

And here's the thing. He COULD HAVE just broken a tip off but NOOOO he had to break it down to the root pulp, meaning he needs the whole thing pulled. 

WHICH MEANS SURGERY.

To his credit, other than the mental anguish he causes us on a daily hourly basis, he has been little expense to us. Mental expense is expense people. 

He hasn't gone under the knife since we whacked off his balls. That was over 6 years ago. Roxy has had FOUR surgeries since then. Including also removing a tooth because it was broken. Our vet asked us, "Do your dogs chew on rocks?"

PROBABLY. 

Well, Crazy Dog can NOT hold his anesthesia. And whoa, was it amazing to see him this way.

Best part of the story coming up:
I went to pick him up after the surgery and the vet tech (who knows that he is never to look CD in the eyes for fear of being mauled), says excitedly, "watch this!" and drags Crazy Dog out of his kennel FACE FIRST and... he... snuggled him.  

Crazy Dog let him. 

(This is Crazy Dog on drugs.)

This is how we know they overdosed him. Then the other vet tech there grabbed him and said, "We have been giving him cuddles and kisses all day because he is so out of it. He is so cute! And we always want to do it but we can't!"

Basically Crazy Dog's punishment for breaking his tooth and costing us $700 was love. Lots and lots of it. And if he had been sober enough to know, he would have hated every minute of it. 

Instead, he sat there with his stroke-victim face and bleary eyes and just took it. 

They ate that shit up. I had to practically pry him from their grips. 

And then I took him home and used the excuse of him being doped up to cuddle all night with him on the couch. BEST EVER.

Because it's Jen's Birthday.

He's even winking at her. Fresh.

Because they have little teeth this is cute

My partner wanted to try some new fruit, so he bought some D'anjou pears. But they were solid green. He is eating one and is saying it's not good. It sounds like he's biting into an apple. I tell him that pears are supposed to be soft so if it's tough and hard to bite, then it's not ripe. He tells me he doesn't believe me. So I show him some other pears that ARE ripe.

Big difference.

So then I tell him that even animals wouldn't eat it because it isn't ripe and they know that. He tells me he thinks the dogs would.

<scoff>

Crazy Dog doesn't like to eat in general so I had no faith there.

I figured Roxy would only do it because she has this need to eat anything she even THINKS is food. Because the alternative is NOT EATING THE FOOD.

<sigh>

So then they BOTH prove me wrong. I hate them.

I've been hitting you with some videos lately but come on... watch this one. they use their little front teeth to bite off parts of the pear! Cute!

 

And I shall call him Mini Me

My mom's dog, Quinn, is in love with Crazy Dog. 

Why? Heaven knows. 

Quinn is a 100-pound wolfhound that could crush CD's head without thinking about it. Crazy Dog has a love-hate relationship with this huge male hound. When CD sees Quinn, his hackles raise and he growl-barks and chases him.

To Quinn's utter DELIGHT.

I think Crazy Dog only really survives this because:

1) Quinn is too nice and dumb to think this little dog doesn't actually like him, and:
2) Crazy Dog is too small to really pose any threat (seeing as how he comes up to about Quinn's knee. Barely.)

To celebrate the homoerotic, and altogether dramatic, relationship of these two, I bought Quinn a mini Crazy Dog. Look: 

It even has the stupid ears.

Here's Quinn (and someone's waist. So you can see how huge he is):

Here is stupid Crazy Dog (almost as small as the toy version):

Quinn LOVED the toy. Probably because it squeaked. Not because it looked like Crazy Dog. But I like to think maybe.