Doggie Style!

For those of you who clicked into here looking for pictures of a certain bored yet not-bad-looking housewife in a *ahem* canine-like compromising position, scroll down....























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GET OFF MY PAGE, YOU PERV!

This is a family blog. I won't even use the "F" word. Maybe Peabody will even read it.

Dogs. What would we do without them?

I'm a dog person. I was once a cat person, but have decided that cats are selfish, psychotic little midgets in fur suits that like to try to suffocate me by sleeping on my face. Many have been launched across the room in the middle of the night. But that's another blog.

But a dog! They're loyal, intelligent (well, most of them, we have an exception), loving and smelly. And they stay where you put them. Unlike the feline things.

Since meeting my husband, we've had a few mutts enter our lives. Some we went looking for, some found us, some we literally tripped over and had to take home for some damn reason. So today, I'm taking a trip down memory lane to share My Life With Dogs. And to introduce our newest doggie addition.

Winnie

Winnie was the first dog my husband ever had. We returned from our first vacation together, a few months after we had started dating, to find a pair of big black Newfoundlands in his fenced back yard. We made a few inquiries of his mostly-stoned-and-unemployed-slacker buds, figuring they might know something about it, since my husband-then-boyfriend was the only one with his own house and they generally left their detritus there.
"Yeah, dude," one said, "my girlfriend, like, has these dogs, you know?"
Yes, we know that now.
"And she, like, can't keep them cuz she's like getting evicted? So, like, they just need to stay there for, like, a while. Hope that's okay, dude. Heh. Heh. "
Okay.
Turns out, both dogs were big sweeties, and pregnant. Imminently pregnant. We could feel the puppies moving, and I decided to take the most-likely-to-blow to my apartment. I had a spare bedroom, she could whelp in there. And she did, after peeing green goop all over my new carpet (a landlord's dream come true) and attacking my own dog. Once the pups were stable, I took them back to the fenced-in yard (it was summer and shady) to give my poor mutt a break. The other dog whelped soon after and we had a whopping 17 little sausages wiggling under the maple tree.
Six weeks later, The girlfriend got her act together and came to get the dogs and puppies. We were attached to them by that time and decided she wouldn't miss one, so we picked the mellowest, yellowest one and hid her, saving her from a life of living in the backseat of a Honda. Yes, the girlfriend had certainly gotten her act together.
And we got Winnie.



She was the classic big dumb dog. And sweet. Apparently Momma Dog had gotten busy with a purebred Golden Retriever, and we had to have both of Winnie's hips fixed when she was six months old. That was back before the miracle of digital cameras, otherwise I'd share the beautiful photos of her naked bum and bucket-collar.
Winnie lived with us for eight years, boucing and drooling and teasing the cats and loving the new baby we brought home. She died in 2005 of cancer.

Hobie
He was a crotchety but sweet old man when Lance found him on the Golden Retriever Rescue website. It was love at first sight between those two. He insisted on having his bed in the middle of the hall so we all had to step over him and he could protect us from all things bad, sucked on a towel, and wanted to bounce but had a bad rear leg. Lance took him everywhere; to work when he could, to the gym every evening where Hobie would wait faithfully and patiently in the car, sucking his woobie the whole time.











Hobie died of bone cancer two years ago. He's still in the back of Lance's car, his ashes and woobie memorialized until my husband finds another dog with whom he can bond so strongly. I just hope that bonding doesn't include barfing up three gallons of blech into his lap this time. Rest well, old man.


Rudy
My mother-in-law called us one day to tell us she had gotten a new dog. We laughed nervously, as she isn't always discriminating about her canine companions.
She'd found an old Golden Retriever (anyone see a pattern here?) wandering the highway near her house. No collar, no tags, not neutered, ancient and stone deaf. She called the local shelter to ask if anyone had been missing one and they said no one had alerted them to a missing Golden. She called him Rudy and set him up at her place with her Rottweiler and multitude of cats.
Two weeks later as she was walking the dogs, a neighbor stopped her and asked her about Rudy. Turns out, he belonged to a friend of this person and they were looking for him. She returned him to his owners, laughed when they said he "musta just wandered off when we let 'im out" and gave them her phone number, just in case he wandered back.
He did. Twice. And they never called her or the shelter looking for him. So, we decided he must not be that missed and would probably rather come live with us than playing chicken with semis on the highway again. (She had her hands full with the Rotti, we only had two dogs at the time, what's one more?)



This is what he did the most of. And he was the only creature in our whole family who wasn't routinely attacked by this evil devil-spawn cat. This cat loved him and followed him around. Rudy was a Good Boy.

On top of being deaf, Rudy was also mostly blind and somewhat shaky. The vet put his age at around 15. At that point, we joked that our house is The Place Where Old Goldens Come To Die.

He lived a quiet, happy life with us for a year and a half, and passed away quietly at home the day after last Christmas. That's a dog for you; he'd been on the brink for a week, dying a little at a time but wouldn't go on a day that he must have, with that odd doggie-telepathy, known was a special day. Rest quiet now, sweet old guy.

Phoebe!
Gawd. Have you ever fallen in love with someone and have no idea why? And continue to love them even though they might be neurotic and flighty and possibly *whispering* not very intelligent?
Well then you understand my relationship with the Pheebs.

I went to the pet store one day, just to get dog food. They were having a big adoption event and Grace, being three, "hadda go seeum doggees. " And there she was. I had to have this dog, this "Phoebe". I couldn't quit thinking about her and whined to Lance that I needed her until he gave in. "Fine. Three dogs is just what we need."
I've always wanted a Great Dane, they are awesomely majestic dogs. Powerful. Commanding. Serene.
Phoebe, while definitely a Dane, is none of those things.


She's goofy, neurotic, and a bit passive-aggressive. She was surrendered to the rescue by a fine, upstanding gentleman who had used her for the previous four years in a backyard-breeding puppy mill. She'd been beaten, bitten by the male, and had apparently never been out of her kennel. He finally got rid of her after five litters because she experienced complications with the last one and he had to shell out money so the pups wouldn't die. Prick. I'd like to let a male Great Dane have his way with him....

She had to learn how to navigate the stairs (which she still sounds like she's falling up every time) and was terrified of the cats and the car. She's chewed through three seatbelts in my backseat, even from behind the doggie-gate in my SUV, which I had to buy specifically to transport dogs. She had to learn to play, and it's the funniest thing EVER to watch her bounce around. She cannot CANNOT lie or sit down without a bed. When I wash her beds (which is often, because she's pretty smelly), she about has a nervous breakdown until they're ready. In fact, she once bowled me over to get them out of my hands before I could get the covers back on.


She's my Big Dumb Schweetie. And after what some uncaring a-hole put her through for four years, I think she deserves every moment of sloth she now enjoys. Stick around longer, my gal.

Morgan.
I'm probably not going to make it through this one without crying. Yep. I was right. Ahem.
I was 21 when this puppy found me. I was in college, had just moved into an apartment from my parents' house (after a stupid detour with a boy), and was working at a pet store. A litter of puppies came in for sale, and the shop owner had room for all but one of them. The puppy people said the last one was going to the pound. I looked into her little brown eyes and something just clicked. I took her home with me, instead.
And that was the beginning of a long journey. She was Golden Retriever mixed with Border Collie, and we almost didn't survive her first year. She was too smart for her own good and tried to herd everything that moved including skateboarders. She would chase a ball until she burst or your arm fell off. She destroyed Christmas ornaments and figured out locks. She and I got through the first level of competetive obedience in under six months training time (it usually takes a year or two before a dog is ready), but couldn't compete or impress the dog trainer that I worked for at the time because she was a "mixed breed". She was the ring bearer at our wedding and was offended when the baby came home, but got over it. Mostly.
She was my constant companion, my most trusted adviser, the one who was just always there.


Until she just wasn't. She left me last year after 15 years together, and it's still not something I can think about without bawling. Like now, for instance. I miss you, Little Red Dog, and will see you on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge, ready for our special greeting and a game of never-ending fetch.

Whew. Still with me? Okay then, I have one more:

Einstein
The daughter is tired of being the smallest being in the house. She wanted a dachshund or a pug. Pugs are not my favorite dogs, so I kept telling her if we found a weiner dog that needed us, we'd get it. She was excited to the point of yelling "I WANT WEINER!" out the car window one sunny afternoon after seeing someone walking their dachsies. Nice. Sssshhhh, honey, never say that again, okay?

Dachshunds are not easy to find in the rescue world. And then, out of the blue, ta-da! I found him.











He's our little man. He's a sweetie, a cuddler and is freakishly small. He's curled up in my lap right now as I type this, wagging his little tail every time I stop to stroke his llloooooonnnnngggg back. I've never had a small dog before and it takes some getting used to. Grace adores him; he sleeps happily tangled in her covers at night. And despite the size issue, he and Phoebe seem to be getting on just fine.




But she's jealous of his cool little bed. She's tried to get in it. She doesn't quite fit.
I hope he sticks around on his little stubby legs for a while.

So there it is. My Life With Dogs.

I hope you all noticed that all of our dogs have been rescues or adoptions. For a good reason. Millions of wonderful dogs are destroyed in shelters every year, given up or banished by people who either didn't have the time or the energy or the brains it takes to take care of their best friend. Please, PLEASE, if you feel you want and need a dog, do your research first. Dogs take time, patience, money and lots of love. Look at rescues first, don't ever buy from a pet store unless it's a rescue organization sponsored event, always always spay or neuter. They deserve better than what we've given them.

I don't remember who said it, but one of the best quotes I've ever read is as follows:
"Dogs aren't our whole lives, but they make our lives whole."
And
"Deal with stressful situations like a dog: if you can't eat it or play with it, pee on it and walk away."

Lecture over.

Share your dog pics and stories! Let's all do it Doggie Style!!!