Unsecured underpants
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Kiko is no longer a whirlwind of puppy destruction, but she still chews things if the mood strikes her. (Usually when she hasn’t gotten enough exercise. Potential dog owners contemplating sporting breeds, take note. When people tell you the dog needs frequent and regular exercise, they really mean it.) My underpants are a favorite target (and a much less expensive option than others, so I can’t really complain). Instead of being careful to store said underpants more securely, I simply discard when necessary.
Except when I forget, and they ends up in the wash again. And I, not being a morning person, pay very little attention to the specifics of underpants when I get dressed from work. (Aside from confirming that a) I’m wearing them and b) they’re not backwards or inside out.) Thus I find myself at work with an amusing hole in my underpants.
This may be part of a cunning plan; Kiko is very smart. Perhaps she has realized that liver treats are procured using money. Perhaps this variant of the underpants business model is intended to bring her riches and treats.
Still an ogre
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I gave Charlie a bath with his new medicated shampoo. He did not enjoy the experience. He shivered throughout the process, though it became a somewhat perfunctory shiver toward the end, and rather than a dejected tail hanging straight down (Kiko’s typical response to a bath), his was tucked very firmly between his legs.
Larry tried a blow dryer afterward. I was skeptical, and experimental evidence shows that 100% of Charliedogs will flee blow dryers and go to their dens.
On the plus side, his ear looks pretty clear, after a week’s worth of ear drops. And it’ll be a while before I have to give him another bath.
I feel like such an ogre
Yesterday I took Charlie to the vet, because he’s got a lot of wax in one ear. Big, solid gobs of dark wax, plus a fair bit of liquid. This isn’t new, but we’ve been paying closer attention lately, and it seemed to get a little worse. The vet said it didn’t look like ear mites, but was most likely a run of the mill infection. She also noted some greasy flaking along his back, which might indicate allergies. (I found this surprising, because thanks to Kiko I associate dog allergies with hot spots, bleeding, scabbing, oozing, etc.)
Charlie was his normal agitated self in the car, whining and panting and pacing, but extremely well behaved for the vet. He tolerated her poking and prodding very well. I left with medicated drops (two squirts per day for a week), some beefier ear cleanser (going forward, we’re supposed to clean the ears as frequently as needed to ward off more waxy build up), and medicated shampoo (he was a shaking bundle of nerves when I gave him a bath a couple months ago, but he stood still for it and I didn’t have to call for a second pair of hands).
Normally, when we do something he doesn’t like–flea treatment, scraping wax out of his ear, using a cleaning solution–he will stand unhappily, then slink off to his den. (He has several dens, typically the space between a chair and a wall. Nestling between the leather recliner and a bookshelf in the library is one of his favorites.) This morning, he ran from me as soon as he saw me take the ear drops out of the fridge. I had to chase him around the house (albeit at low speeds) before I cornered him, grabbed his collar (he’s good about being lead if you have him by the collar, and I didn’t want him to associate ear drops with his den), and did the deed. Then he slunk away. I feel awful whenever I have to chase. In some ways it’s worse than when Kiko had to wear the e-collar: she really hated it, and had to be cornered before submitting, but she bounces back a little more quickly and will always take a treat. Charlie’s not as food motivated, so you can’t necessarily make it better by giving him something yummy. He just wants to be alone for a while afterwards. Away from me, the most awful person in the world.
Liveblogging Halloween
6:16: It’s now legitimately dusk. We’re expecting kids any minute.
When I came home from work a half hour or so ago, I passed kids hanging out in the street, some on bikes, none in costume. This afternoon, Larry put all the candy in our Totoro bag. It’s very heavy, but it doesn’t take up as much space as I’d expected/hoped.
Yes, I have eaten some of the candy. Snickers, Nestle Crunch with caramel, Mounds, Hershey with almonds, Heath. I haven’t eaten too much, however; at least one of each, just to keep things pleasingly symmetrical. Kiko (very stealthily) grabbed a Hershey bar, but I took it away before she had a chance to do more than gnaw the corner of the wrapper.
I gave it to Larry to eat. Because we couldn’t give a dog-gnawed candy bar to a kid, now, could we?
6:28: Larry is filled hooves with cheddar cheese spread, and we’ve now shut the dogs up in our bedroom.
Last year, Kiko got out a couple times and added to the chaos in the yard. This year we are going to be more careful about keeping them inside, particularly Charlie since he’s not as good about boundaries, personal space, and understanding his own size.
6:36: Silly Larry, not liking Mounds.
6:42: Kiddies! Please come! Eat my candy!
6:54: Maybe there was a memo, and everybody’s off someplace else. If we had kids, maybe we’d've been on the distribution list. Larry speculates it might be a daylight savings thing. In either case, this is weird. We always get a lot of kids here.
6:56: Somebody screeched. That’s a good sign.
6:59: The dogs are barking, and there are voices outside.
7:05: The first batch, six or seven kids, including such traditional favorites as pirates and princesses. Unlike Larry, I am not a stickler for the social contract (e.g. one must say “trick or treat” before being given candy). The kids were adorable and polite, the thanks perhaps a bit belated initially but then offered in waves.
And ooh, Twix. I forgot about the Twix.
7:10: Here’s the next kid; this one’s Larry’s.
7:11: Another crop, including a scythe-wielding Death, a she-devil, a witch, Spider-Man, and Darth Vader.
7:14: A small boy in a Transformer-themed outfit enthusiastically shouting “Trick or treat” at Dad’s prompting.
7:18: Poor Charlie is making unhappy noises.
7:20: Another (older) boy and Dad. Charlie still sounds pathetic.
7:34: A little pirate lad, with Mom waiting at the top of the driveway.
7:37: Larry’s taking the candy outside, on account of Charlie’s newest pathetic noise (which Larry considers taun-taunesque).
7:40: When I let the dogs out, Charlie was right at the bedroom door, eager to escape captivity. Kiko was lounging on the bed, tail wagging. She’s now crunching something; he’s still agitated, circling the downstairs. I sort of want to join Larry outside—it is a laptop, and the wireless reaches—but it’s cold. Not cold cold, but cold for someone recently spoiled with what she still considers unseasonably warm temperatures as recently as a few days ago.
7:53: Larry took the candy outside with him. This is either a benefit or a drawback to his plan of sitting on the porch.
8:00: The sounds of numerous children running down our backdoor neighbor’s driveway. A chorus of barking dogs.
8:13: It’s been quiet for a while; that might be it. If there’s a second wave, I hope it happens soon; in twenty minutes or so we have to leave to meet friends for dinner.
8:15: Another boy and his mom, with glowing necklaces. Usually those are ubiquitous, but not this year.
8:38: Off to dinner now. Too much candy left over. Perhaps someone at work will eat it.
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The dog ate my cocoa
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Earlier this week, Kiko stole a box of tea from the baker’s rack. Then she stole a box of pocky, ate the few remaining sticks, then had fun with the cardboard box and foil. She’s a big fan of foil.
(Okay, technically, Charlie may be the guilty party. There were no witnesses to any of the thefts. But based on prior bad acts, we’re confident Kiko is the culprit.)
Certainly the baker’s rack is within reach, and not much different from counter-surfing, but for the most part she’d ignored it up until this past week. A couple days ago, we came home to find several pinkish brown mounds on the floor. It took me about ten seconds to identify my hot cocoa.
At this point, I feel compelled to express dog owner pride. It is true that Kiko has happily eaten feces, vomit, dead birds, dead rodents, and several used tampons; that she eagerly sniffs and licks canine crotches and butts; that she has gnawed on and broken wine glasses; that she still steals and munches my dirty underwear. But she is not completely lacking in taste. She never retrieved the large cannister of Quik that often sits on the counter. Instead, she went for the higher-quality product.
The higher-quality product in question was from Ten Thousand Villages, so I like to think Kiko was motivated by social consciousness no less than hunger. Her cocoa-snarfing will help support independent cocoa farmers.
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The dog ate my glasses
They are still wearable. Larry popped the lenses back in, and though the rubbery bit is gone from one of the earpieces, I was able to wear them downstairs to feed Kiko and her less-destructively-peckish brother. I didn’t even bother to clean off the dog-slobber, because first outs and breakfast don’t actually require corrective lenses.
I now have no decent glasses. I used to have a backup pair, but Kiko ate those (rather more thoroughly) over a year ago.
She’s really not habitually destructive, not any more. Maybe it’s all part of some devilish plan. Lull us into a false sense of security, then strike when we least expect it.
She is very smart. If only I knew what she wanted…besides liver treats.
Charlie just yodeld
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Spaniels aren’t supposed to do that, are they?
Certainly neither of ours ever have, and this isn’t the first time outdoor animals (foxes? coyotes?) have made noise that inspired a doggie clamor. But Charlie’s always coming up with new and interesting vocalizations.
In which Our Heroine’s love of Nature is challenged most cruelly
My weekend was a series of highs and lows, the highs mainly being social and the lows physical.
Sunday’s low point occurred at the Crum, as Kiko and I returned to the car after a walk. (Wrangling two dogs alone has been a bit of a stretch in the past, so these walks double as quality Girl Time.) I was taking the High Road back, and felt a sudden pain in my ankle. When I looked down, my feet—sneakers and ankle socks—were crawling with yellow jackets, three or four or five per foot.
I can only assume I stepped on or near a nest. I began to run down the path, thereby limiting my problems to the yellow jackets currently stinging my ankles, leg, arm, shoulder, and scalp. I debated whether I should head for the creek and jump in, thus drowning my attackers (or at least forcing them to rethink their tactics). I opted against this comedic cliché, as I didn’t want to be wet as well as in pain; and at this point, the creek was not particularly close by. I found the man-made aspect of the path rather appealing, as Nature had, at this moment, entirely lost its appeal.
And so I proceeded down this artifact of civilization at a reasonable clip, brushing off what insects I could reach and waving my hands at others in the air. As I hustled along I chanted to Nature in general and the yellow jackets in particular; most of the words featured “fuck” as a syllable. I was mainly happy that none stung my face, where there’s a lot of delicate, specialized tissue.
Eventually I stopped running, deeming myself sufficiently removed from the source of my attackers and any likely reinforcements. I then spent a few minutes wondering when they would decide to stop stinging. My sensibilities were offended: despite being, by most measures, a member of a superior species, I had withdrawn, bowing to the will of the yellow jackets; their continued assault was entirely uncalled for. It’s rather difficult to negotiate with yellow jackets. They are either in attack mode, or not in your vicinity.
I took off my sneakers and socks, abandoning them to the yellow jackets (temporarily, in the case of the sneakers, and permanently, in the case of the socks, which seemed of greater interest to the yellow jackets; besides, they were cheaper than sneakers and technically belonged to Larry). I debated removing my shirt in like manner. The area was deserted, and even if someone happened by the human body is a beautiful thing, particularly when pierced by the minimum number of stingers. But no shirt meant minimized protection, and I didn’t like the idea of pulling it off over my head. It might have made the yellow jackets more angry, and possibly taken them within striking distance of the aforementioned delicate, specialized tissue.
I spent a fair amount of time shaking my hair in an effort to dislodge insects. They continued to sting my scalp, but I think they would have done so regardless. I almost vowed to shave my head, so I might never again hear the angry buzzing of an insect caught in my hair. I wished that I had thought to carry a can of Aqua Net for personal protection. Eventually, there were no new stings to my scalp, though I remained convinced that two yellow jackets still lurked there, uncharacteristically silent, waiting ninja-fashion to strike again when I least expected it. (This paranoia has not entirely subsided. Bugs will occasionally find their way into my hair—sometimes purposefully, as with horseflies, or unintentionally, as with the hapless Japanese beetle I dislodged a few weeks ago at work. It is rather gross, though for me the ick factor is higher if I consider a dead and/or dismembered insect in my hair, rather than a living one that might be shaken free and sent on its way. Adding a stinger and a bad attitude into the mix makes the prospect even less appealing.)
I declared my yellow jacket dance over when I was no longer being dive-bombed, and could find none on my clothing. I decided that if the two painful areas of my scalp were still being stung, I would deal with that pair of yellow jackets later. I retrieved my shoes, and though they seemed insect-free opted to walk to the car barefoot. Kiko had watched my performance, and apparently avoided being stung herself. (That makes me happy. She has enough allergy problems and run-ins with insects.) She was lying down next to the path, attentive but in no apparent hurry. When I called her, she came over and let me put her leash on. I was very grateful for her compliance, and happy I didn’t have to worry about wrangling both dogs.
I am also happy I did not have an allergic reaction. I’m not surprised—I’ve been stung by bees, mud wasps, and yellow jackets in the past, and as a child my mom suffered multiple yellow jacket stings in a similar situation, with no ill effects—but it’s still nice not to find oneself unable to breathe. Larry very kindly went out for lotions, creams, sprays, and chocolate, which seem to have helped. In the shower I did a count; the final (approximate) score is Yellow Jackets 18, Megan 0.
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My poor, ridiculous dog
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As previously mentioned, Kiko is allergic to summer. Last year was a Very Bad Scene™ because of hot spots (complicated by a broken toe, irritation under the cast, and self-inflicted injuries while attempting to relieve said irritation). This year, in an effort to avoid the ointment and e-collar and extreme discomfort, we’ve been feeding her Benadryl twice a day and shaving down areas around hot spots. She still scratches, licks, and gnaws, but so far she’s doing better than last year.
For a week or two, she’s gone around with bare patches on her hindquarters, which revealed angry red flesh and ugly scabs. Not very aesthetically pleasing. And I should note that Kiko is a beautiful dog. She has the black and white markings of a field-bred Springer, but is leaner and leggier than that breed. Her feathering’s lovely, and her tail curls up nicely (something she probably did not get from the Springer side of her family; they’re not bred for pretty tails, since they’ve traditionally been docked). When she runs, she’s fast and sleek. And she possesses that particular mutt-flavor of beauty, the sense that this combination will never be seen again, that no other dog will precisely replicate the proportion of whatever breeds went into her genetic makeup.
(And lest you think I am merely partial to my own dog—who is, in fact, the most wonderful little girl in the world—I will note that I do not think that Charlie is a particularly beautiful dog. He’s more on the cute and goofy end of the scale, especially when he gallumps around on his gigantic paws. His facial markings give him a crazy clown expression, particularly when he smiles, and he’s got extra black along part of his lips, giving him a demi-stache.)
But anyway, back to grooming. We’ve been shaving Kiko on the kitchen counter—not at all hygienic, but the kitchen counter rarely is, and if she forms negative associations with being up there then, maybe, she’ll counter-surf less frequently; maybe—and Friday night instead of stopping at shaving individual hot spots Larry shaved more leg. It looked mostly on purpose, so we went around and shaved her side, too. We stopped after that, because we wanted to give her a break and, in all honesty, there’s a certain comedic sensibility involved.
So now we have a half-shaved dog. One side of her body, with the longer fur, is predominately white, with streaks of black (and the occasional silver). The other side is covered with black spots, and has a more equal distribution of light and dark fur. Both sides are pretty (well, aside from the patches of really short fur, revealing the ugly hot spots), but on the same dog they’re hysterical.
But as dog owners go, we’re not that mean. It’s not like we gave her a poodle coif.
We know it’s August when…
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…the dogs find gazillions of burrs. Kiko mastered this skill last year, collecting a wide variety of vegetation in her coat, up to and including branches. Charlie’s a bit less outdoorsy (he likes playing outside but has not yet, for example, ever returned from rolling around on the ground with disgustingly identifiable clumps of shit in his coat) but learned the burr collection trick in the past several days.
We know it’s summer when Kiko starts scratching. She’s allergic to summer. But so far we’ve kept the hot spots under control. Thank you, makers of Benadryl.