I’m Down With OPP (Other People’s Puppies)

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This week Schmoop and I are hanging with niece puppy, Kota. She’s a four year old GSD who combines Karmann’s slobberful loveyness with just a hair of Cal’s grumbliness. So although I am separated from my own hounds as I explore the west with the extended furbaby family, I sort of feel like they’re with me.

Kota would like to lick you. Unless you happen to be walking outside, in which case she would like to eat you. But only until you get within actual eating distance. Then she would like to lick you. She also has a very charming (if you’re a dog person) need to jump onto all beds and rub all of her all over the pillows, before trampling them into nestable perfection and flooping down dramatically. So I’m also spending this week sleeping on fluff covered bedding. Which is pretty much exactly what I’d be doing at home.

Also: GSD ears are the best.

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Reunited!

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I am a horrible cat mom.

Mr. Naughtypants has finally figured out how to apply his brute kitteh force to the cellar door, thereby popping it open, so he’s been spending some time down the¬†basement¬†while his stupid humans are out of the house. We generally return to find him hunkered on the steps, as if to insinuate that he cracked the door open but did not–would not ever–explore the basement. There’s nothing down there that is particularly dangerous to him, I just don’t want to have to pry him off the top of a storage cabinet, or remove him from the laundry lines, so I haven’t been particularly pleased with his new love of interdomicile travel. I’ve been pleased, these past couple days, to discover that all his door digging (and there has been a lot) has come to naught and, try as he might, little stripey kitteh has been marooned on the upper levels of the house.

Fast forward to today, when I was in the basement sorting laundry. In the middle of chucking some socks into the workout pile, I spied an aberration on the pale blue duvet cover heaped onto the floor, awaiting it’s go in the washer. A small, kind of icky, animal-printed aberration.

Tiger.

Apparently Mortie took Tiger with him on one of his subterranean adventures and the little guy wound up abandoned. On an admittedly comfy portion of pending laundry because Mortie may wake the household humans every day, without fail, at 4am, but he is exceedingly kind to his stuffed and squashed-headed bestie.

And then I stopped to think about the last time I saw Mortie with Tiger and . . . DOGS HELP ME I CANNOT RECALL.

He has been without Tiger for so very long that I have no idea when the dynamic duo were last seen together. Bad kitteh mom! Bad!

So I abandoned my laundry sorting to take Tiger upstairs and Mortie immediately batted him around, then picked him up and walked him all over the house–never letting Tiger touch the floor–for about 20 minutes. And then they laid down and I took the above picture and came upstairs to post it because I’m supposed to be cleaning the house but bleh. And then Mortie picked him up and brought him upstairs, where he’s spent the last 10 minutes reacquainting his truly-baby-kittehood buddy with the living quarters.

Tiger is currently being shown the bed.

Me and Karmann and Calvin and the Asshats

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Leave Calvin ALOOOOOOOOONE!

Let’s talk about second amendment rights. Lord knows enough people can’t shut up about them, and now I have decided that I want them. Specifically, I propose amendment 2b.

Amendment 2b affords me, a single, unincorporated person (disregard all that “well-regulated militia” crap since everybody seems to ignore it anyway) with dogs, the unalienable right to–if not outright shoot–at least threaten people with an angry-looking piece of weaponry any time they attempt to approach, converse with, or otherwise capture my attention while my poor little Beagleish is losing his shit.

I dropped something?
Don’t care.

My other dog is very adorable?
I am aware. Shut up.

My (ALSO ADORABLE, PEOPLE!) small hound is hilarious when he’s angry?
I’d flip you off but my hands are full, so please accept this withering look of disdain instead.

Can you pet my dogs?
Are you fucking stupid?

Upon my arrival home this afternoon–covered in bug bites and spider webs, and desperate for my own pee break–I took the dogs out to the back yard, intending them to have a quick pee so that I could hurry up and light myself on fire in an attempt to remove ALL OF THE NATURE from my person.

Cal would not pee.

Cal did not want a pee break; Cal wanted another walk.

I tried refusing, and stomping my feet, and reasoning with him. None of this worked. So, I walked him down the block where he was able to pee on a tree. HOSANNAH.

We then turned around to head back up the street, only to discover a family of three–blonde and smiling and tan and utterly loatheable in their presence, was rapidly approaching between us and the house.

[stay tuned for future blog post in which we take up my immediate and irrational dislike of people occupying the public thoroughfare when doing so complicates my life]

I just wanted Cal to pee. I was not interested in a teachable moment–I had been in such a rush to wash the ticks out of my hair that I hadn’t thought to grab treats. My lack of preparedness just made me hate the blonde happy perky people even more DAMN THEM ALL.

So we turned right.

AND THERE WAS AN OLD LADY WITH A CANE I CURSE YOU YOU INFERNAL UNIVERSE OF SUCK AND DOOM.

Old ladies with canes? Ambulating families for Buddha’s sake??

Well. There goes the neighborhood.

Cal was interested in the old lady. He was looking at her and seemed unsure but in possession of himself. So in lieu of delicious liver treats, which I did not have because blonde people suck, he got copious amounts of scritches and praise. And while I scritched and praised, the stupid infernal family decided to make the same right–probably going to the park because that’s what awful people do.

And the movement was enough to send relaxed but unsure Cal right on over the edge.

So he barked.

So the kid ran toward us, while screaming “DOGS!” because he’s a future Darwin Award winner. Even as we ran behind the bushes to manufacture some sort of visual barrier, the child screamed. And charged. And screamed some more while his parents, Chip and Buffy from the club, smiled huge white straight-toothed smiles.

And as we cut through the apartment lawn, behind the bushes, some joker came out of the building, presumably to yell at me for cutting through, shouting “Miss! Hey! Miss!”

Because what I really need right now is a conversation. About, like, anything.

We ignored everyone and made it back to the sanctity of our driveway where I’m pretty sure I am allowed to throw baggies of dog poop at infiltrators trying to talk to me. Cal, for his part, is to be commended for the quickness with which he calmed down once the terrible hellspawn was safely behind us. And I settled for a vigorous scrubbing rather than self immolation because were I to exit in such fashion I’d not be around to witness–and benefit from–the passage of my very excellent Amendment 2b.

Though, I will accept a very large stick, or also, possibly, a set of brass knuckles in the event the cranky old men of the Supreme Court determine that a walking, unincorporated uterus cannot wield a gun.

Consider this my Christmas list.

Kittehs Got Aim

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Our house was built in 1928 and, for the most part, the original floors are in great shape. The above is a noted exception where some event of history has gouged a not insignificant chunk from the board at the joint.

The above is also exactly where some kitteh deposited their most recent hairball. Lovingly, it would seem, and overnight so that the soggy wad of fluff had time to really fill the crevice before human discovery the next morning.

I now have a positive model of that crevice made of cat hair, if any jewelry makers out there are interested in starting a line of construction-related lost wax obliquely cat centric baubles.

Nobody?

Eh?