Doggy School

My pooch, Sandy, attended her first day of doggy school.  It's safe to say she will not be graduating with honors.  In fact, graduation may not even be in the cards.

There are approximately 20 other pooches in her class.  They range in age, size, color, intelligence, and manners. You'll soon figure out where on the spectrum my dog falls.

Sadly, this first class reminded me of one of many a fraternity party I attended about 20 years ago.

You know that awkward moment when you arrive at a frat party and you wonder where you should stand so to avoid getting any bodily fluids on you?  It is kind of like that.

Sandy and I gingerly make our way over to a corner and stand between a wolf-like creature and a dog that resembles a cotton ball.

We all stand in a circle sizing each other up.

Remember how there is always one guy at the party who is boisterous, drunk and obnoxious? Well, there was a German Shepherd there playing that role.  He was all bark.  By the end of class he is passed out and insignificant.

You know how there is always a blond at the party who acts like a total ditz? Everyone wonders how much she's had to drink when really she is completely sober, and is just naturally scatter-brained, high strung, and clueless?

That is my dog.  Seriously embarrassing.

The class focuses on sitting.  This is a concept that 19 of the dogs come to understand.

Not Sandy.  Nope.

Sure, at home she delights in sitting on command.  Ask her to sit during doggy school and she looks at you with her big brown eyes, cocks her head to the side and seems to say, "Huh? I have no idea what you are saying. Let's go run around."

The other dogs eventually learn they are in class and should pay attention.

My dog seems to believe she is at a fraternity party, and it is her sole responsibility to get the party started.  My dog is a party girl.

This may have been the longest sixty minutes of my life.  I may also have tendinitis in my left elbow from pulling on her leash and trying to get her bum to touch the ground beneath her.  I get to do this again next week.

When we get home, Sandy and I have a little heart to heart.  I tell her she needs to focus.  I tell her I expect more from her, and that I am not going to pay for college school if she doesn't focus and work harder.

Ironically, she sits during my rant.  I think she's going to do better next week.

To be continued....

Are We There Yet?

Long road trips are a time for family members to reflect on just how much they hate long family road trips.

I could go on and on and on about our recent long road trip, but I'm willing to bet it's remarkably similar to every other family's long road trip.

Here is one sentence summing up our recent road trip:
A 10 hour road trip morphs into an ugly 12 hour adventure due to traffic, mother nature, emergency pee breaks, and one vomiting son.

Who can't relate to that, right?  Just your typical 12 hour journey to hell and back.  Woohoo! Are we there yet? Nope, only 11 more hours to go!

After miraculously surviving that experience, I prepared for my post road trip pity party.  You know what that includes, right?

You arrive home from the long road trip and immediately begin drowning in dirty laundry and unopened mail, while trying to figure out where that strange smell is coming from...What IS that smell?

Just prior to that fun experience, my sister helped me put it all in perspective.

She has three children between the ages of 2 and 7.  In addition to traffic and thunderstorms, I know her trip included emergency pee breaks, unstoppable "Are we there yet?" whining, and crying (most likely from her husband).

Upon arriving home to an obscene smell and 13 pounds of junk mail, I texted her to see if she had arrived home safely.

Here is our text message exchange:

Me:  You home yet?

Sis:  We left at 3:40 AM.  Only 4 more hours.  Got stuck in McDonalds because Ellery's fairies wouldn't come out of the bathroom.

Me:  Huh?

Sis:  Ellery's fairies wouldn't come out of bathroom stall. This is a true story!

Me:  That's hilarious!

Sis:  Yeah.  Freaking hysterical.

Sis:  Line full of peeps waiting to pee and I have a sobbing 4 year old talking about her missing fairies.  Someday this will be funny, right?

Me:  I assume the fairies finally cooperated?

Sis:  Only after I made a big deal about seeing glittery flutters on her palm.  We looked certifiable.

So, dear readers, until you find yourself hours from home in a tiny stall with a sobbing four year old who refuses to leave without her fairies, consider your road trip a complete breeze!

At least right up until you realize what's causing that smell.  Then all bets are off as you realize traffic and a vomiting son is nothing compared to the cause of that smell.

The Cat Is Planning My Demise

His name is Bob and, at first glance, he seems innocent enough.

However, I have reason to believe he wants me dead, and I'm now convinced he has the skills necessary to accomplish this feat.

He was a stray cat who I rescued from a gas station parking lot over 15 years ago. He was malnourished and covered in fleas. Now he is fat and resentful.

He led a good life as head of our household until a few things didn't go his way.
We adopted two children and then we moved to a bigger house. After all of that trauma, we had the audacity to take in another stray cat.

Now he spends his days plotting various ways to kill me.

I know he is capable of murder. He's killed before. He's a serial cardinal killer. I'm sure his 'Most Wanted' poster is hanging in bird police stations across the neighborhood. He thinks nothing of killing an occasional baby rabbit or mole. He's absolutely ruthless.

He meows incessantly. No doubt following me around cursing cat obscenities that sound like simple "meows" to the human ear. He's tried tripping me on countless occasions, but he's not yet had much luck bringing me down. So now he's getting clever.

The morning started as any other morning. I awoke with a full bladder. I got out of bed and, without turning on a single light, I walked towards the bathroom. As I stepped into the bathroom, my morning took a turn for the worse.

In the darkness of the bathroom, my bare feet stepped in something wet and thick. I slipped across the bathroom floor and an "Ohhhhhhhhh nooooooooo!" escaped from my lips.

This woke my husband who came running. He flipped on the bathroom light, and we discovered I was standing in cat vomit. Lots of cat vomit.

The cat vomit (if you'll allow me to continue) was pink and chunky. It most closely resembled those summertime salads that are made with gelatin and marshmallows. Only the cat doesn't eat gelatin or marshmallows so I remain perplexed as to how he managed to produce such a consistency. I stood staring at it waiting to awake from this hideous dream.

The sensation of cat vomit between my toes brought me back to reality. I gingerly made my way to the shower leaving cat vomit footprints along the way.

I sanitized my feet as my husband cleaned up the crime scene.

Once you've stepped in an obscene amount of cat vomit, you look at life differently. Well, you certainly look at your cat differently.

Now when the children approach him with doll clothes, I am quick to rescue him. When they suggest creating a maze for him made out of cardboard boxes and duct tape, I redirect their creative impulses. He need only make eye contact with me for me to jump to his defense.

He may be a small fur ball, but his stomach can hold a shockingly large volume of pink chunks.

Should I slip, fall, bump my head or otherwise die of "suspicious" injuries, please let this serve as a notice to law enforcement that the cat is capable of anything.