The Tree - A Moleskine Doodle

Reminds me of the book "The Giving Tree".

Obi's Got Mail!

My friend and fellow blogger, Courtney, heard my pleas for help as a first time dog owner and sent a care package in the mail.

It came addressed to Obi. He was very excited. He'd never gotten mail before.

"For ME?? What is it?! What is it?! Open it open it open it! Curse you, thumbless paws!!"

Obi's Loot



There was a rope chew, a package of denta-bones, and a squeaky lobster. Maybe now my flip flops will be spared.

She even included a catnip mouse and a bag of treats for Mr. Beckett. He was very pleased.

Courtney's unexpected generosity brought a wee tear to my eye. She has now been accorded "Auntie C" status where Obi and Mr. Beckett are concerned.

The Dog Days of Summer Diet

Obi is a chewer.

Items he has chewed beyond recognition:
2 empty egg cartons
1 trainer laces (though he spared the actual $130 shoe itself)
Pair of flipflops
2 wooden paint brush handles
edge of the doormat
the meat section from the local grocery store sale flyer
1 Netflix envelope
1 empty ziplock bag
1 empty liquid soap bottle
1 ant bait (vet said he'd be fine)
1 extra large tube of wood glue (Fortunately I caught him before he glued his lips together.)

(Do dogs have lips?)

Items he hasn't chewed:
chew toy that looks like a blue and orange duck
gray squirrel chew toy that resembles road kill (I have named him Mr. Carcass)
squeaky frisbee
red rubber bone filled with cheese
rawhide bone
nylon bone
real bone

I have Netflixed all the episodes of The Dog Whisperer. In a single afternoon I  bought and read Cesar Millan's new book on dog training. Mr. Millan would suggest more exercise, but I'm doing as much dog walking/ people dragging activity as I can squeeze in. I'm doing 30 minutes in the morning before I get ready for work, and at least an hour, more most of the time, in the evening after it cools down.

So far I've lost 20 hrs of sleep (cumulative over the past few days) and three pounds. I'm calling it the Dog Days of Summer Diet.

Fireworks - The Devil's Noisemakers

"You stupid kids and your stupid firecrackers!! Don't you know some of us have to work in the morning?!"

That's what I yelled from my front porch at 10:30PM last night.

I have officially reached crotchety old lady status.

Hope everyone had a wonderful, sparkler-filled 4th of July.

Stray Dog Saga Part V - The Naming

I've decided to name the dog Obi.

The veterinarian thought it was a shout-out to Star Wars' Obi-Wan Kenobi. It's actually short for Oberon from A Midsummer Night's Dream. At the time of Obi's rescue, I was reading a book (Hounded by Kevin Hearne) where the main character owned an Irish wolfhound named Oberon. It seemed like destiny, even though Obi is not Irish, not a wolfhound, and definitely not King of the Fairies.

Because of his Star Wars reference, I now have a huge geeky crush on the vet.

I asked Mr. Future Ex-Husband the Veterinarian what breed he thought Obi was. His best guess was that Obi was at least half this...

American Bull Terrier - Also Commonly Know as The Spuds Mckenzie Dog

with a smidgen of this...

American Bulldog

and a possibly a dash of this...

Pointer

It's anyone's best guess, really. Obi is a dog of varied heritage, which is fine by me. Everyone, this is Obi. Obi, this is everyone.

Hold still a second while I take your picture.

No, it's not food. It's a camera. Now hold still a sec while I...

GAH!

There. See? That wasn't so hard, was it?

The vet pronounced Obi to be healthy, except for the obvious wounds and being underweight. He is only about two years old, which was a surprise. I thought he was older, but the vet assured me after getting a close look at his big, ol' sparkly teeth (did I mention Mr. Future Ex-Husband the Vet is very brave?) that he was quite young. Just a puppy.

He got his jabs for rabies, parvo, heartworms, etc. Drops were put in his ears. Subjected to all of that and the traumatic car ride to and from, Obi hardly even whimpered. After a couple of more baths to get rid of the lingering Eau de Dead Possum, we should be good to go.

Stray Dog Saga Part IV

I'm officially a dog owner.

*sigh*

It wasn't part of the plan, but I've never been good at following the stupid blueprints anyway.

Now that I'm a dog owner, I'm taking my responsibility seriously. Dog now has a very stylish and functional collar and leash combo in basic black. He has his own food and water bowl. There is a stash of kibble and treats under the sink. Some landscapers are coming to finish leveling my yard so I can have a fence installed. I have an appointment scheduled with a veterinarian to get Dog a checkup and receive any necessary jabs.

In order to make a good impression and not stink up the vet's office like sun-baked road-kill (which Dog has obviously rolled in at some point), I gave him a bath. It was the easiest thing ever! He was very stoic as I scrubbed him down with a bucket of warm, soapy water. Didn't even twitch. Didn't even shake himself off until I started drying him with a towel.

Why does everyone gripe about bathing their dog? Ever tried to bath a cat? I did. Once. That's why I wear an eyepatch.

Come to find out under all that dirt and god-only-knows-what, Dog is mostly white. He has a black nose, amber eyes, and faint spots on his ear, coat, and tail that look like someone spilled a latte on him.

Now all Dog needs is a name...

(Stay tuned for pictures in tomorrow's post, "Stray Dog Saga Part V - The Naming".)

Stray Dog Saga Part III

Yup.

I'm still in the park with the Dog.

He's eaten all of the lemon-pepper chicken (except the bones which I picked out because I read somewhere chicken bones are bad for dogs), and shown no signs of willingly clambering into the Jeep anytime this decade.

Who's the suckah now, huh?

Good news is he seems to be developing a much more trusting attitude towards me. No tail-wagging yet and he's still pretty twitchy. He demonstrates this when I go to chuck the ice cream cup/ water dish in the garbage. As I threw it basketball-style into the trash can, he crouched down, ears flat, and scampered off with his tail tucked. It took me ten minutes to coax him back over.

Where is the freaking Dog Whisperer when you need him?

I will say this for Dog, he is excruciatingly polite. Even though he's obviously starving (noted previously), he waits patiently for me to debone the chicken, gently taking each morsel from my fingers without accidentally biting off any of my digits with his giant fangs.

By now it's been a couple of hours. The sun is lowering in the west and the temperature has dropped to a cool 102degrees. I have resorted to prayer. If there is no divine intervention, both of us are going to die from dehydration. That's if we don't succumb to heat stroke first.

If there is a god/goddess/patron saint of dogs out there, give us a hand would you?

A truck with a mom and three boisterous young children pulls up.

Crap.

Thanks for nothing, Patron Saint of Sucks Ass. This is exactly the opposite of what I need right now.

Not wanting to risk someone shooting first and asking questions later, I approach the young mother and explain the situation. She is so sympathetic I want to cry. While the kids wait in the air-conditioned truck, she grabs a length of rope from the back. I loop it loosely around the dog's neck, and with me tugging the rope from my position in the the driver's seat and her giving him a gentle boost from the rear, we get him into the vehicle.

Where he promptly devourers all the chicken bones I'd picked out AND the napkin they were wrapped in. Oh well. Chicken bones are the least of our problems.

I'm going to need to offer serious reparation to some divinities later for that sucks ass comment.

Pretty sure there's a lesson in there someplace.

I thank our rescuer profusely (and thank the Patron Saint of Canines silently), and then slowly and carefully drive away. The last thing I need is a big, freaked-out dog in my lap as I'm driving down the highway. The ride to Holly House is interesting, but suffice it to say we both arrive whole and profoundly relieved to get out of the car once we reach our destination.

Now Dog is stuck like glue. Where I go, he goes. I am not to be let out of his sight for any reason.

Such is the bond created by lemon-pepper chicken.

I feed him some kibble topped with a little of the meat and gravy product. That finally gets a meager tail wag. He drinks and drinks and drinks from a bowl of cold water while I envision puddles of pee-pee all over the place in the morning. I don't even know if dog is housebroken, but I can't leave him outside because #1.) I don't have a fenced yard (it is on my July to do list ), and #2.) my next door neighbor is not an animal lover and has been seen weeding his garden with a .45 strapped to his hip.

Just in case he encounters a rogue turnip.

I make Dog a bed in the laundry room using the door mat and a couple of old towels. Meanwhile the Cat, shut in the house on the other side of the laundry room door, is making his "Hello? Hello? Is someone in there?" meow. Dog shows an unwholesome interest in the cat sounds. I wonder about some of the scratches around his nose... perhaps made by a cat that wasn't willing snackage? I make a note to keep them separated for now.

He catches on to the whole dogbed concept quickly. Even though he still won't lay down, with a little encouragement he does finally sit. His legs are trembling. It's either a result of exhaustion or he's coming down off the adrenaline rush caused from the ride in the Jeep. Probably a little bit of both. I know I'm experiencing both.

I turn off the laundry room lights and back out the door closing it firmly. Watching me retreat, Dog make nary a peep. I sit on the couch and watch a few minutes of the 10 o'clock news and wake up a few hours later. Tip-toeing to the laundry room door, I crack it open. Dog is stretched out on his makeshift bed fast asleep.

Amazing recuperative powers, dogs.