Tag Archives: dogs

Bad humans! Very bad humans!

By Aprill Brandon Buffy A. Summers Huddle Brandon

Greetings, worthless humans. In case you haven’t figured it out yet (which of course you haven’t because you’re worthless humans), this is not Aprill. The quote, unquote “Alpha” is busy doing stupid human stuff, like actually voluntarily taking a bath and going poo-poo in my giant water bowl.

So I, Buffy, her quote, unquote “pet,” took this opportunity to take over her blog. Now mind you, I could have done this at any time during the past eight years (the woman is about as observant as Helen Keller). But honestly, I don’t feel the same need as you nose-breathers to share every little detail of my life:

“Just scooted my butt on the floor. Now it’s time for a nap.”

Why do you people enjoy reading crap like that?

However, thanks to certain grave injustices that have recently taken place, I have had no choice but to use this rather pathetic excuse for a public forum (with all nine of her readers) to air out some grievances I have with your kind. Specifically, grievances I have with my…ugh…”owners,” but it applies to all of you vile creatures that sweat out of your…(shudder)…pores.

Now, when I first moved in with my humans, who I not-so-affectionately nicknamed Loud One and Spiky Head, it was mainly because I took pity on them. They were completely clueless. I mean, these are creatures that greet their own species by shaking hands. The same hands they use to clean up after themselves when they go potty! Which they do INSIDE THE HOUSE! Like low-life CATS! Utterly disgusting. Not to mention the food they eat. I may have eaten my fair share of sidewalk vomit but I know what they put in that fast food you all love so much thanks to the fact Loud One and Spiky Head leave talk radio on when they leave (as if THAT will trick me into thinking you didn’t just abandon me for anywhere from five minutes to five days…I’m…uh…not really that good at telling time).

Newsflash: That dead bird you just yelled at me for eating? It’s healthier than that cheeseburger you just scarfed down.

But when they kept insisting on calling me by the ridiculous moniker of Buffy, even though I told them repeatedly my name is Steve, I decided to stay simply because I knew I couldn’t live with myself if I inflicted these two idiots on any other innocent dog.

And so, things went fine for awhile besides the occassional degrading newspaper swat, which I tolerated because, well,…heh…I did, in fact, know those were her favorite shoes. But THEN, three weeks ago, they did something so unforgiveable, something so completely horrible, I had no choice but to finally speak up.

I should have known something was up when they took me to the weird-smelling place again with the mean human female who always sticks things in me. Nothing good ever happens in that place. Seriously, one time when we went there, I woke up the next day missing some VERY vital body parts.

And this time was almost as bad. Apparently obsessively chewing on your tail is now illegal in this country because I left that place wearing…I…I don’t even know if I can say it…they put…the…CONE OF SHAME on me!

Exhibit A:

The cone of shame! In the words of our biggest celebrity, Dug, I do not like the cone of shame.

And they made me wear it for no less than three weeks. Do you know how hard it is to climb stairs or eat food from the floor or not propel yourself backward at 60 miles per hour after running into the door at full speed because your haven’t quite grasped the concept that you have a contraption three times the size of your normal head around you?

And you DARE to call us the lesser species.

That kind of thing should be downright illegal. It’s just inhumane. No! Worse! It’s incanine! How would you feel if someone made you wear an embarrassing piece of plastic that made all the other dogs laugh, not to even mention the insufferable taunting from cats and squirrels.

You humans just think you’re so great. Ooooh, I have opposable thumbs! I’m so awesome! I can turn doorknobs and grab things from high shelves! But you know what? You’re not that great. In fact, you are all just glorified mailmen and we dogs could easily take over “your” world with one simple…oh, hang on. Loud One is trying to talk to me. What is it, woman? I’m busy writ…oh, what’s that? Wait. You’re spelling something. OH, OH, OH, YOU’RE SPELLING SOMETHING! I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE SPELLING BUT SPELLING ALWAYS MEANS SOMETHING GOOD! ARE WE GOING FOR A WALK!? OH MY GOD, IT’S A WALK, ISN’T IT? OR A TREAT!?! IT’S A TREAT, ISN’T IT!!! AHHHH! THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE!!!

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Hair today, shaved tomorrow

I know I’ve been writing about my dog a lot lately. And I’m sure it’s getting annoying.

But good news! I promise it will stop.

Right now.

Right now…

After this post…

WAIT! Wait, don’t leave! I promise this will be the last time but ifyouleaveyounowyou’llreallyregretitcausethispostisatleastmildlyamusing
andit’snotlikeyouhaveanythingbettertodoandohheydidyouhappentoseewhere
typingthewordsclosetogetherlikethismadeitspelloutthewordtitheh.

Anyway, as I was saying, I’m sure you guys are tired of hearing about my dog. But in my defense, writers tend to write about things they know. And since I now work from home, most of the things I know revolve around spending 10 hours a day stuck in the house alone with Buffy.

Ah, yes, the glamorous life of the freelance writer (I also now know 52 ways to make Ramen taste less sucky…The key? Drink heavily while cooking).

The other thing that happens when you spend this much time at home is that you notice just how truly dirty your house is. I mean, when you leave to go to a job every day, it’s easy to ignore the pile of dishes, the crumbs, the beer pyramid on the coffee table, the hobo who has taken up residence in the southwest corner of the living room. But when you can’t escape the filth, you’re forced to deal with it on a daily basis and…*SHUDDER*…clean. Like regularly. And not on my preferred former cleaning schedule of “I can’t take it anymore…where’s the mop? Sh*t! Do we have a mop?”.

Which, brings me back to my dog. With this new cleaning habit I have acquired, I also now notice just how much dog hair he sheds on a daily basis. Whereas before I was used to the random “dog fur tumbleweed” moseying through the house, it has now escalated to “Indy running away from the giant boulder” proportions.

There’s so much hair that I’m starting to suspect Buffy isn’t even really a dog, just some mutant strain of dog fur that once rolled through a puddle of nuclear waste, became self-aware and started to asexually reproduce.

It never used to be this bad. At first, I thought he was shedding so much just out of spite because I refuse to let him eat that uppity cat next door. But then I realized we now live in a place with seasons. Like, four of them. And four seasons means cold and hot. Which means pets gain and lose fur on a regular basis. Which means 94 percent of my life will henceforth be devoted to sweeping.

Not that I’m bitter.

Or anything.

I mean, it’s just EVERYWHERE! Every corner! Every crevice! It gets into the fridge! The A/C vents! The couch! And the last straw…my BOOZE!

Oh, and I’m pretty sure the majority of my major airways. Maybe even the minor ones.

It just floats through the air, with the greatest of ease, settling on everything like a 1930’s dust storm.

And I am at my wit’s end. Which is why, depending on just how many more vodka and cranberry juices I have tonight, Buffy will wake up tomorrow morning looking like this:

Adventures in puppysitting

It is 2:30 on Thursday afternoon. I am sitting at the computer, attempting to type this around my almost 40-pound dog, who is struggling to sit on my not-nearly-big-enough lap. I am still in the sweatpants I slept in, hair in the same messy bun I went to bed in and my face still has the remnants of yesterday’s eyeliner. To my left is an 11-pound puppy who is desperately and energetically trying to also jump on my lap. And to my immediate right is the giant screwdriver I just made with a generous dose of really cheap vodka.

Maybe I should start at the beginning.

Last week, a friend asked my husband and me if we would watch her dog for a couple of days while she went out of town. Considering my schedule consisted mostly of plans to write this column (but really use the time to Facebook bomb as many people as I could … you’re welcome, Grandma), I said “Eh, why not?”

Now Leelou (full name: Leelou Dallas Multipass Mulligan) is an absolutely adorable puppy of that breed of small dogs that look concerned all the time. She is also besties with my dog Buffy (full name: Buffy Anne Summers Brandon Huddle the First), or at least as close to besties as two creatures – who think sniffing each other’s rears for three hours is an appropriate greeting – can be.

So, naturally, I figured this little adventure in puppysitting would be a breeze.

HA! Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!! (Snort) Hahahahahahahahahaha!!! (Semi-sob)

Alas, I forgot one crucial thing. Taking care of one dog? Easy-peasy. Taking care of two dogs? A good start if you want to kick-off that descent into madness with a bang.

See, while both Leelou and Buffy are essentially good dogs at heart, it was their combination that was the problem. For instance, if Leelou woke up at 2 a.m., Buffy would wake up at 2:03 a.m. and then both of them would have to spend the next 20 minutes repositioning themselves on the bed (such as whichever one was sleeping directly on my face would move to my feet and vice versa).

If Leelou wanted to play with a toy, Buffy also wanted to play with a toy. In fact, he wanted to play with the exact same one that … SURPRISE! … Leelou had. If Leelou heard someone three houses down sneezing and decided it was a threat to all our well-beings, she would start barking as though the house was on fire. This barking would alert Buffy that he, too, needed to bark, only much louder and at an urgency that is usually reserved for when Vikings are invading your apartment.

If Leelou wanted to play the canine version of Fight Club, Buffy would make sure it got elevated to Thunderdome status. If Leelou had an accident in the house, Buffy felt compelled to … ahem … “clean it up” before I got there with paper towels in hand.

It finally got so bad that I decided to put both of them in their cages so I could have just a few moments of peace. Sadly, even that backfired. Now, I’ve never given birth. But I’m pretty sure the opposite of it is an apt comparison of trying to shove an unwilling dog into its cage. And I’m pretty sure the opposite of giving birth to a full-sized gorilla is an apt comparison of trying to do that twice.

So, by 2:30 on Thursday, I hadn’t had time to shower. I had spent most of the morning trying to prevent Leelou from eating something inedible and the rest of my day trying to prevent Buffy from eating whatever Leelou left behind. There was a never-ending game of “jump on Aprill’s lap and delete whatever she just spent the last 30 minutes typing” (although they did stop occasionally to bark at yet something else that wasn’t actually there) and my house was littered with dog toys of every type imaginable.

It was enough to make even this die-hard dog lover question whether having pets was worth it.

But then, just when I couldn’t take it anymore, both of them finally got tired and laid down. And eventually fell asleep. Cuddled together. Looking so sweet I’m pretty sure I got a cavity just by glancing at them.

And I realized, it was those moments that made all the craziness worth it.

Then again, it could have just been the really cheap vodka kicking in.