Tag Archives: pets

Butt fur the grace of God

There are many distinct advantages to having a dog vs. having a child. For instance, when your child is misbehaving and you just can’t take it anymore, sticking them in a crate for six hours while you get some much needed “me” time usually results in “jail” time. Likewise, it is frowned upon by authorities to hit your kid with a newspaper (and/or a September Vogue when they’ve been a VERY BAD BOY!) or to rub their face in their own feces to get your point across. Not to mention, have you ever seen a toddler sit and stay upon command? Without the assistance of duct tape, that is?

But the one area where dogs don’t have a distinct advantage? Sickness. Specifically the flu (or whatever the dog-version of the flu is, which is what I suspect my dog Buffy currently has). Because when either one gets sick, it’s pretty much the same scenario for the caregiver–

You will spend at least the next 24 hours cleaning up every manner of vile substances that can squeeze (and/or explode) itself out every orifice imaginable from their tiny bodies.

Which is why my Tuesday thus far has consisted of:

Taking my dog outside so he can poop.

Taking my dog outside again so he can poop.

Cleaning up the vomit I discovered after I got out of the shower.

Taking my dog outside again so he can have an explosive case of diarrhea and then immediately dragging my dog to the bathroom without having his backside touch anything (Note: I was unsuccessful).

Throwing said dog who has an intense hatred of baths into the tub so I could cut out his butt fur that had been tainted with said diarrhea.

Scrubbing his backside in case I missed any of the tainted butt fur.

Trying to get him back into the tub after he escaped and then rinsing him off as his wet body clings to mine with a strength I honestly didn’t think his 32-pound body could possibly possess.

Disinfecting the tub and bathroom floor with the butt fur and diarrhea remains.

Cleaning up all the other areas where he decided to spontaneously sit while being dragged to the bathroom.

Scrubbing my hands for 45 minutes until they bled and then sitting by the water bowl trying to coax Buffy to take a drink since I know I have personally just cleaned up every single ounce of liquid his body could possibly hold.

And that pretty much brings us up to date, with my exhausted dog cuddled up next to me on the couch as I sporadically check to make sure he’s still breathing while I type this and the vet’s number queued up on my phone in case he gets any worse.

Now, I could be angry about this situation. Or at least unhappy. Or at the very least starting to question what horrific life decisions I had made that had led me up to this point where I spend the majority of my Tuesday scrubbing a dog’s butt.

But I’m not. Because as it turns out, this couldn’t have happened at a better time considering I woke this morning to the Facebook announcement of yet another person in my circle happily proclaiming that they’re pregnant. A proclamation, I’m not proud to admit, that made me irrationally mad.

See, after my first pregnancy ended in a miscarriage in October, my husband and I have started to try to conceive again, which has yet to be successful and which is subconsciously bringing up some of those horrible feelings we dealt with this fall. And which is why instead of being happy for couples who are expecting like I should, I react with:

“But that’s not fair! They already have kids! And now they get another one? Like it’s just so easy to get pregnant! How dare they! How dare they be so happy when I’m not! How dare it be so easy for them when it’s not for me!”

Like I said, irrationally mad. And exceedingly unfair to the happy couple, I know.

But after today, I realize it’s probably a lot harder (and a lot more anxiety-inducing) to deal with a sick kid. Or to deal with even a healthy kid. Because poop-covered-fur-cutting-out aside, my dog is pretty self-sufficient no matter what the circumstances. And if I was dealing with a sick kid, I wouldn’t be able to drink this vodka I’m currently holding in my hand.

So, I’m holding onto that for right now, because I need to hold onto something other than the disappointment of getting my period yet again. And for right now, it’s enough to just try to find the upside of only being responsible for the life of a dog, a creature that has more instincts for self-preservation than a toddler who thinks sticking a fork into a light socket sounds like a downright dandy idea.

And to try to remember that there is always next month, which, of course, is easier said than done, but hey, it’s something.

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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!!!

The Truth About Cats and Dogs

Owning a dog has a lot of benefits. For instance, you will always know the precise moment the mail comes. You are always well aware of just how good your human food smells considering it has compelled your dog to crawl, military-style, across the floor until they are steathily hidden underneath the table. And you will always know ahead of time the answer to the question “What’s that smell?”

But perhaps most importantly, owning a dog, at least in my case, has alerted me to the very important fact that I don’t live in a quiet, little neighborhood like I thought. Oh, no. I apparently live in a place teeming with dangerous, unsavory characters. Specifically, characters of the feline variety.

Yes, there is a gang of cats residing on my street, threatening the peace and quiet with all their menacing aloofness. And every single time I take my dog, Buffy, outside, a turf war explodes. For instance, yesterday we were walking to the park when suddenly Buffy turned into a bug-eyed, frothing-at-the-mouth lunatic and the following confrontation took place:

Buffy: “Bark Bark!”

Random cat: “Hissssssss…”

Buffy: “Barkbarkbarkbarkbarkbarkbark!”

Random cat: “Hisssssssss…”

Buffy: “BARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARK!”

Random cat: …*saunters off unnecessarily slow*

This exchange, roughly translated, goes something like this:

Buffy: “I see you! Come here! I want to chew on your head.”

Random cat: “You come here, [BAD WORD]. I dare you.”

Buffy: “AH! I hate you! I’m going to eat your face off!”

Random cat: “Good [VERY BAD WORD] luck with that, mouth-breather. P.S. Nice leash, loser.”

Buffy: “I WILL KILL YOU UNTIL YOU’RE DEAD! AND THEN KILL YOU AGAIN!”

Random cat: “Bored now.”

It’s a well-documented fact that dogs and cats don’t get along, no matter how many “puppy and kitten cuddling” Internet memes pop up on Facebook. But what I want to know is, when did this war start? How far back does it go? And what is the main beef these two have with each other?

Did it all start with Noah’s Ark? Did maybe being in such close quarters for so long cause a dog and cat to get to know each other in the “Biblical” sense, thus resulting in an offspring abomination now known as the Chihuahua and the two species have been fighting out of shame and guilt ever since?

Or is it simply idealogical differences? That cats don’t view themselves as pets so much as captives and so they are contiually plotting an insurrection against humans, which the dogs are constantly thwarting because they love being pets and having their main responsibilities be eating, sleeping and pooping?

Or is it perhaps more of a Hatfield-McCoy feud? Some hillbilly dog drunk on moonshine killed some hillbilly cat and then the cat’s relatives retaliated, killing that dog’s uncle brother and so on and so on and the current hostilities stem from that?

Alas, we mere humans will probably never know the answer. That is, unless the cats are finally successful with their revolution and we suddenly find ourselves being forced to wear sparkly collars and make boom-boom in a sandbox.

I apologize in advance for this post

So, originally today I was going to write about how much it sucks when you’re broke and have to make a budget. 1. Because it lets me procrasinate from actually working on my own budget. And 2. Um…OK, I just wanted to procrasinate.  

There is truly nothing more depressing than writing out exactly where all your hard earned money is going and realizing just how pathetically broke your ass is. But it really is something every mature, responsible adult should do at the end of every month, especially when you realize “Crap! We don’t have enough money for rent! Or BEER!!! Again!”

And while I’m sure making a budget sucks for everyone (I guarantee even Trump is sometimes like “I’m spending how much on caviar and baby seal hearts!?!) I think for me this process is even more depressing than it is for your average normal broke-ass person, simply because it sheds way too much light on my priorities. For example:

Not to mention, the only thing worse than making a budget is writing about making a budget.

Sooooo…instead I’m gonna write about today being NATIONAL BUBBLE WRAP DAY! YAY!

Yup, today is National Bubble Wrap Day.

And I think we can all agree that bubble wrap is awesome.

So…poppy. And whatnot.

Yeah…

Bubble wrap.

Fun times.

OK, yeah, if you guys would have had to pay to read this post, I’d totally give you your money back right now.

But since you didn’t, please enjoy the humorous video posted below so your entire trip here hasn’t been a complete waste:

[WARNING: Very bad words are involved…but, you know, in a classy way]

If you give a wife a mouse…

I’ve written before about my never-ending battle with my dog’s asexually reproducing fur and my suspicions that it has become self-aware, thus leading to rogue hair armies which are taking over my house in an Alexander-the-Great-esque manner.

Well, the battle has just been taken to the next level. I’m not quite sure how it managed to do it, but somehow Buffy’s fur temporarily defeated me by pulling a Trojan horse on Sunday. (But, you know, a Trojan horse on their level, which would be a mouse…they are only hair afterall, albeit evil villain overlord hair).

I should have known something was up. Ever since it’s gotten colder, the fur seemed to be retreating, staying at base camp located on my dog’s body in order to gather strength for the summer attack. Oh, how naive I was! Letting down my guard and growing lax in my sweeping defenses!

Which is EXACTLY what they wanted.

And which brings us to Sunday. In an effort to avoid writing or doing anything productive that would potentially result in a paycheck, I decided to do a quick Swiffer sweep just to make sure there was still a hardwood floor underneath the carpet of black fur (calm down, fellas…I know my domestic skills are wildly attractive but, alas, I am already taken).

And that’s when my highly astute observational skills, sharpened to a fine point thanks to my years working as a journalist, noticed that one hair clump seemed a bit bigger than the others. Upon closer examination, it also seemed that the clump had grown a tail. Naturally, my first thought was that the fur had evolved, having obviously managed to accelerate the natural process via experiments involving uranium or whatever that substance Wolverine is made out of.

But that was just silly. Where would the fur get uranium this time of year?

And that’s when it became clear just what I was dealing with. Underneath the fur was a real, live mouse.

A.

Mouse.

Who had apparently entered our house using the fur as a disguise, having apparently been unable to find a tiny potted plant to sneak in behind. Either that, or it had been dead for so long, the fur had built up around it. And to be honest, I’m not quite sure which scenario is less disturbing.

I am proud to report, however, that I did NOT do the typical chick thing, which is to scream, jump on the table and do what can only be described as the “hibbity-jibbity” tapdance. Instead, I calmly walk into my husband’s office, calmly told him the situation, and then calmly climbed onto the back of the couch in a crouching position as I calmly held my dog out in front of me in a shield-like manner in anticipation of any aerial vermin attack.

And then from my perch I helpfully shouted things like “Is it dead? If it isn’t, don’t kill it. It’s not his fault!” and “It moved?! KILL IT! KILL IT! KILL IT! KILL IT! AHHHHHHH! KILL IT!”

I’ve always been fascinated by this particular disconnect in the women’s brain. In general, we love bunnies, squirrels, hamsters…pretty much anything that is small and furry and had a supporting role at one time or another in a children’s movie. So in theory, mice are in that same cuddly category. Not to mention, as children we grow up with Mickey Mouse, Jerry of Tom and Jerry fame and Speedy Gonzalez. Hell, the majority of Americans thought a rat cooking in a French restaurant was not only cute, but a worthy subject for a feature-length film.

But there’s a very good reason why mice don’t fall into that category in real life. See, outside or in a cage or anywhere that is not inside your actual house, a mouse looks like this:

But once it’s inside your house, it turns into this:

Luckily, my very brave husband, armed with only a Swiffer, an empty beer box and a hockey mask, was able to trap the mouse and then set it free in our yard, where it can live a happy and healthy life devoted to coming right back into our house through the same hole it came in the first time.

And as for Buffy’s fur, all I have to say is…nice try, guys. You may have thought you could unhinge me by convincing an innocent (outside my house) mouse into some sort of suicide bomber mission, and yeah, I’ll admit it worked a little considering I now jump every time I see more than two individual hairs together in a corner, and yeah, I may have had a few nightmares involving mouse tails growing out of inanimate objects and perhaps my forehead, and yeah, I’ve spent the last three days scrubbing this house and my naked body with bleach and ammonia, and yeah, I may be “technically” sleeping in the car in freezing temperatures out of my fear a mouse will crawl into bed with me and eat my face off, BUT you haven’t won yet.

Cause I got a Lady Bic with the name Buffy written all over it.

On the 13th of December, Christmas gave to me…

Carefully and lovingly wrapped gifts covered in dog fur thanks to the fact I wrapped them on my constantly-cleaned-but-never-quite-clean floor.

CORRECTION: On the 13th of December, Christmas gave to all my closest family and friends carefully and lovingly wrapped gifts covered in dog fur thanks to the fact I wrapped them on my constantly-cleaned-but-never-quite-clean floor.

You’re all welcome.

P.S. Buffy says you’re all welcome too. And he hopes you cherish his DNA this most merry of seasons.

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: