| Faithful Pillow Warmer |
Mark is sick. And by sick, I don’t mean he’s sick as in a totally rad husband kind of sick, even though he is; I mean honest to goodness sick. And this is a man who never gets sick. The whole time I’ve known him, which is over half of my 28 years of existence on this planet, I have never seen him like this. Except maybe for the thousand zillion hangovers we’ve nursed together over the years, but technically those don’t count because they’re self inflicted.
Mark, the hardest working work-life balance man that I know, never takes time off work unless it is for a well planned and executed holiday from the office that will ensure freedom from a perpetually vibrating BlackBerry. But last Thursday night a fever worked its way into his fiendishly fit man body that just kept escalating higher and higher.
Planning to spend a quiet day fighting his fever-induced grogginess in bed, Mark rose early on Friday morning to wrap up some work related business that needed to be handled in his absence. While he was busy in the home office, Nate and I ate breakfast at his pint-sized toddler table, brushed our teeth and then headed to daycare.
Once home, I put on a much needed pot of focus-enhancing coffee and before getting started on a new freelance writing project, I went to check on Mark in bed only to be greeted by our faithful four-legged companion keeping Mark’s pillow warm while he soaked in tepid bath water and tried to lower his soaring temperature.
Shortly after sitting down to write the entire house filled with the disgruntled swearing of an overheated man with only half a voice.
Samson, never wanting to be left out of whatever the humans are doing, had left on Mark's pillow the most giant pile of previously eaten chicken by-product breakfast that I have ever seen. And while we scrambled to clean up the mess, Samson just layed there and gazed at us with his penetrating chocolate brown eyes, as if to say, “Oh hai. I has a sick too. Please to give cuddles now?”
 Labels: Mark, Samson |
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| Quiet |
The house feels eerily quiet this morning. In the background is the gurgle of a brewing pot of coffee and just beyond an open window I can hear the trailing echo of a distant train and a lively orchestrated morning symphony of birds.
The house is quiety today because every Friday Nate goes to daycare, and I'm so happy to say that our new provider, Kristen, has been nothing short of amazing.
I remember how much my heart sank when our first attempt at putting Nate in daycare one day a week ended in an awkward confrontation of me being told that my son was developmentally behind and disruptive to the business. Unlike our last experience however, Kristen is warm and loving and Nate has never come home in an inconsolable state lasting for days. And most importantly, she has never told me not to bring my kid back.
Nate’s been under Kristen’s care since March, and in all this time, she's only mentioned one day where he cried a lot, but that he was easily consoled by plenty of snuggling and his blankie.
Every time I pick Nate up at Kristen's, she excitedly tells me about all the new things he’s learning and how clever he is about interacting with the world around him. Any mention of temper tantrums or periods of fussiness are mentioned more in passing, kind of like ho-hum, normal kid stuff, but here, let me fill you in all of the exciting and new things your ever-evolving child learned today.
Kristen also sends home a report detailing how Nate’s day went, what activities he did, what he ate, when he napped, etc. Totally not something I expect, but a nice touch. And his "report cards" are something that I will treasure forever.
So while I sit here in quiet solitude clutching a mug filled with the wafting aroma of coffee, sounds seem amplified. And without a busy toddler rummaging through a cupboard filled with Tupperware, I swear I can hear the vibrations of nervous energy in my veins, propelling the increasingly loud thump thump thump of my maternal heart at the thought of not seeing my son for nine days while I'm out of the country.
Samson, seemingly sensing my unease, is instincitvely lying at my feet. And I know I should probably say something about what a loyal companion he is, but I just need to stop right here and tell you how comfortable it is to have the entire sofa to myself. Nate is not climbing up and down and down and up and up and down and bouncing and hopping all over the place, and in an unusual fashion, Samson is not trying to mould his great big giant dog body into the last remaining square inch of cushion space.
Samson also loves human contact, which sounds all cute and adorable, except that 90 lbs of dog torso on your lap is so not comfortable. And whenever we have company spend the night, Samson is faced with the difficult challenge of deciding which human to snuggle with. This usually means that he spends the entire night alternating his bedmates between all the human-filled beds in the house, which also means that nobody ever gets any sleep because one minute Samson is all, hi, want to spoon? And just as the seismic afershocks he created from leaping on the bed begins to taper, he’s off again to visit a different human where he's all, it’s been over two minutes since we last spooned together, so let’s take it slow and start with me sticking my cold dog nose in your ear.
I feel sorry for all of the dogs that Samson will be able to run free and play with at the kennel while we’re away because I know he will not sleep for even two seconds if there are other dogs faces to put inside his great big giant dog mouth.
And because he is too shy to do his business in public, I also know that he will not poop the entire time he is there. God help me if have to give that dog an enema when I get home.
 Labels: Nate, Samson, Vacation |
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| 44.5 hours |
I’m not sure how to say this, so I am just going to come right out and say it.
Our first weekend without toddler-centric responsibilities was fabulous.
And for the first time since, oh, I don’t know, our alcohol-fuelled pub frequenting days of the past, Mark and I slept a gloriously uplifting 11 hours Friday night. Without the eager squeals of a raring-to-go toddler in the morning, that’s almost an entire two nights sleep all rolled into one giant slumber fest. And when I rolled out of bed at 9:00 a.m. on Saturday morning, I felt so rejuvenated that I bet I could have survived the day without coffee. But then I thought, "Why risk a perfectly healthy feeling head?" And downed several cups of body-jolting java just to keep the onset of a caffeine deficiency headache at bay.
I also went for a long run Saturday to try and clear away the full body weariness coursing through my bones from this never-ending cold. Not even Samson came along because even though one would think an energetic dog like him would be a great running companion, he has some serious issues with endurance.
His energy seems to come in fits and spurts, which is probably why he seems to enjoy unleashing pent up energy by running in vigorously fast figure eight circles all over the back yard, tearing up the grass under his feet as he goes. This speed-crazed, tongue-dangling sprinting only lasts for about two minutes though before he gets tired, and then he spends the next hour recuperating by drinking all the water from our toilets and chasing the cats.
And then there's keeping pace with a human. Our runs usually start out fine with Samson dutifully heeling at my left side, but after about 20 minutes of pounding the pavement, his giant dog body becomes fatigued, and then I spend the rest of the run tugging a 90 pound yellow anchor home.
To say it was entirely liberating being out on my own without a people-watching toddler being pushed in front of me or a tuckered out dead weight of a dog dragging behind me would be an understatement.
But no matter how rejuvenating it was to hang up my hat of responsibility for exactly 44.5 hours, I missed my boy something fierce. The house felt eerily quiet without the squeals of his contagious laughter and the pitter patter of little scampering feet.
And as much as I’m looking forward to a vacation and spending some electrifying passion-sparked one-on-one time with Mark, I’m already looking forward to coming home and being reunited as a family again.Labels: All in the Family, Motherhood, Samson |
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| Purveyor of Poo |
Last night, on a whim, I decided that it's time to put the house for sale and move to Northern Alaska. I am not ready for the deep winter freeze to come to an end and have decided that the never ending bone-chilling cold is rather refreshing. And besides, the crumbling dampness that hovers in the air from living next to the Great Lakes is nothing that a steaming cup of cocoa can’t alleviate.
I'm learning to adapt to this climate, and have grown rather agile running on uncertain icy footing. And what is not to like about restrictive, heavy clothing and fingers perpetually encased in stiff-gloved leather? I also happen to think it’s rather endearing that my kid looks like an inflated air mattress in his snow suit. It makes me want to poke and coochy coochy coo him.
I don't miss the warm glow of summer’s yellow sun, salmon-pink sunsets or the gilded blush of sun-kissed skin. Oh, and don’t even get me started on how much I do not yearn to open a window and flush away the lingering staleness of months worth of confined and recycled winter air. I especially don't love balmy summer gusts twisting through my hair, or the sleep-enhancing freshness of curtains billowing in a dewy evening breeze, particularly when met with the fragrant smell of ever-blooming flowers.
At least this is what I have been trying to tell myself, because living in an icebox sounds much more enticing than having to deal with the four months worth of thawing dog shit in my backyard.
That’s over one hundred pounds of digested and expelled dog food no longer encapsulated in a hermetically sealed, stench-inhibiting ice tomb that needs to be taken care of. And by taken care of, I mean slapping on a rubber glove, sloshing through the festering meadow muffins, and picking them up, one disgustingly mushy pile at a time.
Welcome to my glamorous life as a Stay at Home Mom, Housewife and Seminal Arbitrator to Samson, the Purveyor of Poo.Labels: Samson, Soapbox |
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| Of High-Fiving and Somersaults |
So, how can you tell if someone was a pet owner before a commander of kids? Easy – they teach both the pint-sized human and the fur-covered mammal the same tricks.
Except maybe for the part where Nate’s doing somersaults. Samson hasn’t quite mastered how to roll over on his head yet, but we’re working on it. He’s just having a hard time on account of his elbows and torso being in all the wrong places.
Also, no need to worry about pointing out what a hot little number my red slippers and pink pants make. I am so in the know on that one. Or not.
Labels: Nate, Samson, Video |
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| Self-adhesive Brilliance |
Thank you so much everyone, for your wicked advice on embracing/enhancing my non-boobs with my deep plunging, backless dress. I was tempted to go braless, I really was, but this is going to be a family event where alcohol will be served, and because I have not been able to drink in what feels like a million zillion years, I have absolutely no faith in my ability to pay attention to things like keeping random body parts from flailing around on the dance floors - boobs and lanky legs included.
I ended up buying a self-adhesive bra, which is sheer brilliance by the way, and while I was trying on my new stick-on boobs, Samson asked what he was going to wear the wedding. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that ebay is flat out of doggy tuxedos, so I dug around in my closet and found this little black number for him.
I think the red necklace sets off the dress rather nicely, no?
 Labels: Boobs, Samson |
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| An Early Christmas for Samson |
Samson just turned two a few weeks ago, and although he has come a long way in terms of obedience, he is still the exact same epic dynamo of endless energy that he was when he was a pup. Only heavier.
Like, if the cat breathes, Samson’s all, “Hey, it’s alive! Me too! Ok, I’m going to run around table six hundred times and let’s see how often you can swat my big giant dog nose.” Or if Nate breathes, Samson’s all, “Here, let me stick my big giant dog nose in your ear. Repeatedly.” And when you have to go to the bathroom, good ol’ faithful Samson tags along, you know, for moral support.
But after hurting his paw the other day, you would think he would slow down for two nanoseconds and relax. But no, this is Samson we’re talking about; the perpetual motion machine that just does not know how to chill.
I’m not exactly sure what happened, but I’m thinking it must have been from him either running through chunks of icy snow, or during one of his temporary lapses of sanity where he believes he is Superman.
We have three steps leading off of our deck onto the ground, but because Samson does not believe in being graceful or dainty, it is very rare that he uses them. Instead, when the door to the outside world opens, he roars out of the house with a force equal that of a herd of stampeding elephants across the plains of Africa, and when he reaches the edge of the deck, he throws his body into the air and soars all the way to Jupiter, where he goes potty, and then comes home.
I noticed his paw was hurt when was waiting at the door to be let in. A pool of blood had collected near his foot and trailing behind him was a line of mudererous red that wrapped all the way around the BBQ. It totally looked like he had slaughtered a giant mammal and then dragged its carcass in concentric circles around the BBQ in a sacrificial offering to the Gods of propane. But really, he was probably pacing because he was in pain.
Because Samson’s status in this family has been officially upgraded to Big Yellow Vacuum of Floor Cheese and Everything Else That Nate Tosses from his Highchair, he’s put on a bit of pudge, and is now pushing 90lbs. So when I brought him inside to try and stop the bleeding and apply a bit of peroxide to the wound, he totally kicked my ass in what could have very well been the wresting match of the century.
To my own defence, Samson cheated and transformed his body into a big giant strand of squirmy spaghetti; which is how I ended up with a bruised eye.
God, I'm such a wimp. This is why I put the cone on his head - to humiliate him and show him who's boss.
But then a few days later, his dewclaw was a still a brilliant shade of red, a bit swollen, and quite obviously, still very sore. Even though Dr. Google assured me that he would not die, I decided to take him to the vet just to make sure.
It turns out that he didn’t actually rip the nail clean off; it was more like it lifted and tore away from the delicate nerve tissue underneath. This makes me little weak in the knees for two reasons, the first being how painful that must be, and the second being the vet bill.
I guess this means that Christmas came early for Samson.
He got antibiotics for an infected dewclaw, antibiotics for an ear infection and because he’s been such a good boy this year, a thermometer shoved up his ass for good measure.
I hope he liked it.Labels: Samson |
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| Cone Head |
If Samson could speak, he would probably say something like, “Human, yeah you over there with the opposable thumb, go and get me a beer.” And then Mark would be all, “And while you’re up, get one for me too.”
And then I would have to grow another set of breasts just to compete with all of the testosterone with vocal cords in this household.
So it’s a good thing he can’t speak, because I think my heart would crack and shatter into a million little pieces if I knew what, exactly, he was trying to communicate with his doggy whimpers after ripping the nail off of his dewclaw yesterday.
 Labels: Samson |
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| Cheesy |
Even though Nate’s actual due date was January 7th, he was born on December 22nd. No matter which way he entered this world - planned or spontaneous labour, or through an opening that was once home to a place where coarse and granular scar tissue did not exist, there was no getting around birthing a baby during the season where homes are ablaze in the luminous glow of holiday shimmer and lights.
Personally, I love when he was born because I love Christmas. But with a Christmas baby comes the old adage that birthdays and Christmas will always end up getting rolled together into one celebration. Which, when you think about it, totally isn’t a fair from a pint-sized human’s point of view who thinks that the world revolves around his shape collection. I mean, let’s face it, I could preach to Nate until I am blue in the face that it’s not all about the presents, but until he is able to understand that it is not an economically wise decision to feed the dog all of his harvarti cheese and that there is more to life than an expansive and endless selection of toys, this will mean absolutely nothing to him.
So, to help ease him through those grubby-fingered years of toddlerhood self-entitlement, we’ve decided to start a tradition of celebrating his birthday on the last Saturday of November. It’s a pretty sweet deal if you ask me, especially the part about getting a pre-birthday cake and a birthday-birthday cake, and the fact that his birthday will always fall on a weekend. He will totally thank us when he comes of age and has the luxury of dealing with those pesky after-party hangovers on a Sunday.
~:~
I took Nate to the doctors yesterday for his monthly check up, and at 11 months, he weighs 17½ pounds. This means that he has put on almost 1½ pounds in a month. I credit this weight gain to lots and lots of yogurt and cheese, but considering the ratio of cheese that actual finds its way into his mouth versus the amount of cheese that finds its way into the mouth of our loyal cheese snatching vacuum cleaner, this also means that Samson must have put on at least 12 pounds this month.
 Samson says,"Do you think all that cheese makes my shouders look fat?" Labels: Baby Nate, Samson |
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| Doggy Heaven |
My little brother is getting married soon. I guess that doesn’t make him so little anymore, but he will always be my little brother, even though he was born with the dimensions of a fully uniformed football player. Bless my mother and her poor battered body after that unmedicated birth.
Last weekend there was a celebration taking place for him and his fiancée back in my hometown of Penetanguishene, and this posed some problems around travelling with our great big giant dog, Samson.
Firstly, our ginormously tiny, two door Pontiac Sunfire simply cannot accommodate all of our gear, plus Samson. Plain and simple. Secondly, Samson is a diva and he refuses to contribute financially towards the purchase of a new car on the grounds that he is a spoiled dog. Also, he does not like to be left alone.
I know, I know, you’re thinking; Karla, he’s just a dog for pete's sake! The problem however, isn't so much that he's just a dog, it's that he is a dog with mighty dog teeth, and I have yet to recover from the time that he chewed a corner off of the quilt on my bed that cost almost as much as a mortgage payment.
It’s a good thing I love that dog, immensely, because the glue factory would have been a way cheaper.
Anyhow, Samson has separation anxiety and he deals with his stress by being destructive. This is why we must crate him whenever we leave the house. I don’t like it, but I also don’t like coming home and discovering that my portable phone battery is lost in the nether regions of his colon.
So, because we cannot fit his giant crate in our car, and because he would have been left alone while my entire family was out partying it up at my brother’s pre-wedding party, we decided to board Samson for the night.
Now, Samson likes to play. And I don’t just mean that he likes to run and run and run and act crazy ALL! DAY! LONG! I mean he likes to play, really, REALLY hard. Especially when he is around other dogs.
As soon as we pulled up the kennel, Samson sprouted himself some magic playing wings and from what we were told, his feet barely touch the ground the entire 24 hours that he was there because he was too busy leaping and pouncing and pirouetting in figure eights over, under and on top of the other dogs. And by the entire 24 hours, they meant the entire 24 hours, including the hours between the time that all of the dogs were ready to get some sleep to ALL THE DOGS BUT SAMSON WERE FINALLY READY TO GET SOME SLEEP.
If there is such thing as doggy heaven, then Samson found it.
When we went to pick him up the next day, he could barely move. Instead of his usual exuberant greeting of hopping in concentric circles around my person and pelting me with his hypersonically swift tail, he completely ignored me, made a beeline for the back door, went outside, had the biggest dump I have ever seen, and then collapsed in heap on the floor, where he remained for the rest of they day.
I guess the saying is right. A tired dog IS a good dog.Labels: Samson |
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| Gentle Giant |
He most certainly is not the neighbourhoods most graceful or debonair brown nosing pooch prodigy, but he is a gentle giant that endures endless ear pulling and ceaseless tail tugging from a pint sized human who also enjoys expressing himself through the flatulent squawk of his butt trumpet.Labels: Samson |
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| Projectile Plush Toy |
My brother is and his fiancée recently welcomed a new addition to their family.
Meet Seven.
She fits perfectly inside Samson’s big giant dog mouth.
I remember a time when Samson used to be that little. But then he averaged a growth of 2 lbs a week for almost the entire first year of his life and now he is 85 lbs of part canine and part crazy that is afraid of the oven.
:::
In other news, my kid likes it when you throw stuff at him.
I have no idea where he learned that having stuff thrown at you is funny because the only time something gets thrown around here is when Mark tosses his underwear at my head and I do not find that funny in the least.
Labels: Baby Nate, Mark, Samson |
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| The Curse of the Kibble |
Every couple of months we make a trip to the pet store to stock up on kibble and kitty litter. Considering we only have two cats and one dog, the combined weight of the above is 140 pounds. That’s like the weight of one entire human in the form of nourishment and a place for my cats to bury their landmines.
Unfortunately, Samson poops in the backyard because he is shy and will not do his business in public. His introversion however, does not extend to sticking his nose in the loins of a complete stranger.
Anyhow, we went to the pet store the other day to buy supplies for the animals. A bag of Samson’s dog food weighs 50 lbs, so when it comes to the heavy lifting, I leave it for Mark. Not because I am a wuss, but because trying to lift that much weight breaches the contract we signed when we got married stating that after spending nine months carrying the weight of his offspring on my person, I was absolved from any further heavy lifting not excluding taking out the trash and random instructions to rearrange the furniture to my liking.
We keep the pet food and kitty litter in the basement beside our chest freezer, which serves as a convenient place to house boxes of frozen pizza for all the gourmet cooking that I don’t do. The freezer sits next to our hot water tank.
When we got home, Mark brought the bag of dog food downstairs and set it on top of the freezer before heading back upstairs to get the cat food and kitty litter.
He made it part way back up the stairs when we heard a very loud BOOM. It sounded exactly like what you would expect 50 lbs worth of dog kibble to make as it pile drives into a hot water tank.
Rushing over to evaluate the damage, we discovered the enormously heavy bag of dog food had not only fallen over onto the ground, hitting the hot water tank along the way, but it had also knocked a valve. The exact same valve that will spray water spray everywhere if it gets knocked by 50 lbs of dog kibble.
Reacting, Mark grabbed the bag of dog food (which was now soaking wet) and when he picked it up, the bottom broke loose and Samson’s breakfast and dinner for the next two months poured out onto the floor. The very wet floor.
How much volume of water does 23% crude protein hold anyways? Two, three, maybe ten times it’s original weight? I guess that depends how fast we were able to shut the water off. I can assure you it was not fast enough.
We didn’t know what else to do with all the waterlogged kibble besides throw it out. I don’t know if I can adequately explain how foul wet dog food is to scoop up, arm full by mushy arm full. Even Samson turned his nose up at the soggy feast and opted instead to lick puddles on the concrete floor.
When we finished cleaning up, we put the garbage bag of sopping dog food in the garage, which is where it has been sitting until today, garbage day.
When Mark lifted the bag this morning to put it at the road, the bottom broke and a giant mass of chicken by-product and mush landed on his feet.
Hello, meet my family. We exists solely for your comic relief.Labels: Comic Relief, Mark, Samson |
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| Teaching an old dog new tricks |
We’re trying to teach the dog a new trick called “go get me a beer Samson.”
So far we've taught Samson how to open the fridge. Teaching him to reach his big dog head inside and grab a bottle of beer without devouring all of the cheese is a whole different story.
This might turn out to be a total disaster. And I'm quite certain that this will result in entire bricks of cheese mysteriously vanishing into the nether regions of my dog’s stomach (that’s got to be a constipation nightmare), but then again, it also might solve the perpetual problem of rotting leftovers.
In any case, this is so going to be a big hit when company comes to visit. That is, as long as they don’t mind drinking from a bottle of beer covered in frothy dog drool.
:::
This is the new colour of my kitchen:
Note the big giant dog crate that takes up all of the space where a table should be.
Also note Samson’s tug towel – to open the fridge that is.
Also also note the applicances. My stove and dishwasher have been around since before the dawn of civilization. They have an external combustion engine that runs off of gunpowder and steam. My fridge was replaced a few years ago when it suddenly blew up. Probably from the gunpowder.
Mark is colour blind and thinks the kitchen looks pink. He also thinks that dogs and their owners tend to look alike and told me that our dog is a nice mix between the two of us because Samson is muscly like him and has a nice ass and boobs like me.
The romance around here makes my spine tingle.
Labels: Mark, Samson |
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| Rolling with the punches |
Samson rolled in shit yesterday. IN SHIT! Like, um, HIS SHIT!
He was literally covered in his nastiness. Oh and do I even need to mention how bad he smelled?
Any neighbour that caught the circus act of me trying to wash the mucking futt outside must think I am a stark mad raving lunatic because the dog just would not cooperate and thought being all covered in his squalor was funny. He liked being chased with the hose and a bottle of sunlight dish detergent and somewhere in between shoving cookies in his mouth and watching him run in figure eights around the yard and yelling at him to stay he shook shitty bubbles all over me.
Giving up on the idea of using the backyard as a giant natury bathtub, I decided to take him upstairs to the human tub for a proper scrub down. I’m not exactly sure why I thought I would be able to lift an 80lb dog because oh my fuck, I totally I sprained my uterus.
Is there something you can take for a sprained uterus when you’re breastfeeding?Labels: Samson |
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| Ow! My Balls! |
Samson is not the most graceful dog on planet Earth. In the span of a year and half, our dog has evolved from a cute as a bug’s ear, six pound glutton of snuggles into a goliath-sized plunderer of pillows.
He is also special because his head is made of rocks. And since he likes to be wherever the humans are, we don’t even bother closing our bedroom door anymore because he will continuously ram his great big giant dog head into the door until someone opens it for him. And then by the time you turn around to go back to bed, he has already managed to steal your spot and fluff your pillows and rearrange the blankets just so for his morning nap.
Last weekend my brother and his fiancée came to visit. They are used to sleeping in on the weekends, but morning time around here starts at around 6:00am thanks to the addition of a tiny human that insists on eating the very second he wakes up and because we forgot the door to our guest room doesn’t shut properly and maybe also because we think it's funny, we unleashed Samson on them as soon as he finished his morning pee.
So Samson proceeded to barrel up the stairs at breakneck speed and use his big dog head to bang down their bedroom door before making like superman and lunging onto the bed to greet whatever humans were peacefully sleeping on its surface, or, land directly on my brothers crotch. Since his head is made of rocks, either option suited him just fine and apparently, Samson chose the latter.
Sorry little bro! You didn’t really need those pesky external male genitalia parts anyways did you?
And because Nate does not understand what having 85 lbs of dog landing on your balls feels like, he found it all very funny.
Mark imitating the sound Samson’s big dog head makes when he rams it into a closed door.
Labels: All in the Family, Comic Relief, Samson, Video |
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| It's a Tough Life for the Pooch |
 I took Samson to the doctors for his annual exam this weekend and he is probably the only dog on the planet who loves the vet’s office despite the surgery he endured because there are humans.
Real live humans with warm crotches to nuzzle.
And for Samson, there is nothing better on this earth than crotch poking, except maybe a slice of cheese and then a crotch poke.
As you can imagine, being out in public is the best thing ever for Samson because there is a whole world of crotches out there to sniff. And that is just what he did to every person who stopped to pat him on the head while we waited to see the vet. I know that’s just what dogs do, but Samson seems to enjoy it to the excess and I never quite know what to do when I’m standing beside a stranger who is trying to shove Samson’s head out of their genitals. Usually they give an excuse like, “He must smell my cat”, but deep down I know he just really likes to sniff their crotch and then I feel awkward.
The doctor asked if I had any concerns, and my only concern was that I was wrongfully under the impression that when his nutsacks were sent to the testicle chop shop, he would magically turn into a mellow dog that liked casual strolls in the park and lying perfectly still for me to use him as my movie pillow. But as it turns out, being sans balls must feel very liberating because at 1 ½ years old, he is still a blundering dynamo of potent vitality.
Recently though, he has started to do something that completely eludes us. He will fill his mouth with kibble from his dish, and then spit them out at Mark’s feet and he won’t eat them again until we give him the “take it” command. I think he may be displaying some form of jealousy or demonstrating his understanding of the new pack order in the family, but I’m not a dog whisperer or anything, I’m just one of the sniffable crotches around here, so what do I know.
I think it’s cute, but I’m worried about his self esteem. I can’t have an 80lb dog being all down in the dumps and depressed because he isn't my BFF anymore. There's no way I can sling him and Nate on my hips and carry them both around all day.
Has anyone ever had dogs that have done something like this, or know what he could possibly be telling us?Labels: Samson |
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| Doggy Tan |
So my dream home sold within hours of being on the market. And I’m sad that it’s gone, but at the same time, it was on the busy street and part of my dream home requirements is to live on a crescent where Nate can play road hockey and ride his bike, so I guess it wasn’t my dream home after all. And to build my dream home will cost way more than we can afford comfortably on one salary after all the upgrades are factored in, so I guess if I want to stay home and raise Nate, that home is just not meant to be.
We’re still sitting on the fence as to whether to buy or sell first or buy resale or brand new. The same model house down the street as the one we live in now just sold for more than asking price. We paid more than asking price for our home too. Sometimes, during a hot market, that’s just how real estate rolls around here.
There’s still the issue with the dog if we buy new. And not having a deck right away because decks are expensive. I love my deck, even though Samson ate most of the lattice off of it. And of course, there is the issue of where Samson would sun tan without a deck. The dog needs to be able to suntan.
There is also the issue of not having any grass for Samson to ruin with his manly dog pee. Note the yellow pee grass just off the deck. I like pee grass. At least I like it better than dirt because see that garden in the far right corner of the picture? That’s a pretend garden. I put it there yesterday to cleverly disguise Samson’s endeavor to dig the hugest mother hole possible.
What I need to do is teach the dog how to use the kitty litter box.
 Labels: All in the Family, Samson |
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| Don't leave a message |
Lo! We have success. The company with the big orange sign has come through for us. A contractor is here this very moment re-attaching my toilet to the big gaping hole in the floor of my bathroom.
Also, they will be fixing the ceiling in my living room, which is going to be quite the job because it is a popcorn ceiling and I fully expect the new speckle to match the old speckle, and of course, for them to re-paint the entire ceiling so the new drywall patch can live in blended harmony with the old drywall.
All in all, I am relieved with how cooperative they are being now that they have come out to our house to assess the damage.
I would like to breathe a sigh of relief, but yesterday my dog ate my portable phone and this is all that is left of it.
I have searched high and low for the rest of it, especially for the toxic parts, like the batteries, but there is nothing left to be found. At this point, I am just waiting for his colon to start ringing. Labels: All in the Family, Samson |
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