Adopt Steve The Pit Bull Cross!

I cannot have another dog right now, but I really want this dog named Steve.

I know, I know; "Steve" isn't the name I go for in a dog. Or give a dog. My dogs are named Toodles Squirrel-Face Davidson III and Mr. Oliver T. Puddington. But read on, you'll see why I am so enamoured...

Steve's available at a a Fargo-Moorhead dog rescue right now. (I only looked because I saw a commercial on TV and wasn't sure if the group was local or not -- I swear!) Anyway, Steve is an awesome looking dog -- and his foster family writes the such entertaining things about him, he's won me over:

Steve thinks that he is too sexy for his collar but not TOO sexy for you! He wants to be your boy!

Steve is also highly intelligent, as his *enormous* head might suggest.

Do you ever watch a dog in motion and marvel at the perfect synchronization of muscle, agility and grace? Well, that's not Steve but what he lacks in coordination, he makes up in character and an unabashed joy for life.

For those that worry about a Pit Bull cross, don't. They are sweet dogs. It's people, as usual, who ruin them.

If you adopt Steve, let me know -- I'd love to visit him!

A Little Update: The Niece Visits

Last weekend my eight year old niece, Maddy, was here. My parents brought her up for a weekend visit. She's raised with continuous entertainment in a much larger house -- I mean our entire house, from attic to basement, would fit in their "great room." So I expected some sort of culture shock.

There were a lot of pronouncements of, "I'm bored." But I didn't expect that three minutes into a 6 minute drive to dinner for her to announce her boredom. It was her way of demanding a DVD to play or something.

But our kids know the drill and suggested she amuse herself by looking out the window.

Maddy responded ad follows:

"Red car. White car. Another red car."

"House."

"House."

"Blue car."

I responded with a twist on the old "Looking is with the eyes," usually reserved for not touching in stores. "Looking is with the eyes, not the mouth," I said.

Maddy was silent.

But you could feel her displeasure. *wink*

She also learned that pet birds make a lot of noise. She was fascinated by Luke, our cockatiel, but immeasurably annoyed by his chirps and bird-talk; she dramatically shushed him all the time.


I guess her dad can thank me when the pleading for a pet bird stops. *wink*

Overall, it was a great visit. She loved our "full of neat stuff" little house. (She's not used to so many books and knick-knacks; my sister's house is much more minimalist.) And she quickly caught on to entertaining herself by doing things like painting (I had literally given her a box of rocks for her birthday -- a rock painting kit she brought along), riding bikes and hanging out in the attic "fort."

On the way back home, Maddy told my parents that she missed "those people." So I guess we were a hit!

My mother replied to her sad commentary on loss of us by saying, "That's what vacations are; lots of fun but then you go home to the people you love."

Maddy responded by saying she sure missed, Carly, their dog. Ha!

Pause To Reflect, Paws To Count

We keep telling this story, and every time it makes me laugh.

When hubby was writing about mustaches, and dogs wearing them, he wrote:

one of our dogs is horribly stupid, and would probably injure herself trying to use the toy improperly.

What he intended to do was offer a photo of our stupid dog, but he selected the post in which she, Toodles "Squirrel Face" Davidson III, is next to a giant calculator. Which to me, seems to imply that the dog is so dumb, she needs to use a calculator as opposed to a dog being able to do math in its head. lol



Ween, on the other hand, is probably smart enough to use an abacus (yes, we own one); not that I'd ever be able to get a photo of that.

Why Tinsel Is As Beloved, By Me, As Easter Grass

As the holidays are here, and tree decoration is near, I would like to remind you not to use tinsel. This is not only true if you have cats (or other pets), but because tinsel, though no longer made of metal, remains an attractive magnetized material and with all that holiday visiting you or someone else is bound to bring tinsel into my home. I live in fear of such things.

For tinsel is like Easter grass.

Let me regale you with just how lovely that is with this previously published post (from a long defunct site); each time you read 'Easter Grass' substitute it with 'tinsel'. I clear my throat, and we begin...

One of my Easter pet peeves, one that actually involves pets, is the use of plastic Easter grass. More annoying than pine needles which do not seem to have been effectively removed until Easter, this pastel grass is coveted by cats & kittens everywhere. I've long banished the crap from my house, but this is the time of year when I must explain to well-intentioned grandparents and great grandparents why I have done so. And yet I must never ever tell the truth of it all. You, dear lucky blog reader, will now hear the unvarnished truth.

When a feline finds this plastic 'grass' it is compelled to not only carry it of to some corner of the house that is impossible to find, and therefore vacuum, but the creature must indulge in eating it. One strand at a time. Far worse than the weekly finding of yet another pastel fiber on the carpet (most embarrassing in June and November when the in-laws stop in unannounced), the consumption of this material does not involve actual digestion.

This means that cats poop the silly stuff in one long string of pastel plasticness.

This does not mean that it will be contained to the litter box.

Instead, what happens is that it sticks out of feline rectum, at least a good 4 inches, ensuring that you see it. It is at this point that you, as the human owned by the cat, must grab the bull by the horns, or the ass by its grass, and pull it out, thus removing it from the cat's digestive tract.

While it is clear to both you and the cat that you must pull it out, the cat is reluctant. One can only imagine what it feels like to have an additional 4-8 inches of 'string' (that does in fact progress past the rectum into bowels and perhaps intestines) pulled out of one's ass... It must feel an awful lot like the look on a cat's face: uncomfortable & surprising.

Given that the cat has hoarded 10-30 pieces of grass, this is a problem which presents itself on many occasions. Being that is it the problem of a cat, it's timing will be at the least convenient for you as a human, such as at dinner time, when company is over (whom I already eye suspiciously when they enter just in case a piece of the damn stuff is stuck to their clothing), when children are watching (and way more curious than seems natural), when you were in the mood for more erotic actions with a partner... It's such a mood killer that I am hard-pressed to think of a time when it would be convenient.

This whole Easter grass problem is reason number 3 on why my cats are not allowed outside. For if there's a single piece blowing in the wind -- and you know there is because you see them built into bird's nests, wound around brush, in your garden and blowing past you on the front porch -- my cats will find it and eat it. And I will have to 'rectify' the situation.

So let me speak to all of you and say this: Stop using the damn Easter grass. Let the free market dictate the collapse of this part of the holiday market, putting an end to its creation. Let me be finally free from this whole damn mess.

So, for gawd's sake, lay off the darn tinsel!

Bonding Over Cat Hair & The Adventures Of Raising Banana Girl

Out walking the mall I spotted several cute things at the local Hallmark shop, and when I took a picture of this mug, I thought I'd post it at Kitschy Kitschy Coo.


But then, in looking for a link to the mug maker's site (Our Name Is Mud), I discovered the blog (Our Name Is Blog) of Lorrie Veasey, the creative force behind the designs. And I got lost in her post Our Name Is Blog: OuR SCHooL iS CHooL, in which she tries to get her children, Complicated Boy and The Banana (aka The Spawn), into a private school. After Complicated Boy was rejected, they tried again:

So we pinned our hopes on The Banana to pave the way into a fine institution of learning. Except the actress Molly Shannon was present in our group interview, and while we had all been told beforehand to dress our children in casual playclothes, her ginger haired daughter arrived in A Red Sequined Dress. RED SEQUINS. So nobody noticed when Banana created an exact replica of the Parthenon in the block area. Everybody was looking at Molly Shannon to see if she would smell her armpits, and when they weren't looking there they were looking at THE RED SEQUIN DRESS. We didn't get in there either.

Smitten I am; Veasy isn't a one-mug-wonder of amusement.

I then thought I'd write this all up at Kitsch Slapped because of the pop culture craziness... And how I now feel the need to go back and buy the "Everything Tastes Better With Cat Hair In It!" mug simply because I now feel somehow bonded to its creator -- over parenting. (Somehow it makes sense to me... To enjoy my cat-hair infested beverage, sipping and remembering that time my friend Lorrie told me that story of trying to get her kids into private school.)

But then I realized that this here blog has been rather ranty lately and maybe you'd all enjoy a good grin (perhaps a hearty chuckle too).

Plus, I can then remind you all why this blog often gets ignored: I'm busy writing elsewhere. All. The. Time.

But I wasn't too busy to ignore Lorrie Veasey's request to sign the petition to help The Spawn of Veasey's school. You aren't either. So sign it.

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Take The Animal Advocacy Background Survey

Via the always fab Chloe Jo:

Please take Animal Advocacy Background Survey: Only Takes 5 Minutes!

This will take only 5-10 minutes, depending on how much you elaborate! (Elaborating is great, but it's not required.) Please crosspost to any lists you are on with other animal advocates. I'd like to get at least 2000 responses!

I'm working on a book for animal advocates, and I'd dearly love your input. I'm striving to find out what different backgrounds animal advocates come from, and ascertain if there are family patterns or other factors that seem to lead us in the direction of advocating for animals. Some of the questions are personal...you may always skip a question if it makes you too uncomfortable, and you may remain absolutely anonymous. Most of all, try to be truthful, even if it hurts. There are many opportunities for you to add comments...the more information you can give me the better for me to understand you and the background you come from, so feel free to elaborate on any answer that has a comment box. If you'd like to give me your contact info at the end, I would respect your privacy and your answers, and only contact you further in the event that I need more information. But as I say, you may choose to remain totally anonymous.

Thank you so much for helping me with this survey! For your help, you can get $5.00 off a $10.00 order on my art site, LittleGirlLooking.com (sorry, not the cafepress store as I don't own that site), $10.00 off a $50.00 order, or $20.00 off a $100.00 order. Just put the code at the end of the survey into your message area when ordering, and your rebate will be sent back to you after your order comes through on my end.

Tammy S. Grimes, Dogs Deserve Better

I have to say the survey took about 5 minutes or so, as she said; but the questions are very interesting and I hope she'll share the results!

Image shown is Tammy's Animal Rescue Angel tattoo.

My Latest Kick: Kitty Pants Which Are Too Tight

When my cat is acting cranky, which is quite often, I've been asking her if her kitty pants are on too tight; she meows in agreement. And now when the kids are cranky, I've been saying their kitty pants are on too tight.

The other day, while explaining what this meant to the kids (which was necessary because they only listen half the time, so they miss things), the eldest still looked perplexed.

I did the old, "Do you need to me to draw a picture for you?"; she took me up on it. Not to be bested, I turned to hubby and told him to draw it. He did.

And so I give you, Kitty Pants (Which, In All Likelihood, Are Too Tight):


Still not willing to let it go (or perhaps not willing to let my delight reign supreme), the younger insisted that hubby ought to have made a hole for the cat's tail. I said that with kitty pants, the tail is covered, like an extra leg, only without a hole at the end. "This," I said, "is why when kitty pants are too tight, cat's get cranky."

There were no more questions.

Babbling About Black Pets

Hubby found this article at MSN on "black dog syndrome" a supposed phenomenon in which black dogs are often the last to be adopted from animal shelters. Surprisingly, having spent years of my life working animal rescue (both pet and wildlife), I'd never heard of it.

I concede that photographs of all black animals are less impressive or moving due to lack of detail and, especially, contrast & exposure of their eyes -- a most imploring neotonous feature. But as most of my rescue work was before the use of the Internet for animal placement and adoption, there was little use of animal photography to place animals.

I won't dispute the evidence of what other animal workers say, but "black dog syndrome" was surprising to me.

However, I do have a story about black animals in pet rescue.

Every Halloween the folks who ran and worked with cat rescue were loathe to let black cats be adopted for fear they'd be used for satanic rituals. Being somewhat 'pagan' myself, I found the fear most irrational; I'd yet to see any evidence of any animal killings, ritual or not, around Halloween, let alone black cats. But for many cat shelters, black cats were kept away from public viewing from September to November based on fearful rumor or old stories.

One lady I worked with was so terrified of such things that any black cats which came into the shelter were adopted by her -- and only her. She was the only one to be trusted. (And I'll admit after a few years of her out-spoken fear and numerous -- over 30 -- black cats made me feel a bit suspicious of her myself; doth she protest too much?)

In truth, I saw many who desired black cats for their 'additional' mystic qualities; a solid black cat is rather special and rare, even if you aren't into any 'dark arts' or have no icky ideas.

Does animal lore does have its affects on people looking for animals? The MSN article spoke of some of those regarding black dogs:

In British folklore, such as stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Sir Walter Scott, the black dog is a creepy, spectral figure that haunts cemeteries and is an omen of death. (Non-lit geeks who've never heard of those stories have at least seen "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban," in which a big black dog called the Grim stalks Harry.) Another Englishman, Winston Churchill, battled serious bouts of depression which he called "the black dog."

Personally, like the black cats 'mystic' appeal, most animal lovers I've known wouldn't believe such stories mean the cute puppy or dog before them was evil -- but they might be tempted to find such 'mystic lore' appealing.

My guess would be that animal lore adds to the relationship with the animal. Like a secret shared. And what pet owner doesn't already create or 'see' more in their pet and their special relationship? Such stories only tend to make people feel more bonded, more spiritual in connection, than just having a 'fur baby'.

I wonder, just a bit, if there isn't something about this smaller adoption rate of black dogs which has to do with those working with the animals themselves...

Are they at all guilty of somehow feeling the need to protect these animals from the ones most drawn to them because they fear the desire for a black pet is akin to belief in 'bad' animal lore? Do they, however unconsciously, fear a black dog is destined to be harmed?

Floor Bacon

Traveling over the holidays we stopped at a McDonald's & at the counter we spotted this floor bacon.
It wasn't busy either, so I don't know why they didn't pick it up...


I had to take the photo for some reason.
I know the dogs knew anyway.

Carnage On The Lawn

Dumb Little Dog brought a dead animal up to the back door deck yesterday morning -- the middle kiddle said it was a baby mouse. That's the story I got from hubby, as he was the Parent On Call in the morning.

Later that afternoon, Dumb Little Dog caught another one on the sidewalk (where she prefers to pee and poo because, well, she's Dumb Little Dog). This time I was the Parent On Call and I asked how big the baby mouse was -- when Des put her fingers apart suggesting a size of 4-5 inches, I knew there was a problem...

Thinking it was a rat -- which is no better, no worse, as far as that goes -- I decided to investigate what the backyard looked like with such large animal carcasses strewn upon it.

My investigation showed that this was not a case of either a momma mouse or a momma rat -- the baby I found was a baby rabbit.

(So much for everyone here in Green Acres who calls me the City Kid -- at least I can spot a bunny from a mouse!)

The baby rabbit was clearly in pain, swaying it's head and upper body from side-to-side, its little eyes not even open yet. Oh yeah, and there was a good-sized pool of bunny blood too.

I left it, hoping momma would come back soon, and went in search of the first victim -- hoping not to find him as that would be proof that he was alright.

No such luck.

His cold and rigid body was under the stairs (where he had been dropped between the second and third steps); his neck looked bloody and broken.

I took one last look at the maimed bunny on the sidewalk and told myself that momma would come for him if we left the yard alone.

Hours later, the baby bunny was still there, laying on it's side. Very still. I gently touched its wee head (with a white stripe that was too cute) and it moved. But it was very cool to the touch... I had to do something, so I picked it up in an old kitchen towel and hugging it close to warm it, brought it into the house.

I searched in vain for my old animal rescue gear; to no avail. (Memo to self -- and any others reading -- Do Not get rid of those small critter keepers, heat lamps and other pet stuff because you will need it again.)

I went to the Tupperware-slash-plastic food storage container cupboard and announced, "Who will shorten his life for a hurt baby bunny?" and grabbed one of those large ice cream buckets with the handle.

Tucking the baby in the towel gently inside the 'basket' I looked about for an eye-dropper. The only one I could find, believe it or not, was in a bottle of Rescue Remedy. Water, I felt, would be a better one; so I pulled out the dropper. I washed it, rinsed it, rinsed it again, sniffed it (for the Rescue Remedy scent), rinsed it again and again and sniffed it again before I decided it was OK.

I filled a small tippy cup (sans sippy lid) with tepid water and filled the dropper. I stroked his head and nudged his lips, but other than his blind head bobbing about imploringly, nothing much could be noticed of the attempts at hydration.

I put bundled bunny back in the bucket and I went in search of a light fixture generating heat.

Damn us and our environmental-slash-economic pursuits! All our bulbs (save for a few halogen bulbs aimed at art on the walls -- and those would fry the poor bunny-babbit!) are now those funny-looking twisty bulbs which are florescent or whatnot and so put out no heat.

I searched in the junk drawer and found one regular old bulb -- 100 watts. I un-plugged and moved the floor light fixture nearer to the couch, set the bunny basket-home on a TV tray, swapped bulbs, plugged the fixture in, and then turned it on -- POP the light bulb sparked and burnt-out.

Shit.

:sigh:

I picked bunny (named Spot) up and held him close for warmth. Stroking his head now and then and proffering drops of water.

It was then that Des noticed the blood on the towel -- not much, just a few drops. But this made it clear that Spot was still bleeding. Inspecting him showed a small-to-me, but-large-to-him, gash on his tummy -- likely from Dumb Little Dog's tooth.

I have to admit I began to shake a bit.

The idea of two murdered baby bunnies -- even by natural canine urges -- was sickening.

I sent Des to bed and that's when it hit me to turn to the Internet for help.

My first instincts were correct: You leave baby bunnies, health or maimed, where they are and hope for momma to come.

"The reality is fewer than 10% of orphaned rabbits survive a week..."

"Very young wild baby bunnies with eyes closed and ears back rarely survive in captivity, even given the most expert human care..."

"Mom will be coming back at night to call and feed him only once in the middle of the night. Do not take the bunny inside or feed him. That is the mom's job. IT IS A MATTER OF HIS/HER SURVIVAL AND UP TO US AS HUMANS TO LEAVE NATURE BE AND LET THE MOM CARE FOR HER YOUNG. We often hear of mothers moving their babies and their nests, and have seen moms come back every night for up to a week to look for her missing baby. Do not take the baby from the mom or she will be frantic."

I put him back where he was (the little pink stain on the sidewalk told me where) and left him.

I took the dogs elsewhere to pee and poo.

Hubby came home later and moved baby Spot to a place just over our fence, but near enough for momma to find him (just a few feet away -- but safe from the dogs, human foot traffic, and the very popular "Kitty Path" too).

Now I wait 'til morning to see...

Weensy Pup

Rare photos of Ween, who, as mentioned before, is afraid of the camera. He honestly is afraid of them. Worse than the vacuum. It's like the magic box steals his soul...

The second Destiny left her blankie and pillows, Ween decided it was finders keepers and took her spot.


He was suspicious of the cell phone -- he's smart enough to know that something fishy's going on... But he hasn't quite figured out when it's a dangerous camera and when it's a non-threatening phone.



Ween must be almost 10 years old by now. Finally he can be called an old dog instead of folks just thinking he is because of his appearance as the grizzled old grandpa.

Dogs In Hats

Awhile ago I posted at the end of an article about old chalkware collectibles that I was looking for a little hat for the large German Shepherd dog vintage chalk statue... Well, we got one in a lot of dolls we bought at auction:


Mr. Schultz, the GDS, is quite happy to have his ravaged ears less noticeable -- tho he does hope for more of a canvas fishing number. It would be more masculine. But for now it does the trick.

Not only is it a perfect fit for the plaster pooch, but it fits Miss Toodles...



It's quite difficult to take a photo of her. Toodles "Squirrel Face" Davidson III, a Cairn Terrier, isn't the sit-still type. But we eventually got a photo that wasn't all a blur.


Toodles, aka Toodle-Oodle-Oodle-O's (and her Toodle-Oodle-Oodle-Nose) is really my dog Ween's dog. I'll have to share pics of him too -- but that's even trickier. Ween is a mutt, and apparently part Aborigine, for he fears the camera. He thinks that box will steal his sweet soul.