Archive for the ‘Dog Days’ Category



All Hail! Also: Ah, Hell.

7:39 pm · category: Dog Days

There are two dogs we have come in every two weeks named Jazzie (a Shih Tzu) and J.C. (a Chihuahua) Shaw.  Of course I call J.C. “Jesus Christ.”  “Jesus Christ, your anal gland smells unholy this week!”  “Be still!  Jesus Christ!”

Lately I’ve been calling the pair DJ Jazzie Shaw and the Fresh Prince of Peace.  Either nobody else gets it, or nobody else thinks it’s funny.  I, of course, think it’s hilarious.


Louise, my Boxer, is STILL on her period.  She’s also completely hormonal.  She’s normally very docile and never acts out, but she has been CRAZY for the last couple of weeks.

First she got into one of the lower kitchen cabinets and shredded three packages of napkins.  That really pissed me off, because I never use napkins or paper towels unless I have a party.  Consequently, I can buy one 300-pack of napkins and it will last me a couple of years.  Now I’m going to have to restock.  Grrr.

Twice this weekend Lou knocked the lid off the garbage can on the deck, which is rarely used — so rarely, in fact, that there were diapers in there from the Fourth of July party I had.  So twice I had to clean up shredded diapers, 100 or so empty bags of pool shock, and approximately 10,000 cigarette butts.  Blechh.  (Yeah, I finally got wise and emptied the whole thing into the big trash can in the garage.)

Today I came home to find my under-the-sink garbage can lying on its side on the kitchen floor, its contents strewn from one side of the room to the other.  And Lou KNEW she was in trouble, because she was slinking around with her belly so close to the ground I thought she was going to chafe her engorged nipples.


But tomorrow is another day.  A DAY WITH 30 DOGS ON THE BOOK.




3:48 pm · category: Dog Days

This whole Palin-hockey-mom-pitbull-lipstick-pig thing is just ridiculous.

Unless you hang out in Aunt Doodie’s grooming shop.

You see, when a dog is excited/nervous/terrified during the grooming process, he will sometimes, um, well, unsheathe his penis. But you can’t very well run around a business yelling, “Put your dick up!” all the time, so we refer to the unsheathed penis as “lipstick” because of its shape and color. Which means that in Cabot, Arkansas, you can, in point of fact, find both hockey moms and pitbulls with “lipstick.”

But since Obama’s community organizing experience never brought him to this part of the country, I’m fairly certain he didn’t know about that.


After reading Katherine’s comment and doing a quick Google search, I realized that referring to dog dicks as “lipsticks” is actually quite common and not unique to Aunt Doodie’s line of work. (I’m slow on the uptake with these things, as I generally dislike dogs and avoid them at all costs — unless it means that Aunt Doodie will pay my rent.)  So I guess it’s likely that Obama did know about that. But I think it’s even more likely that all these people who are up in arms about Obama’s “lipstick on a pig” comment have certainly heard that phrase before and undoubtedly knew what it meant as well as what it didn’t mean.   Or is that another one of those things we say only in the South?




1:52 pm · category: Aunt Doodie, Dog Days

Sometimes I help out at Aunt Doodie’s grooming shop. Since I’m not a groomer, the only thing I can do is bathe dogs.

But bathing dogs entails far more than you might think. For instance, every single dog has to have its anal gland expressed. You do this by grasping the tail and pulling slightly upward with one hand, then squeezing the gland behind the anus with the thumb and forefinger of the other hand.

It is exactly as disgusting as it sounds. Anal gland fluid is just like poop: it comes in all colors and degrees of viscosity and amounts. And the smell. Oh God, the smell.

After they’re bathed, most dogs are put under industrial dryers and/or fans to speed along the drying process. But some dogs — especially those with curly hair like poodles and Bichons — have to be hand dried. This is called fluffing. It’s tedious and time consuming, and the dogs usually hate it because they have what amounts to a giant blow dryer with a special nozzle aimed right at their faces.

So when I tell you I spent my day as a fluffer and digitally stimulated multiple anuses, I don’t want there to be any ambiguity.



Family Jewels

Aunt Doodie tells me that her dogs burrow under the covers each night and sleep nestled in her nether region.

“They do that because your crotch is the warmest part of your body,” I explain.  “If you’re ever in an avalanche or at risk for hypothermia, you’re supposed to buddy up and bury your head in each other’s crotches, sixty-nine style, because you lose the most heat through your head.”

“How do you know that?” she asks, the edge of suspicion clear in her voice.

“I learned it in the Army.”

“You weren’t in the Army,” Aunt Doodie notes.

“Okay, so I learned it in an Army movie.  Or maybe in Girl Scouts.  Anyway, that’s what you’re supposed to do.”

Aunt Doodie considers this.  “If I’m ever in an avalanche, I’m going to buddy up with Gene Simmons,” she declares.

“This conversation is over,” I reply, horrified.

The best part was when Aunt Doodie retold the story the following day and accidentally said she was going to buddy up with Richard Simmons.



New Rules

  • If you’re a tweeker and have meth mouth, you are not allowed to sport a tongue ring.  There is no defensible reason to draw further attention to your terrible teeth.
  • If you write a medical transcription training program and insist that the two most important elements for success are speedy typing and strong grammar skills, make sure that your materials are grammatically correct.  This is especially important to those of us who actually know proper capitalization and punctuation, because we “auto edit” as we read/type and have to go back to type text as (incorrectly) shown on screen, thus dramatically lowering our WPM average.  (FYI:  You can’t put a comma just anywhere.  There’s a whole separate set of rules for that.  See The Elements of Style for further details.)
  • If you drop off your dog at Aunt Doodie’s shop for grooming and we ask what time you will pick up your pet, do not respond with, “I’m a school teacher.”  Mr. Whiteaker does not say, “I’m a judge.”  Paula Jones does not say, “I was once a celebrity boxer.”*  “I’m a school teacher” does not register on any clock we have in the shop.  “The last bell rings at 3:15, so I’ll be here right after that” will do just fine.  Besides, when you say, “I’m a school teacher,” I will smile sweetly and respond with, “I’m a dog bather.”  I will not mention that I have more degrees than a pot of boiling water and likely blew your smug ass out of the Milky Way on the NTE.  Aunt Doodie will not mention that she nets twice more than you do annually and works five hours a day.  Our parents (Who were school teachers!) reared us right.
  • If you are Nathan Fillion, David Foster Wallace, or Scarlett Johannson, make plans to ravish me immediately.  Advance notice is preferred but not required.  (I’d like to shave and put some sheets not covered in pet hair on the bed first.)
  • If you are responsible for the Burger King website, be ashamed.  That place is completely unnavigable.
  • If you are responsible for the Burger King commercials featuring the freaky, mute mascot with the ginormous head, email me and plan for a trip to the bank.  I will send you my home address, and you can send me a check for the therapy I’ve needed because of those horrifying ads.

*Paula Jones is tiny and sweet and has the most adorable accent on the planet.  And if you mess with her, I will kick your ass.  Since, um, she proved in her boxing match that she couldn’t kick your ass herself.



An Apology

2:07 pm · category: Dog Days

My black friends have often told me that white people smell like wet dogs when they come out of the rain.*

After four months of bathing dogs, I feel I have to say this:

Black people, I am SO sorry.

*I am not making this up.  There’s even a book that touches on it.



Man’s Best Friend

11:59 pm · category: Aunt Doodie, Dog Days, The Whole Fam Damnly

I sometimes bathe dogs for Aunt Doodie at the grooming shop, despite the fact that I’m pretty much terrified of canines.  Sure, I’m slowly warming up to the species, but I’m still wary of them as a whole.

I have noticed that, much in the same way that married couples start to look like each other as they age, some owners and their dogs begin to present a more than passing resemblance.  I’ve also found a cocker spaniel that looks like my cousin Navy and a Pomeranian that could have been my mirror image.

Even more strangely, some breeds look like certain celebrities.  For instance, I have this theory that all pekingese look like Nicole Richie.  And springer spaniels who haven’t had their heads shaved look exactly like Jerry Stiller.

I call these dogglegangers.




I’ve spent the last four hours trying to figure out how to get photos from Flickr into a WordPress post, and I cannot do it. No amount of searching WordPress or Flickr or even the almighty Google has resulted in anything approaching success. Ultimately, there was nothing I could do except… cry.

Three weeks ago the incompetence of three separate fast food chains infuriated me so badly that I called their respective corporate headquarters to complain. I called KFC to complain because they put lettuce on my Snacker after I expressly said no lettuce. Which is ridiculous.

For awhile now I’ve been threatening to punch pooches in the kidney if they don’t behave while I’m bathing them. But lately, I’ve only been mostly kidding.

Last week I was absolutely incensed when Kroger Fuel gave me only three cents off per gallon when I qualified for ten cents off. I may or may not have shared some very disparaging remarks regarding the character of the teenage boy manning the little cashier barn behind the bulletproof glass. I caused a scene. Me!

And now I’m crying because I can’t figure out how to put pictures in posts.

Before my family starts asking me if I’m okay a million times a day and showing up at my house unannounced and trying to take me out to dinner all the time, let me stress that I. AM. NOT. DEPRESSED.

I am… angry. This is new for me. Anger is something you swallow until you choke on it, and then you regurgitate it whole when you have your big biannual blow up. But you sure as hell don’t keep encountering it day in and day out, an anger acid reflux that roils and bubbles and burns and churns.

And I’m pretty sure I’m bored. Really, really bored. The whole unemployment thing is catching up with me now, and I’m not nearly so mentally active as I need to be. I’m not used to it being all quiet in my brain. Does anybody need anything proofread or researched? Like, for free?

I feel all naked now. Probably a good thing I couldn’t figure out that Flickr/WordPress issue, because I was going to post another kind of naked.



While I Was Out

This is what I did during my blogging hiatus, in no particular order:

  • Kicked Rocco out
  • Got fired
  • Decided to write, organize and produce my own version of Food Court Musical
  • Learned how to make homemade candy bars
  • Signed up for unemployment
  • Worked my way up to the number one and number five spots, respectively, on Facebook’s “Addicted to Angel” and “Addicted to Buffy” trivia applications
  • Gave up my dream of being in the roller derby
  • Realized unemployment will not keep me from being homeless…
  • …Began bathing dogs for Aunt Doodie in exchange for her paying my rent
  • Started taking a yoga class
  • Got cable TV with a DVR
  • Spent a lot of time with Aunt Doodie musing about how we would survive on a deserted island
  • Started working on building a freelance career, which will theoretically enable me to stay home so I can play “Addicted to Angel/Buffy” Facebook applications and watch the DVR all day long
  • Successfully completed a ten-day cleansing fast
  • Entertained at my home twice in one week — a record!
  • Found out my Aunt Shelley has cancer
  • Realized I am not equipped to write, organize and produce my own version of Food Court Musical, so enlisted the help of my friends
  • Became obsessed with sushi and ate it almost every day for two weeks
  • Lost nine pounds
  • Spent a lot of time daydreaming about how Nathan Fillion and I would live on a deserted island, using Aunt Doodie’s survival ideas and my “tons of free time” ideas
  • Attended the Slayage Conference, where Rhonda Wilcox saw my name tag, remembered me, and asked why I never formally submitted my paper
  • Made my home almost totally chemical free
  • Became disgusted by sushi and vowed to never eat it again
  • Found out my cousin Bailey is having another baby
  • Learned how to fry an egg perfectly
  • Bought a plane ticket to LA for the WD party in October
  • Twisted Cindy’s arm until she agreed to visit me this summer
  • Ate more sushi
  • Found, loved and lost my precious Dr. Horrible
  • Lost a toenail


Pussy Whipped

When I got home from work (even later than usual, around 7:30 p.m.) tonight, Rocco was waiting for me with a mixed drink in hand and a terrified look on his face.

He wanted to know if I’d been home before just then. The answer was, predictably, no; one does not drive 30 miles home in the middle of the day from a job that requires one to be on site for, like, a gozillion consecutive hours.

And then Rocco’s face sort of crumbled.


I have two wonderful-but-very-demanding cats — Nigel and Quentin — neither of whom much match the stereotype of the independent, aloof feline; in fact, the pair sort of typify the term “pussies.” And because Rocco has many allergies — cat allergy being one of his worst — Nigel and Quentin are always shut away in my bedroom. (This is not horrible. My bedroom/bathroom/closets are sort of embarrassingly big; the entire square footage is probably 3/4 the size of the breadbox.)

We also have two dogs in the house. It’s worth knowing that I would never, ever, ever describe myself as a dog lover. Horrible as it may sound, it’s true; I can’t stand being licked or yapped or sniffed at inappropriately.

But it’s even more true that I’m sortofkindofreally afraid of dogs. We never had dogs when I was growing up, and I wasn’t otherwise around them very often. And I’m pretty sure that being within a couple of feet of a cousin and a sister who were both bitten by dogs when I was very young didn’t help. So mostly I’ve just learned to tolerate dogs when I must do so, and otherwise avoid them.

But, anyway: two dogs. Kelly, a Doberman Pinscher, is Rocco’s dog. He got her when he was part of the Kansas City Doberman Rescue. Rocco fostered the dog before he became so attached to Kelly that he adopted her.

It should come as no surprise that I was initially terrified of Kelly: the lean body, pert ears and long muzzle — I could envision nothing beyond every campy action-adventure movie I’d ever seen in which vicious Dobermans guarding the antagonist’s lair were distracted by huge hunks of prime rib. But Kelly is a well-behaved, almost docile dog who exhibits none of the aforementioned doggy don’ts, and I’ve grown quite attached to her.

And then there’s Lou. Lou is a boxer with a tiger-stripe pattern who sort of….. came with the house. Lou is one of the few dogs with whom I’ve ever interacted who has never caused me one moment of anxiety. She’s very gentle and unassuming, and I’m always yearning to hug and otherwise comfort Lou because her expressions and body language are so very familiar and human-like.

Kelly and Lou like to think they have the run of the house. Kelly is free to roam most everywhere, as is Lou — to an extent. Lou kind of has an obsession with polyfiber fill, and we’ve lost one too many pillows to leave her alone with anything resembling fake cotton; as a result, she is kept in a separate room when there’s not an “adult” in the house. According to Rocco, Kelly has a similar issue with squeaky chew toys, so those are forbidden except for special occasions.

And, apropos of nothing, Rocco has mentioned in passing that Kelly tends to think of cats as “playthings.”

Rocco and I are both pretty adamant that my bedroom door remain shut at all times.


Rocco’s expression was enough to crack me up. It was clear he felt terribly guilty about something. Emmy-worthy theatrics, preemptive groveling, and genuine sheepishness followed as he spilled the story.

It appears that Rocco entered my room for something, and then inadvertently failed to pull my bedroom door to all the way on exit. He then left the house, securing Lou away but leaving Kelly (as is normal) to roam free.

At some point, Kelly nosed her way into my bedroom via the cracked door, and havoc apparently ensued. When Rocco got home, he found what he initially described as a crime scene.

Rocco smelled the fresh excrement as soon as he walked in the door. And then he saw the physical evidence: patches of carpet were now missing; the most recent EW and TV Guide issues stashed under my nightstand were shredded; couch cushions were strewn about the room; tufts of animal fur wafted through the air as the ceiling fan slowly turned.

Blood covered everything: my bed linens, carpet, night stand. The chair was stained a completely different color. One wall was splattered half-way up in a crimson bath.

And, of course, the requisite pile of shit was right in the middle of the room, exactly as you’d expect it to be.

Rocco found Kelly, all bloodied and broken, burrowed into her bed. Her nose was pretty much shredded, and she was still bleeding rather a lot.

Nigel and Quentin were later found hiding in my room, tense and slightly more skittish — but also injury-free.