Category Archives: Pets

four is enough

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Last night, Dave and I had a long talk – he was lying on the bed with his head on the pillow, and I was sitting on the bed facing him. At some point, I went to slide off of the bed, and my leg came down in a really weird way, and I banged the inside of my knee on the corner of my nightstand. It was one of those completely improbable how-in-the-hell-did-I-manage-THAT? kind of injuries. It turned into a bruise in less than an hour. And all night long, whenever I’d roll over in bed and my knee would graze the sheet, it would wake me up. Ow. It still hurts today. I can’t cross my right leg over my left.

Moral of the story: I hope our kids don’t inherit the Klutz Gene from me. I don’t know if there’s genetic engineering available for such things, but man, it’d really spare them a lot of pain and embarassment if there were.

As for the subject matter of the aforementioned “long talk” – most of it is of a personal nature that really should remain between Dave and I. My marriage is sacred, after all. The short version?

We aren’t getting a puppy. We have four cats as it is, and that should be plenty to keep me busy.

I mean, the litter boxes alone… you guys just have no idea.

puppy obsession

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I totally forgot to mention that I had about 4 inches of my hair cut off on Friday. I’m not really sure why, I just got the sudden itch for a change. It’s cute, though – still long enough that I can put it up in a ponytail, and it doesn’t seem to take as long to style in the morning, so that’s good. I’ll have to post photos soon. Kris and I took some pictures at the park on Sunday, but I don’t have access to her camera at the moment.

In other news, I have apparently latched on to the idea of getting a dog – somehow my brain keeps thinking, well I can’t seem to get pregnant, but I can get a puppy! (I know I’m not the only person to have this thought process. See? It is so totally normal. I swear.) Dave seems to think we should wait a while, at least until I get used to the idea of Lucky not being around, to make sure I still really want a dog, and that we aren’t getting a “rebound” dog. It’s probably a good thing that I married someone who isn’t quite as impulsive as I am when it comes to making major decisions such as these.

Besides that, I can’t seem to figure out what type of dog I want. There are several types of dogs that I already knew I liked, but then I’d go look them up and find out that they’re predisposed to some major health problems, or they aren’t good to have around kids because they tend to bite, that kind of thing. It seems that people in our neighborhood tend to have big dogs, which makes sense because it’s the boonies and we all have lots of land. And I like the idea of a big dog because I’d feel safe on the nights when Dave isn’t around (not often, but sometimes he has to travel for work), plus big dogs are good for giving full-body hugs without the fear of crushing them. On the other hand, I tend to gravitate more toward the tiny, foofy dogs because my god, the cuteness, it is overwhelming. If you don’t believe me, go look at Sarcomical’s dogs – seriously, can it get cuter than that? I think not.

So I’ve somewhat narrowed it down to two different breeds – on the big dog side, we have the Australian Shepherd. Easy to train, good around kids, no major health problems. Check. And they’re pretty. Plus, the puppies that I’ve seen are just about the cutest little furballs ever. Although that’s the thing about getting a big dog – we would have to get a puppy so the cats can teach it who’s boss from day one. They tend to freak around dogs, but I think if they were around a puppy – which isn’t a threat because its size isn’t intimidating – they’d probably be ok. Lucky is kind of a big dog (35 pound range), and they were terrified of her the entire time she was here, even though she’s really good with cats because she was raised with Kris’s two kitties.

(Actually, that was funny, because Lucky wanted to play with our cats, but they didn’t know that, so the poor pup got swatted and hissed at on a pretty regular basis. She never seemed to understand why she couldn’t join in their reindeer games. However, Teenie, the one cat who had never met a dog in her life until Lucky, seemed totally unfazed by her and only hissed if Lucky was up in her face for too long. It pretty much cemented my belief that Teenie has delusions of grandeur and probably thinks that she herself is a dog. Which is why she hates the other cats and wasn’t the least bit bothered by Lucky.)

On the tiny dog side, I seem to have become obsessed with the Havanese. I’d never even heard of the breed before, but they’re related to the Bichon Frise, so you know they’re adorable. (Although the first picture on that link is not a good representation. I’m not into show dogs, so if I were to get one, it would have a cute short haircut, like most of these guys.) They seem to have a good temperament, get along with cats and kids, and allegedly can be trained to use a litter box(!). So major bonus points there. Plus, they’re just heart-achingly cute.

I don’t have any idea where this is going to end up, or if we’ll get a dog at all, but feel free to pitch in your opinion on the big dogs versus little dogs debate. I’m going back to searching Petfinder.

more animal grossness

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I just had to go and jinx myself with that last post, because it seems like the last few days have been all about our animals’ rear ends.

First, Lucky got a bladder infection. Not sure how, but she had an accident in the house (which, according to Kris, she hasn’t done since she was a puppy) and then she was whining to go outside to pee about every hour. Kris got her to a vet over the weekend, so she’s on antibiotics now and should be feeling better soon. And we found a super easy way to give a dog a pill: wrap it in a piece of cheese. Gulp. Pill = gone.

Then, Beaumont got a tapeworm. He’s our primary mouser, so it’s not unusual for him to get them. He was due for his shots anyway, so I took him to the vet yesterday afternoon. Our vet acts like I’m crazy whenever I tell them on the phone that I know the cat has a tapeworm. They always give me the speech about, “Well, if you think he might have a tapeworm, you could bring in a fecal sample from his litter box and we can have it checked…” And they say it in this condescending tone, like I’m just one of those crazy hypochondriac cat ladies. Seriously, if you’ve seen it once, you tend to remember what it looks like. (Don’t click that link if you have a weak stomach.) The first tapeworm experience I ever had was with Teenie, when she was a kitten. The resulting trauma caused me to throw away all of my sheets. Believe me, I know how to diagnose a tapeworm. So we went to the vet, and when the technician lifted his tail to take his temperature, she said, “eww, gross.” Um, yeah. See? I told you he had a tapeworm, bee-otch. Anyway, Mr. B got his shots, they gave me his meds (and a few extra doses for the next time this happens, because with four cats in the house, it inevitably will), and we were on our way.

And of course, there’s my own personal gross-out experience of the day. Kris typically leaves for work well over an hour before I do. She takes Lucky out to use the bathroom before she leaves, and then I take her out again before I leave. This morning, I took her out in the yard, didn’t watch where I stepped, and apparently walked into some dog poo. I didn’t notice it, and I proceeded to track it all over the house, before I was like, “hmm, what’s that on the stairs? It looks like my shoe-print, but…” God. Not only was it all over my sneakers, but it somehow got on the hem of my jeans, too. So I was already late for work when I had to completely change my outfit. (Because my other clean pants didn’t look right with the top I had on, so… Yeah.) And I had to find new shoes. In my irrationally pissed state of mind, I started to get mad at Kris for not picking up the dog poo in the yard, but honestly, I should really just look where the hell I’m stepping.

Still, that can’t possibly be a good omen for the rest of my day.

strange pet bathroom behavior

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Teenie has always had hang-ups about her litter box, from the time she was a kitten. Not so much with poop, but she’d occasionally pee on the floor next to her litter box rather than in it. It confused me for a long time until I figured out that if the litter box wasn’t deemed clean enough by Her Royal Highness, she’d find somewhere else to go. For many years, I scooped her litter box every day to make sure she wouldn’t have an accident. And she didn’t. And life was good.

Sometime last year, Dave and I got one of those automatic-scooping litter boxes for our bedroom. Yes, I realize that our bedroom isn’t exactly the ideal place for a litter box. But Teenie went through several months where she refused to leave our bedroom because she was scared of the other cats, and it seemed like a better solution than forcing her to go use the litter box downstairs in the laundry room, or letting her have an accident in our room (which is most likely the option she would have chosen). And now that Kris’s dog Lucky is living with us, both Teenie and Beaumont generally refuse to leave our bedroom. So having the litter box there has definitely been helpful, and it’s in a far corner where it isn’t totally obvious. They have food and water dishes in our room too, so they really don’t ever have to leave if they don’t want to.

(For the record, Cleo and Greta seem to prefer hiding from the dog in Dave’s office, for whatever reason. I guess they like the futon.)

For the past couple of weeks, though, Teenie seems to spend more and more time in our bathroom. That makes sense because the weather has been sunnier, and there’s a skylight in our bathroom, so she can loll about on the floor and bask in the sun, as cats are wont to do. No big deal, right?

Here’s what confuses me: Teenie has decided to start peeing in our bathtub. We have a separate shower stall and tub in our bathroom, so we don’t use the tub that often. I noticed a puddle there a couple of nights ago, and I knew it was cat pee because oh my god, that smell, there’s nothing else on earth it could possibly be. But I thought it could’ve been either her or Beaumont (since he tends to have litter box issues whenever there’s a change to his environment – i.e., when we paint a room – and I think having the dog in the house definitely qualifies as a source of stress for him), so I didn’t jump to conclusions about who it was.

Then this morning, Teenie was hanging out with me in the bathroom while I was putting on my make-up and curling my hair, like she does every morning. All of a sudden, she jumped into the tub, sniffed around for a minute, and peed. She stared at me the whole time, like “yeah, so?” I stared back because I was sort of stunned and didn’t know how to react. I realized after she finished that I was holding my curling iron in mid-air the whole time.

The thing is, since we don’t use the tub that often, it really isn’t that big a deal. It’s easy enough to rinse out the tub when she does it, and I always scrub it down before I use it because it’s so rare that it tends to get dusty between uses. It’s a hell of a lot easier to clean the tub than it is to clean cat pee out of the carpet, and it’s actually easier than cleaning the litter box. So I kind of want to be like, hey, good idea there, Teenie! Try it on the toilet next time and all I’ll have to do is flush! But I’m confused as to why on earth she’d suddenly start doing this now, when she’s almost 10 years old and has never done anything like it before. I’m not sure if any pet behaviorists read this site, but are there any ideas out there? I’m totally baffled.

thursday drama

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Dave left yesterday afternoon for Oregon. He has some work thing in Portland, and he’s going to stay the weekend to do some sightseeing. I love Portland, and I have two uncles there who I adore and would love to see, so it would’ve been great if I could have gone with him. But, I had meetings today that I couldn’t cancel, so instead, he’s off in Oregon on his own. He’d better bring me back something pretty.

So, Kris has been leaving for work really early in the morning because she has an insane commute. From our house to her office is over 30 miles, which in Seattle rush hour traffic takes well over an hour. Since I leave almost two hours after she does, I’ve been taking Lucky out in the morning so she can go potty one last time before she gets locked up in the house for the day. I really love the dog, so I don’t mind doing that at all. Yesterday morning, however, she somehow managed to yank the leash out of my hand. She runs to the end of the leash all the time, so I don’t know how she caught me off guard, I guess I wasn’t fully awake yet. But she got a running start, and bam! The leash hit the ground, which might as well have been a starter pistol for how fast she took off down the driveway and across the street. The plastic handle of the leash bouncing on the ground behind her sounded kind of similar to the noise that kids’ bikes make when there are playing cards in the wheel spokes.

I went chasing after her – in clogs, because I am lazy and didn’t feel like putting on real shoes for taking the dog out – screaming for her to come back (morning, neighbors!), which of course she totally ignored. (And for the record, she does know that command because it works when we’re inside the house, or if the gate is closed and she’s running around the fenced-in yard. The dog just has selective hearing. Apparently she and my dad have a lot in common.) She headed down a dead-end street, so I wasn’t totally terrified of her getting hit by a car, but I was a little worried about having to chase after her into our neighbors’ yards.

I finally caught up with her a good five or ten minutes later, making me officially late for work. She had found an interesting scent in our neighbor’s hedges, and the leash was lying in the street, so I managed to grab the leash and yank her over to me. I was so mad that I smacked her on the head and yelled, “Bad dog!!” Now, before anyone freaks out on me: I didn’t hit the dog hard at all. I used the tips of my fingers, not the palm of my hand. I use more force when I’m smoothing down my own hair. I just wanted to make sure I had her attention. And boy, did I ever. The look she gave me when I yelled at her can only be described as utter shock and betrayal. Because, you know, I’m supposed to be the fun aunt, not the mean mommy. For the rest of the walk back to our house, every couple of minutes she’d look at me, then duck her head in shame. I felt sort of horrible about it, so I gave her a milk-bone when we got back to the house, and all was forgiven.

That evening, I was driving home from work, talking on my cell phone to my dad about how to post pictures of the used golf clubs that he wants to sell on eBay. (Yes, I talk and drive. I am that girl. Sorry if I accidentally cut you off. Feel free to flip the bird at me, I probably won’t notice since I’m too busy chatting away.) My other line beeped, and I saw that it was Kris, so I told my dad that I’d call him back. Kris said she couldn’t unlock the front door. She unlocked the deadbolt, but the doorknob itself was locked, and she didn’t have a key for that. Problem? Neither do I! We never lock the doorknob (hi, potential burglars!). It’s just a simple push-and-twist lock, it seems pretty useless, so we only use the deadbolt. Our housekeeper came yesterday, so she must’ve locked it on her way out. It’s probably my fault for not explaining exactly how to lock up when she was done, but the woman barely understands English, so I just never bothered. (I’m going to put some duct tape over the lock so it won’t happen again.)

Ok, so. Locked out. Fun! The only person who might have had a key for the bottom lock would be Dave – and oh, did I mention that he’s in Oregon? I stopped at the store on my way home and bought bobby pins, to see if I could pop the lock that way. I’ve accidentally locked the push-button lock on my bedroom door before, and I used a hairpin to unlock that, so I figured this couldn’t be too different. HA! I was wrong. Meanwhile, Lucky had her nose pressed against the window, anxiously waiting for us to get in, so we could take her outside to pee. Poor dog.

I headed to my neighbor Carol’s house across the street. I asked her what she knew about breaking and entering. She said not much, but she came over with her swiss army knife to see if she could do it. Her fifteen year-old daughter was with her, going, “Um, mom? If you really manage to pick that lock, I’m going to have a whooole lot of questions to ask you…”

Carol couldn’t pick the lock. I remembered that our bedroom window was unlocked (hi again, burglars!), so I asked her if she had a tall extension ladder. She did. Charlotte (her daughter) went back across the street to get it, and she and Kris held the ladder while I climbed up and into my own bedroom window. The sight of me hauling myself headfirst through a window (I landed in an awkward “oof!” handstand formation on the other side) must’ve been hilarious to any neighbors who happened to see us. Teenie was sitting on the bed, looking at me like, “WTF? You’ve never come in that way before!”

So, yeah. That about sums up my Thursday. I am so ready for the weekend, you cannot even imagine.

look out, kitty

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I’ve been debating on whether or not I was going to write about this, or if it fell under the too personal/gross category, but…. ah, hell with it, I still think it’s funny. A few people who read this have already heard this story, so apologies to them.

Ok, I’m using these “ovulation detector” tests while we’re trying to get pregnant. Basically, you pee on a stick and if there are two lines, it means you’re ovulating, so quick! Go have sex! Whee! However, there are two major catches on the instructions:
1. It says that the best time to test is between 10 a.m. and 8 p.m. Apparently most women get their LH surge in mid-morning, so that would be the best time to detect it. That’s not entirely undoable, but I’m at work for the majority of that time frame, so it definitely makes things more complicated. Especially since I absolutely will not be bringing any pee sticks into a ladies’ room stall with me. Call me a prude, but I save that stuff for when I’m at home.
2. The directions say to minimize your fluid intake and not pee for at least four hours before you take the test. Now that is a problem. I’m one of those eternally thirsty people. I always have a beverage at my desk – usually two, a water and a soda. And the only time that I ever go four hours without peeing is when I’m asleep.

But, in the interest of trying to get myself “up the duff” (as Dave says – don’t ask me, I guess it’s a British thing), I’ve decided to give it a try. The time to start monitoring my cycle was this past Sunday. No big deal. Monday was the first time I tried it on a workday. I managed to go the whole afternoon with only one cup of water. Driving home nearly killed me because I have this insane neuroses about the fact that I must go to the bathroom before I get in the car to go anywhere. It’s one of those things my mother drilled into my head as a child, and I seriously can’t go anywhere without peeing first. Many of my friends (and Dave too) have teased me about this over the years. It’s kind of insane, I can’t even go a mile down the street to pick up our take-out, even when I know without a doubt in my mind that I’ll be back at home in less than 5 minutes. But on Monday afternoon, I did it. I called Kris from my cell phone and had her talk to me during my entire drive home to distract me from thinking about the fact that “oh my god, I didn’t pee before I left work, now what will happen if I hit traffic, I will explode and die!!”

By the time I got home, it had been about three hours since the last time I peed. I was practically hopping up & down on one foot, so I decided that three hours was close enough to four, and went to do the test.

Teenie followed me into the bathroom, just like she always does. I don’t really have any hang-ups about cats in the bathroom with me, so no big deal. She sat on the floor in front of the toilet, right between my legs – the perfect spot so I can scratch her head while I’m going to the bathroom, which is normally fine.

I guess I didn’t realize just how badly I really needed to pee, because the force of it literally ricocheted off of the pee stick and hit the cat smack in the face. She sort of jerked her head back and gave me this absolutely horrified look, and then stormed off to the other side of the bathroom, where she sat on the bathmat and started washing her face. I could not stop laughing. It was only a drop or two, it’s not like I sprayed her, but her reaction was priceless.

Of course, after all of this, I had to go and tell Dave (because really, the poor guy isn’t subjected enough to the details of my bodily functions), and we both laughed until we cried. Such responsible pet owners we are. We’re obviously totally ready for parenthood.

the dog situation

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This is Lucky.



Lucky is Kris’s dog, so when Kris moves in with us in a couple of weeks, Lucky will be moving in along with her. There’s a pretty good chance that Dave and I might end up keeping her, since Kris will be moving into an apartment, and she might have trouble finding a place that will allow her to have two cats and one 40-pound dog in an apartment. (For the record, Kris’s mom is keeping her cats until she finds a place and gets settled. Then her mom & stepdad will fly up with the cats. We cannot have 6 cats in our house. Can. Not. My sinuses would explode and die.)



Lucky is about a year old now, and Kris has always had sort of a fear that she’s not a very good dog mom, so she isn’t all hell bent on keeping her like most dog-owners would be. For the record, I think she’s probably a very good dog mom, she just feels guilty for not spending enough time with her and not walking her enough. It might be easier for me and Dave since there are two of us, and we live on a couple of acres, so there would be plenty of room for her to run around. It’s probably a preferable living situation for most dogs.

I have to admit, though, I’m a little nervous about it. I’ve never had a dog before, I’ve only had cats. Ok, technically? We had a dog until I was about a year old, but I don’t remember her, so I don’t think that counts.

But seriously, we have four cats, and already that feels like a huge responsibility because I worry that we don’t pay enough attention to them as it is. And cats are way more independent than dogs, so I’m not sure how that’ll work out. I guess I’ve just always been a cat person. I mean, of course I like dogs, I think they’re cute and all, but I sort of freak out whenever one licks me in the face. So the whole dog-ownership idea is just a little daunting to me. Fortunately, Dave has had lots of dogs and doesn’t seem at all worried about the idea, so I’m sure it’ll be ok, whatever happens. (That’s very typical of us in most situations: I freak out and panic, he stays calm and tells me everything will be fine, now will I please for the love of all things holy just take a bloody xanax and sit still for a little while?)

And now, just for the “awww” factor, I have to throw in these photos of her as a puppy:





Is that not the cutest face you’ve ever seen? I mean, really? Ok, maybe this dog-having idea isn’t so bad after all.