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28 March 2006

There's nothing worse than a sarcastic dog.

I've finally figured it out.  Kimba is pissed.  And when Kimba gets pissed she ...well... she pisses.

Kimba has decided to fight fire with urine.

If I'm going to continue to bring these marginally housebroken ...things... in to the house to disturb her happy existence, well, then, she's just going to forget about "housebreaking" herself.  If it's ok for these strangers to pee in the house, why should she have to haul her arthritic body out into the cold to pee?

She stood right in front of me this morning, right by Walt's recliner, looked over her shoulder ...I swear she sneered... and she peed right on the tarp.

(I suppose I should be grateful that at least she hit the tarp and not the Pergo.)

If I'm going to place obnoxious pipsqueaks, who don't know she doesn't like dogs of any size and think she wants to play, right out side her door, well, then... she just won't go out the door at all.

So I found a pile of poop sitting directly in front of the dog door, matching the one I found behind the kitchen table earlier.  I know it was Kimba's statement.

The house is rapidly becoming one very large doggie outhouse.  I'm thinking of carving a quarter moon on the front door. 

Who needs aerobic exercise when you spend so much time bending over to pick up wet sheets and carry them to the washing machine, or bending over to pick up doggie piles and transport them to the toilet?   Who needs a treadmill when you spend all your time going back and forth from the family room to the bathroom to deposit ...uh... deposits, and to the washing machine to load yet another batch of wet sheets?

Oh sure there are perks.   I mean--who can resist a face like this?

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Who can resist "puppy breath" and the snuggling of a wet nose into the folds of your neck, as the puppy seems to relax and feel like she's come "home."

But the price you pay for all that snuggle time is adult canine sarcasm.

Or this.  I absolutely LOVE this series of photos.  Pardon the puppy-nose smudged window.

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Sheila sat inside watching the puppies play for a long time, then she went to the dog door and poked her head out.  Then she stepped back and waited.  Then she poked her head out again.  Eventually the puppies started investigating.  In the end, Fudge, who seems to be the most determined and the most adventurous, was the one who managed to figure out how to get inside.  The two of them were so happy when he actually came in and they could play together.  I swear, dogs might as well talk because their messages are so very clear!

The puppies may or may not stay with us for a bit longer.  There are 4 day old orphans that need bottle feeding and Ashley thinks my life will be easier with "non-moving puppies," so may switch them.   She's right, of course, and we'll take whichever seems the best choice.  I really enjoy doing the bottle-feeding business and have missed it, but I have to admit that I have a real fondness for these four little guys already.

Sheila is being such a good "mom" it's absolutely incredible.  She had all four climbing all over her tonight, and she just lay there with her mouth open and a puppy's head poking around inside, and she had one paw lightly over the back of one of the puppies.  (Naturally moments like that always happen when the camera is in the other room, and I know if I get up, I will spoil the mood.)

But Kimba is never sad when we lose any of our "visitors."

* * *

PUPgoop.jpg (109775 bytes)Morning update

Fudge is sick.  The first indication I had was a hint of a goopy eye.  Then he didn't want to eat last night.  I ended up bringing him inside and feeding him puppy mash mixed with formula.  He ate some of that.

This morning he still didn't want to eat and didn't want the mash either.  Then he pooped.  Very loose stool followed by a couple of very big drops of blood.

I called Ashley, who said she'd send meds in to Davis for me (and also assured me that this was common and he should start feeling better in a couple of days). 

I took Fudge with me in the car and, because he was whining, I zipped him inside my jacket (I told Peggy I felt like a mother roo).  We got the medicine and Fudge fell asleep in his little pouch (my jacket).  When we came home, I had this terrible suspicion about something--and I was right.  He had had a bit more diarrhea, so my jacket was full of both pup and poop.  I threw the jacket into the washing machine and Fudge into the sink and gave him--and me--a quick bath.  Then I poked a pill down his throat.  He fell asleep in my lap, so I transferred him to the crate to sleep for a bit.

In the meantime, Greta has now figured out the dog door and she came bounding in, very proud of herself.  She immediately pooped on the tarp.  Walt picked up the poop, while I was washing the bloody sheets and all of a sudden there was a shout from the bathroom that the toilet had overflowed.  So we were throwing towels around and dragging in the sopping wet rug.

As I write this it's only 8 a.m. and I'm already ready for a nap!



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Fudge really doesn't feel like playing; Greta does.

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