Momma Grizzly Bears

WHEN the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

And so begins Rudyard Kipling’s poem, “The Female of the Species.”  In most situations, women are much worse to cross than men.  Take high school fights, for instance.  The typical boy-fight consists of a few rounds of the exchange “Why don’t you come over here!?!?” and “Why don’t you make me?!?!” before one or two punches are thrown, if the spectators are lucky, at which point some authority figure arrives to “break it up, break it up, you people better get to class or you WILL BE TARDY.”  The typical girl fight might start with some screaming, but the hair pulling and slapping will begin much more quickly and be broken up much more reluctantly by the token male teachers who amble down the hall towards the commotion.  This is why a girl fight is a much more exciting fight to watch.  There is a good chance the football coach or shop teacher will get slapped.  But I digress.

The quickest way to get a woman riled up is to insult her children or her man.  Or, in my case, her dog.  About two weeks ago, we went to pick up Remi at our local (awesome!) dog boarding place.  He loves it there and they love him.  Or at least the “regular” workers make me feel like they love him.  And he definitely loves them.  Then again, he loves to love, so it’s not like my dog is the best judge of character.  Whatevs.  I go in to get Remi and a new employee is there, checking him out. My first impression of her was that she was cool and hip and had on a cute outfit.  Notice I said my first impression.  They bring him out on his leash, he jumps all over me like we’ve been separated for a month, and I turn to leave.  “Have they,” said the new girl, “told you about Remi?” Told me?  Told me?  BIATCH, what would they need to TELL ME about my own dog?!?!  “What do you mean?” I asked, trying to keep levity in my voice.  “You mean, about the way that he drapes his head over other dogs’ backs to keep them close to him?” I say, trying to sound like an authority on my dog.  He is one needy, clingy heap of dog-meat, but he’s MY heap of dog-meat and I’ll be dam….”Yes.  And the way he follows workers around.”  Oh.  Oh Ho HO.  So you’re calling my kid “needy”? And just what makes you say that?  Where did you even go to school anyway?  Let me see your diploma, Miss…Oh.  Sorry.  I’ll bet I sounded defensive.  Defensive of my PERFECT DOG who is WAY too good for your STUPID weekend boarding with the bush league team at the helm.  It’s a wonder he’s not dead.  A real wonder.  Well, you have a nice rest of the day, Miss-Super-Great-Outfit-But-Bad-with-Dogs-I-Kind-of-Wish-I-Could-Like-You-But-Now-I-Can’t.  You just have a real nice day, now, ok?! And with that, we headed home with Remi to enjoy some codependency.

Fast forward to this Monday.  Halloween.  I was handing out candy, sans hubs, who was out of town (Side note: What moronic organization plans a conference over Halloween, leaving parents to choose between making memories with their little Ninja Turtles and getting free drink tickets at a booze reception? Oh, right.  The smart IT people.  Genius.), and Remi was doing an effective job at behaving as though he was going to make turtle soup of the little masked trick-or-treaters.  One bale of turtles (Look it up.  I did.), ninjas, and everything in between crowded themselves onto our stoop before ringing the bell, startling my dog and causing him to bark at them like he was a rabid, hungry werewolf.  To their credit, none of the children cried.  It took me about 30 seconds to shove Remi into the guest room, the whole time using my Southern Belle voice to shout politely through the storm door, “Ah, well,  I a-ham so ver-ah sorr-ah about mah dawg….” all the while, their mother supervised from behind them with a look that said, “BIATCH, your dog better not bite my kid or you’ll have a lawsuit on your hands so fast your head will snap off your neck.”  They weren’t using their southern Belle look.  They were using their momma grizzly bear look.  I got it.  I gave their kids extra-good candy.

A belated Happy Halloween.  And if you egg my house, my rabid, needy werewolf dog will lick your face off. Ah, mommas.

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He’s quite fetching

Remi is a bit obsessed with the game of fetch.  He would keep it up all day, every day.  When we got him from the rescue, his original owner noted that “His ball is his world.”  And as his ball was bright blue rubber with green land masses on the outside, we assumed this wasn’t hyperbole.  Unfortunately, we’ve lost his world.  And we’ve searched for the lost world.   We’ve crawled around the house, looking under every piece of furniture, we’ve carefully scoured the lawn, searching through all the shrubs.  The world is missing.  And maybe gone forever.  Luckily, Remi is not as discriminating as he sounds and will gladly accept a tennis ball as a temporary substitute.

Today, I finally broke down and went to PetSmart on my lunch break to buy another ball.  Unfortunately, they were all out of “the world” so I had to go with a glow-in-the-dark ball.  It was made to fit in a large “Chuck It,” which for the un-dogged out there, is a throwing stick that keeps you from having to stoop over 50 million times and enables you to pick up the ball without touching the slobber/dirt combo that Remi leaves on it.  Simplistic, yet genius in design.  I have two thoughts about this:  1.  $8 is a small price to pay to avoid picking up and throwing a slobbery tennis ball a million times a day, and 2.  please don’t let us lose this thing.  The new ball is glow-in-the-dark- light-green and could easily disappear in the grass.  I have visions of hubs and I, waiting for darkness, slinking through the backyard, Mission Impossible style, to find the glowing orb.  It will be a re-con mission with flashlights, scanning the yard to avoid poop-mines, and looking for the space-age chew toy.  The neighbors will be talking.  The squirrels will be mocking.  And Remi will be watching.  Heaven help us if he realizes that it is now possible to play fetch in the dark….

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All God’s children

This afternoon, I had the distinct pleasure of heading out in 90-something degree temperatures and loading 70 lbs of dog into the back of my SWEET SEDAN before heading over to our vet to find out what’s ailing Remi.  A mild skin infection, which should be gone in a week thanks to a round of antibiotics, in case you are dying to know.

Howevs. I think we might be breaking up with our vet.  We received competent care, and we’ve only been twice since adopting the Rem-ster, but both times have been a veritable CLUSTER in the waiting room.  Today, at one point, there were seven dogs, two cats, and about 10 people in various stages of intake, boarding drop-off, and bill paying.  I have to think that the clinic’s liability policy probably frowns upon that.    One eager puppy takes a sniff at one grumpy dog’s hind-end and well, it’s not going to be pretty.

In the middle of all of this, a couple walks out with a dog that looked like this:
And I, in the 90-something degree heat, thought “I would NEVER….” and then I thought, “Oh, that poor dog.”  And the lady sitting next to me said, “Oh, that would be SO RELAXING to GET to BRUSH that EVERY DAY!”  I’m pretty sure she wasn’t on crack, but Remi and I didn’t stick around to find out.

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What I wouldn’t give for a THUMB!

Despite his insane cuteness, my dog has his flaws.  Sleeping on the couch and eating trash, to name two.   Piop and I  have adopted strategies to deal with these flaws, namely, putting the trashcans out of his reach and putting aluminum foil on the furniture.  Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it.  It really works and adds that certain je ne sais quoi to your living room decor.  Particularly when people drop by unannounced and wonder if you have some sci-fi obsession or dress up as Mork and Mindy when you’re home alone.  I’ll never tell.

Anyway, to compensate for Remi’s apparent bordem, we’ve purchased a kong.  We fill said kong with peanut butter or a treat before leaving and hope it occupies him while we’re gone.  My conflict is whether or not stuffing a milk bone into the treat is cruel and unusual punishment, or just a lot of fun.  Remi naturally chomps down on the part he can get to (probably in the first eight seconds after we leave), and then cannot get the rest of the milk bone out.  I envision him spending hours a day flopping that red blob around and thinking,

“Um, guys….guys…hey, JERKS….what is wrong with you?  This kong thing is, um, kind of fun, but kind of ticking me off.  I mean, I’m cute, right?  And I’m fun, right?  And I pretty much sleep after 8pm, anyway.  And you leave me by myself all darn day and I don’t even gnaw furniture…well, at least I usually don’t…and I think I’m pretty much a good dog.  All I ask of you is a run in the morning, and let’s face it, your fat behinds could use it, and a little game of fetch a couple of times a day, which, you have to admit, is prettyfun, and you know, food and water and all that.  And what do you give me?  A flipping RUBIX CUBE of a kong.  Listen…I don’t have THUMBS and it’s just not very nice of you to leave me with this never ending circle of HELL!  It’s like an itch you can’t scratch…which, speaking of, how about a little scratching in that spot between my shoulders blades that my back legs can’t reach?……um, guys?….GUYSSSSSSSS?….”

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