Dog Days (and Nights)

Fair Warning:  This is yet another post about my dogs.  Read no further if you’re sick and/or tired of being regaled with tales (and tails) of life with Boomer & Marley.  You know who you are.

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Boomer (all 135 pounds of him) has taken to laying directly at my feet every night while I watch TV.  And by directly at my feet, I mean right where I put my feet on the floor when I'm sitting in my favorite chair, which leaves no room for my actual feet.  "Under foot" is an understatement.

Boomer doesn't really have a "spot" in our house.  He hangs out on the guest bed while we're at work and he usually just lays on the floor next to us when we're home.  I decided it was time to try to find him an area to call his own. Hopefully nowhere near my feet.  First step: Buy a Mack-Daddy dog bed that he won't be able to resist.  I found the perfect bed on the L.L. Bean website, and three days and $300 later it was delivered. 

Assembly was a bit of a bitch, as evidenced below.  And don't give me any shit about my giant glass of wine on the side table.  Iced White Zinfandel: signature drink of the white trash female.

Once I had the bed (badly) assembled, I put it in the corner and waited for the magic to happen.  Based on previous experience, I knew that Boomer needed to "discover" the new bed by himself, and then "claim" it as his own (he won't touch a new dog toy unless you put it down and leave the room - Great Danes are ridiculously passive).  I also knew that if I made a big deal about the bed, he'd assume it was mine and he'd never get within 10 feet of it.  So once the bed was in place I left the room to let nature take it's course.  I checked back every few minutes to see how he responded.

8:30 p.m.: Oh, shit.  Wrong dog.  "Marley!  Move!  MOVE!!  That's not your bed!"  I finally got her to move to her own bed in the opposite corner.

8:45 p.m.: Oh, for the love of God.  "Marley!  GET OUT!  That's not your bed."  She eventually moved to her own bed again.

9:00 p.m.:  "Marley.  Dammit!  NOT. YOUR. BED."  This time I relocated her to her own bed myself.

9:15 p.m. : "Hey, ASSHOLE!  Move."  I finally had to lock her in the guest room.  Obedience isn't really one of her strengths.

I was worried that all the commotion might have scared Boomer away from the overpriced bed forever, but eventually his curiosity got the best of him.

9:20 p.m.: He's giving it a try, but he looks decidedly nervous about it.

9:25 p.m.: Still not sure about it.  But after 5 solid minutes of me repeating "goodboygoodboygoodboygoodboy" I think he was afraid to move.

9:30p.m.: V-I-C-T-O-R-Y!

Sweet Jesus. The things we do for our dogs!

Fit for a dog

Since my tragic rejection by the USO, I've pretty much given up on the idea of finding a volunteer opportunity.  Most of the opportunities I was interested in weren't a good fit due to my work schedule or were already fully-staffed with volunteers (lots of folks out of work these days).

So I've decided to find a new hobby that I can do on my own.  Today's venture?  Homemade dog biscuits.  Check it out, peeps.  And my pooches like them, too!

Winner Winner Chicken Dinner

In our 10 years of marriage, I've had to explain many of my dumb ass "incidents" to Jeff.  I tend to run into trouble when he's out of town.  Like, for example, the time he came home from a business trip and found 3/4 if our Dalmatian's coat was dyed pink (henceforth known as the "Exploding Blender Full of Daiquiris Incident") or the numerous times he had to drive my ass all over town to retrace my steps in an attempt to locate and retrieve my car (collectively known as the "I should write down where I parked before I get my drink on and catch a cab home" incidents).

But tonight?  I'm going to have to explain to him how I ended up with a giant bite mark on my inner thigh while he was out of town.  People, we have a winner.

I'm going to explain to you exactly what happened, and then I'd love some feedback on whether I should stick to the truth, come up with a convincing lie or just attempt to avoid letting him see that part of my anatomy until the bruise is gone and hope for the best.

Here's what (really) happened:  Last week Jeff bought a jumbo-sized bag of dog food for Marley.   I used the last of the old food in her dish last night, so I grabbed the new bag to empty into the storage container.  It was really heavy, so I had to kind of squat down to get enough leverage to handle the bag.  As always, Boomer and Marley were watching me intently in case I spilled a few kibbles onto the floor.  Marley was on my left and Boomer was on my right.  I had emptied about half the bag into the container when I lost my footing and landed on my butt, spilling a fair amount of food in the process.  Boomer immediately lunged for the food.  Marley immediately snapped at Boomer.  My inner thigh got caught in the middle.  Chaos ensued.

So now I've got a bite-shaped bruise (including teeth marks) that distinctly resembles a hickey right near my Business District.  Just below The Chamber of Commerce, if you will.  Explaining this one may be tricky.

Big Dog, Dumb People

An Open Letter to people who think that the fact that I have a large dog means I want to hear their idiotic opinions when I’m walking him (and believe me, I don’t).

Dear Morons:

I thought today would be a great time to address all of your asinine questions and comments at one time.  Here you go.

1. No, Boomer is not a horse.  No, I don’t ride him.  No, he doesn’t have a saddle.
2.  It most certainly does *not* look like Boomer is walking me.  He’s very gentle and walks on a loose leash, which in the dog world means he doesn’t pull.
3. Are you really asking me about his poop?  I can save you some if you’d like.  I’ll leave it on your front porch later tonight.
4. No, he doesn’t bite.   Do you think we’d be standing this close to you if he did?
5. No, he doesn’t participate in dog fights (seriously!?!?).
6. I bathe him with the hose, like I would any other dog.
7. No, you may not borrow him for the weekend to impregnate your dog.  First of all, he’s neutered.  Secondly, what the hell is wrong with you?
8. He eats dog food.  Because he’s a dog.
9. Again with the poop?  Why the interest?
10. He sleeps in a dog bed.  You know he’s a dog, right?
11. No, I don’t “fold him up” to put him in the car.  He fits in the car the same way a 135-pound person would.  He puts his butt on the seat and his feet on the floorboard.      
12. Thank you for pointing out that both my dogs appear to be “full breed” and that I should have rescued a dog instead of getting them from a breeder.  You are a judgmental jackass.  Both dogs came from rescue groups.  Any breed of dog can end up homeless, even Dalmatians and Great Danes.
13. Yes I am aware the Great Danes can have health issues.  They can also live well over 10 years if given proper care.  Thanks for telling me that death is imminent for my dog.  You are a delightful person.  I bet you’re all kinds of fun at a party.

I hope I've cleared up all your thought provoking, intelligent questions.  I'd also like to give a shout out to all the awesome people (who are not morons with asinine comments) that I've met when I'm out walking Boomer and Marley.  You guys ROCK and I'm glad to know you!

Hugs!

LAB

Love ya, Boomer Boy!  Good Dog!

And just to give equal time to my girl Marley: