The Food Protest (These Beasts Be Bitches)

Let's talk about the dog, shall we?
She's a dog. She'll eat just about anything.
When I'm working in the kitchen, she lies in the doorway, just beyond the linoleum, listening for any of the cue words that she's grown accustomed to; uh-oh, oh crap, or dammit. These words usually signify that I've dropped something probably edible on the floor, at which time she magically appears at the spill site because, as the canine five second rule states,

"if its on the floor for more than five seconds, it's yours." -- Canine Five Second Rule

She's pretty picky about what deserves her interest, though. Clumps of grass that fall from under the lawnmower are to die for, but she won't touch a leaf of lettuce. She'll risk a good lecture and a naughty finger shake to get to the Catbox Buffet, but Heaven forbid a broccoli floret should cross her lips.

Ball? What ball?

As picky as she is, when Brandi hears the sound of her dinner dish scooping up a bowl of dry kibble, you've got her undivided attention. But if you put that bowl down in it's place without covering it with gravy, you'll face the stare.

She gazes at the bowl, then you, and then back to the bowl. She's waiting for you to pour it on, and thoroughly mix it in, so that every bit of sauce smothers and softens every delicious morsel. Go ahead. Do it. 

I want to do it every time, but I can't afford to buy the extra cans of gravy all of the time. And so I get the dissatisfied, sad puppy eyed, appalled that you would even think to serve me this slop expression, as her eyes meet mine, before she lowers her head and looks away, in silent protest.

I always give the same response, "Oh please! Just eat your food." And she will, begrudgingly, only because she's planning to pilfer the cat's dish as soon as our backs are turned.

The Other Bitch

Now, we'll talk about the cat.
The poor thing is always starving. Thanks to the dog, no one can ever be sure how long it's been since she has eaten. There is a clue, however, that we've learned to pick up on.

You see, Kitty isn't a sit down and clean your plate kind of chick. She's a snacky, eat when she feels like it, slowly grazing throughout the day, kind. So there's always something left in the bottom of the bowl, when she walks away. She actually thinks it's empty. You must fully cover the bottom with at least an inch of food before Miss Kitty believes that you're not just messing with her head, and that there is actually food there! So, if you ever see the cat's dish without at least some crumbly crumbs scattered about, then you can bet the dog was the last person to see the victim alive, so to speak. 

So that leaves us to bear the annoying (B-Bump. B-BumpBump). That's the sound of the kitchen cabinet door bouncing against the frame as it closes ... after it's been opened by a furry little paw, grasping at the bottom edge. She's not trying to open the cabinet to get to the food. No, we've done this experiment and learned that she just wants the cabinet to make that noise because it irritates the hell out of us, and it will surely bring someone to the kitchen right quick. It's quite a genius operation for such a dumb beast. 

Unfortunately mealtime doesn't always work out to her specifications... not if the dog gets to the dish first. So now, after each feeding, the cat's dish gets tucked away in the pet food cabinet, to be brought out only upon request ... or by (B-BumpBump). And somewhere in the contract it states that if we don't comply within what she perceives as twenty minutes, I get a puddle under my chair.

Yeah, that seems fair.

Have you read The Catbox (These Beasts Be Bitches)?

The Catbox (These Beasts Be Bitches!)

The word "bitch" is the actual, official, and perfectly acceptable term for a canine of the female variety. My dog, Brandi, in no uncertain terms is 100%... a bitch. However, when used in the more profane and offensive version, the term also perfectly applies to my cat.

I only got up for a second!
Kitty napping in my kitchen/computer chair

We've had her for eight years, and I guess it's time for me to let her grow up. She's small but she's no Spring Kitten anymore. I don't know when it happened, but at some point recently, she lost her sweet little daintiness. I mean, the beast pees like a horse! Gone is the time when the catbox could ride three or four days before becoming an issue. But like Dylan said "The times, they are a'changin" and Kitty has no problem humming me a few bars every now and then.

It all starts with me telling you about my new favorite brand of kitty litter that totally kicks ass! You just never know how much clump action you need, until you experience the best of what clump action has to offer. The wet stuff clumps solid and stays solid. It doesn't fall apart during cleanup, the clump takes it all, leaving the remaining litter fresh. (Notice I didn't name the brand. I don't know why I didn't mention it at the time of the original writing. At the time of this edit, I just, quite frankly, don't even remember anymore.)

Here's where we fall into trouble. Kitty squats as close to the side of the box as felinely possible, and don't forget, she pees like a horse. After about three potty breaks, the sandy litter around the edges has morphed into rock. There's little place left to scratch and dig, and if Kitty can't scratch and dig, then

... there is something definitely wrong here, Lady. This ship is goin' down... it's every animal for herself ...

She will protest this assault by leaving her next puddle on the floor directly in front of the human toilet. Hey, you have a place to pee, I need a place to pee. It usually gets discovered by a groggy human first thing in the morning, who is totally unprepared for the sopping, the mopping, the disinfecting, and the possibility of having to take down and wash the curtain, that divides the bathroom from the laundry closet. That's why the first morning's human usually just covers the puddle with a wad of paper towels so that the unsuspecting groggy Mama doesn't step in it.

I have to admit, there are times when none of us humans are motivated to clean the box right away, after such a subtle hint. When that happens, she could do one of two things. She could repeat the procedure, or she could escalate to something a little more passive aggressive. She'll drop her next puddle in a place where it simply cannot be ignored... under my kitchen chair, where I sit with my laptop. Okay... Enough! Message received!

The Catbox Buffet is Closed For Business

At least we finally found a way to keep the other beast from dining in the Catbox Buffet. First we push the catbox all the way to the back corner of the closet. Then we prop the ironing board against the washing machine and lean it toward the closet wall. This creates a canopy, preventing the dog from just hopping over the large Coleman lunch cooler that we shove in front of the catbox. It must be wedged between the washing machine and the wall, preventing the pooch from just diving in head first.

It's Not So Simple

Cleaning the catbox isn't quite as simple as, well, just cleaning the catbox. It begins with disassembling the canine prevention contraption previously described. Also, whenever the box is pulled out, we use that valuable opportunity to sweep up all the litter that Kitty has kicked out onto the floor. It's everywhere; under and behind the dryer, behind our five gallon paint can collection. And hec, since we're sweeping, might as well just sweep the whole bathroom. ("one job leads to another yeah, yeah, yeah")

The scooped up clumps (and such) go into the trash can, which of course, has to be taken out right away. Then we have to get the vacuum and suck up all the stuff that we just swept. Where's the vacuum? The Princess, assuredly, left it upstairs again. Uuuugh!! Once the task is complete, the canine prevention contraption is reconstructed.

It's a tedious process that is often avoided until the need is crucial.

Holy Irony, Batman! As I sit here typing, Kitty has just puddled on the bathroom floor again! But I just cleaned the box last night! That could only mean one thing...

This is a food protest.

Have you read The Food Protest (These Beasts Be Bitches)?

Bringing Home Brandi

It was so wonderful to hear the pitter patter of little paws around the house again!

She was like a gift from "fate".  A beautiful mix of two breeds that both Hubsy and I had prior experience with.  I had a Sheltie for several years, as a child, and hubs had a German Shepherd.  At this point in our lives, both of our childhood pets were long gone.  But now we have Brandi.  A gift to ourselves, and to our young daughters. We brought her into our home, and made her part of the family as our little four legged toddler.

And of course toddlers never sit still. Brandi found great joy in running laps around the apartment.  Through the obstacle course of dining room chair legs, figure eights around the coffee table and the sofa.  All that action can certainly build up an appetite:

Feed Me, Seymore!

And when your belly is full, your body is warm, and you're all tuckered out from the daily races, nothing beats a good nap, on a fluffy goose feather pillow:

The Dog Star In The Center Ring

Welcome to the Circus!  I'd like to formally introduce you to one of our beloved animal acts... Brandi the daredevil puppy!  Well, she's not exactly a puppy anymore, but she's not exactly aware of that, so let's just keep that between us, okay?

We found her in the last few days of  February 2006 at our county SPCA.  Born around Christmas of '05, she and her brothers and sisters had been abandoned in the woods by a not-very-nice human, and then rescued by a very-much-nicer one.  Her parents were a German Shepard and some breed of Collie/Sheltie.

Our Puppy-Love

The shelter had pre-named her Imari, but she just felt more like a Brandi to us, and began answering to it almost immediately. We filled out the preliminary paperwork, and went through the interview process. We paid the $100 spaying fee, and were told that we had to wait another week to bring her home. She would be having her surgery, and would need a little recovery time. In the meantime, they would running our background check.  

When I got the call to come and pick her up, we were asked to wait a little while, while they finished giving Brandi her bath. "We have to wash the paint off of her paws", they said.

Earlier that day, the SPCA had been preparing for a future fund raiser, where they would be auctioning off paintings (or pawings) done by the puppies.  Below is the photo of Brandi that later appeared in the local paper that covered the event. She was the star of the show!

The Star of the Show!

It's been nearly eight years now, and she's been the greatest, dearest dog.  So much more than we even anticipated.  Her breeding leads her to be intelligent and very trainable.  She's well socialized, and very playful.  She's a hugger, a beggar, a kitty cat bulldozer, a performer, a hero, a butt bumper, a bump on a log, and a squirrel's worst nightmare. She's our Puppy-Love.  Look for occasional picture posts of Brandi on Facebook!

The Best Dog Ever Saved Me From A Snakebite

My six and a half year old shepherd/collie puppy-love is an accidental superhero. She didn't valiantly and knowingly put herself between me and the danger. It was just a matter of poor manners on her part, pushing past me on the porch to be the first one out. But if it hadn't been her, it would have been me. So, accidental or not, she is my superhero.

Hubsy and I had been sitting on the back porch, enjoying the cool and lovely evening, when he brought to my attention the fact that Puppy-Girl hadn't been taken out that afternoon, since Punkin hadn't been home to do it. Recognizing the word "out" she jumped up and coaxed me toward the front door. Hubsy followed a step or two behind. Knowing where we live, and accepting the dangers, I had gotten into the habit of looking down onto and all around the welcome mat. Like a good little girl, I look left and then right before crossing the porch. But not this time. I don't know what it was that had me so distracted, but instead of my usual precautions, I opened the door and stepped blindly down.  I didn't even think to look around, I just kept stepping to the edge of the three step porch.

That's when my dog, excited and quite pushy, slid right past my leg and headed down the single step onto the sidewalk, where just two feet in front of me sat a monstrous demon serpent, coiled and lying in wait.  Okay so it was a twelve inch baby copperhead, but don't let it's age deceive you.  The babies can be far more dangerous than their elders.  A bite from a youngster is a crap shoot.  They have little control over their venom at that age and he could either give you just a taste, or dump the whole load, if he envenomates you at all.

Even when I saw Brandi leaning over to investigate it, I couldn't tell it was a snake at all.  It was eight thirty, and the daylight was fading.  The earthy beige and brownish grey patterns on it's back blended into the pebbly concrete of the sidewalk.  He was coiled, and small, so out of the corner of my eye, I thought it was a leaf.  You must imagine the next part in slow motion in order to appreciate how it happened in my brain.

He cocked his head back in the typical S formation.  Seeing this minuscule movement, my primal mind knew that it was a serpent, a full ten seconds before my conscious mind could comprehend it.  His head then bolted forward toward Brandi's curious snout, and latched on.  Again, in slow motion, Brandi shook her head and flipped the snake briefly into the air.  Now it is ten seconds later, and my mind has caught up to itself.  "It's a snake!" I screamed, and tried to jump back into the doorway, only to crash into Hubsy, as he was stepping out.  He grabbed a shovel and hunted it down a few feet away.  While he chopped and sliced and poked it with the shovel, Brandi did that cute little thing when she uses her paws to rub her nose.  It wasn't so cute this time.  It was a sign that had indeed been bitten.  But after the initial rub, she bounced right back, and ran around in the driveway.  She continued on, into the grass to do her ... thing.  While she sniffed around the yard, Hubs and I examined the bloody corpse, and confirmed the species.  Then we all went back inside.


I immediately began researching the effects of a copperhead snake bite on dogs.  Good news... only 3% of dogs bitten by copperheads are fatally poisoned.  That's a pretty low number.  But I took note of the symptoms, from mild to severe, and read several personal stories of pets that have recovered from their wounds.  I learned that most vets don't carry antivenin in stock, because it's so rarely needed, and so very expensive.  So, we made the decision to wait it out at home, but would consult our neighbor, who is a vet, if needed.  But thus far, nothing was needed.  Brandi seemed fine, and we thought perhaps it was a dry bite after all.  Yup, that's what we thought because we didn't realize that the symptoms take about a half hour to show.  I went back and read that later.   


It started with the squinting.  Princess pointed it out.  Brandi often squints when you turn on the light first thing in the morning, and when she's really tired, but now I know that she also squints when she's in a lot of pain.  Placing my hand firmly on her back, I could feel her trembling.  Then came the seeping and bleeding from the bite wound at the bottom edge of her nose.  And her snout began to swell.  A few hours later, her snout has swollen to nearly three times it's original size.  She looked like a different dog, and even though it wasn't funny... it was kinda funny.  The girls and I laid down by her side, and whispered softly, as we caressed her back and head.  I waited a while and watched for the onset of further symptoms: excessive panting, vomiting, incontinence, and temporary paralysis.  As of midnight, only a couple of "panting spells" occurred, and only when she got up to follow me somewhere.  What a sweetie... still trying to follow me around even when suffering.

Protection

Hubs and I eventually went to bed, but the girls slept in the living room to keep watch over Puppy-Girl.  It was a tough sleep that night, my mind fearing the worst, yet hoping and trusting that everything was going to be okay.  Needless to say, we took turns sneaking downstairs in the weee hours, to check on our babies... mostly the furry one.  By the break of day, she was showing signs of recovery.  Up and moving about with far less squinting, and occasionally chasing after a beloved toy.  Although the wound continued to seep and bleed throughout the night, it was now scabbing over.  The second day, after the bite, saw reduced swelling and further physical activity.  Unlike myself, she showed no fear of returning to the great outdoors.  I, on the other hand, required two containers of "Snake-Away" scattered in the garden, behind the bushes, along the driveway and the edge of the porch, and down the path on the side of the house.  It smells like moth balls.  Yes, my whole neighborhood now smells like Great Grandma's house, but I'm sure that everyone will thank me for it... maybe... someday.     

Interesting Facts About Copperheads