Saturday, February 25, 2012
Back in the Spring our pup Little Joe met with an early demise via school bus. It was a horrific experience seeing as how our two youngest kids witnessed the whole tragic ordeal. After that awful business we solemnly and vehemently declared we would never have another dog again, or at least not have one we liked so much. And trust me, we have had our share of unlikeable dogs around here, so we figured the chances of getting another miscreant mutt was highly likely.
And then Paul's brother called one night and said his female German Shepherd was on the nest and offered us pick of the litter. He said they'd be born around the end of June and we could come get ours six weeks later. While I've always thought German Shepherds are beautiful dogs, I didn't have high hopes for liking one or welcoming it into our family. I figured it would be just another dog, something to feed and then leave us gigantic dinner-plate-sized piles of poo in the yard. I was less than excited.
But the kids were thrilled and not a week went by through the spring they didn't inquire about the puppies. We received a call when they were born which only served to up the anticipation level by oh....about six hundred and thirty seven gazillion. Then lo and behold the blessed day came when the brother-in-law called and said, "Come get your dadgum (okay, he didn't say "dadgum", but you can probably insert any expletive and it would be close to correct) dog. There are a bunch of 'em and they won't stay in the pen anymore." Squeals from three kids promptly ensued. Paul probably squealed inside. I was less than excited.
My brother-in-law's dogs are vicious animals. The male, so large and so mean, he has to be kept on a logging chain. Yes, I said logging chain. A mere dog chain will not hold the beast. The female is mean, but less so. The puppies had to be carefully procured by my brother-in-law and brought to us, two at a time, to cuddle and partake of their cuddly, fluffy, skunk-breathed puppy-ness. The kids narrowed it down to four. Then three. Then two. And two is where we stayed. So with a sigh I said, "Okay, fine....take them both," while thinking Lovely. More elephant-sized piles of poo to keep Conner from stepping in. We labored over names for days and eventually settled on Boo for the female (after Boo in Monsters Inc) and Bolt (from well, Bolt). Yes, we Disneyed our dogs.
Bolt didn't come off the porch for four days. He cowered in the corner by the front door and wouldn't eat, would barely drink, it was awful. Boo, however, would nearly mow you over with skunky kisses and whines all while piddling at your feet. Finally, Bolt came around and while he's still the more calm and collected of the two, his sister still remains highly neurotic and extremely rambunctious. She has literally sat on her brother's head to keep me from petting him and has on more than one occasion nipped just a little harder than I'm sure she intended in a fit of jealousness. She has, fortunately, stopped piddling at our feet. That's a blessing.
I'm afraid we've become the pet owners who will defiantly and adamantly defend the honor of the breed of their choice. Pit Bull owners say it's not the breed, it's the owner and the care. Rotweillers will say the same. Chihuahua owners will say the same, too, but folks, we all know those dogs are just a half a bubble off plumb and there is no fixing those overgrown mice. (I kid, I kid. Please don't send me hate mail. I've known one really cool Chihuahua. He wears an elf outfit around Christmas time. Any dog that can pull that off has my admiration.) But yes, we defend our Shepherds and their precious demeanors. Yes, their parents are nasty and mean, but heck, there are a lot of people I know who have nasty parents and we don't keep those folks on a logging chain just because their parents need a swift kick to the tail end. We have never hit our dogs and their faithfulness and loyalty reflects that. Well, we're still trying to convince them that pooping that close to the front door doesn't make friends with their human counterparts.
I guess what I'm trying to say with this whole post is this: We have fallen head over stinkin' heels in love with those dadgum dogs. There. I said it. We love them. *sigh*
Wednesday we took them to the vet to be fixed. Paul had to build a giant dog box for the back of the truck because they are the size of small Tyrannosaurus Rex. This dog box looks like we should just strap ol' Granny Clampet to the top and take off for Bev-er-ly. Hills, that is. I told him it might have been a bit much considering if he had built it in town we'd have needed a zoning permit for it. His justification was that now they have one seriously cool dog house for the back yard. Kady asked if she could have it for a playhouse. It's that big. We looked ridiculous driving to the vet and I was just glad we brought them after general business hours and no one we knew saw us.
They cried when we left them. We cried, too. Well, at least Kady and I did because we adhere to Truvy's strict policy of "No one cries alone in my presence" and we apply it to dogs as well. I called Paul for something on Thursday and in the conversation asked if he was having a good day. He sighed and said, "Yeah, I was just sitting here thinking about Boo and Bolt. Do you think they're okay?" We're all so dang smitten it's ridiculous.
Thursday they came home, minus a few gonads and happy to see their people. Bolt immediately attacked a cat and announced his presence on the place by peeing on every tree and blade of grass with 100 yards. Boo, who had a hernia repair on top of it all, was a little less than rambunctious. She's still hobbling around today and the vet said she'll take awhile longer to heal. I did, however, lure her out of her barrel with a slice of pepperoni pizza yesterday, so I have no doubt she'll be back to normal in no time, terrorizing cats and sitting on her brother's head to keep us from possibly loving him more than her. Note to self: Call vet about puppy Prozac.
Kady, Bolt, Abby, Sam and Boo
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