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February 6, 2006
Bad dogs and the women who love them
Stop reading now if you're considering getting a puppy any time soon
This is our newest dog, Friday:
All together now: awww! Looks cute, doesn’t he? Sweet, friendly, happy-go-lucky?
Ha. Beneath that furry exterior beats the remorseless heart of a hardened criminal.
We have lost shoes, rubber-handle paring knives (I know!), even the cushion of our Ethan Allen leather sofa to his insatiable appetite for destruction.
But the delinquency reached a fever pitch in December, 2005. Or as we now refer to it: Red Christmas.
This was the Christmas I was finally going to get it together and act like a grown up. I would decorate with tasteful wreaths and festive reindeer cocoa mugs. I would put up the tree before Christmas Eve and take it down before the Super Bowl. By God, I would make gingerbread cookies for our neighbors and decorate them (the cookies, not the neighbors) with artistic flair that would rival Sylvia Weinstock! This was the year that I, Beth Kendrick, would actually use the oven that sits idle in our kitchen.
Well, the tree and the tasteful wreath parts didn’t work out exactly as planned, but I got the gingerbread made. And while the cookies were cooling, I placed them carefully out of counter-surfing range (see: hardened criminal, above) and ran over to my friend Kim’s house so she could congratulate me on my mad crazy Bree VandeKamp skills.
When I returned home from Kim’s, her 100% sincere “ooh”s and “ahh”s still ringing in my ears, Mr. Tall was just returning from work and I flagged him down to boast:
“Check it, yo. I dominated the convection oven today. I should totally open up my own bakery.”
But his 100% sincere “ooh”s and “ahh”s ceased as soon as we opened the side door. There was blood all over the white tile floor. And big pawprints tracked through it.
“They finally did it,” Mr. Tall said grimly. “They must have seen that gray cat [editor’s note: this would be the neighbor’s gray cat who likes to sit atop our six-foot block fence and twitch his tail and laugh evilly, just out of reach of the frenzied dogs] and run right through the sliding glass door.”
As visions of jagged glass shards flashed through my head, I pounced on the three dogs and examined them for injuries. “Which one?” I cried. “I don’t see any cuts!”
“Well, check again,” he commanded, rounding the corner to check the patio door. “Somebody’s hemorrhaging blood.”
Then I saw it: red gushing out between the pads of Friday’s paws. We are talking an incredible amount of gore here. Mortal Kombat in our family room.
“It’s Friday!” I shrieked, my heart palpitating wildly. “He’s covered in blood. You find a blanket for the back if the car and I’ll grab the map to the emergency vet!” (Yes, we have a map to the emergency vet printed up and taped to the fridge at all times. Multiple-pet owners, can I get a witness?)
We were halfway to the garage before we saw it: yellow pawprints in the kitchen mingled with the red. And blue pawprints. And green.
“Food coloring.” Mr. Tall pointed out the shredded carton that had once contained 4 vials of dye for the gingerbread icing. “They got into the food coloring. False alarm. Everything’s okay.”
This was not the first time my definition of “okay” differed wildly from Mr. Tall’s. I said some things that were neither a) Christmasy nor b) appropriate for reprinting on a family-friendly website. Then I herded the dogs outside and turned the hose on them (relax, we live in Arizona—it was like 65 degrees) while my husband mopped up the forensic evidence.
For Christmas, Santa bought Friday a big, metal crate where he can “den” whenever he is left unsupervised.
At least we saved ourselves considerable time and money in the emergency vet care department. Which is good, because although the tile floors in the family room were easily mopped up, the same cannot be said for the Oriental rug.
But on the bright side, Sylvia Weinstock reigns unchallenged. For now. The rematch is scheduled for Christmas 2006—stay tuned.
This blog was brought to you by Monkey Love, Brenda Scott Royce’s hilarious debut novel about love, odd jobs and odder pets.
Posted by Beth at 10:37 PM | Comments (7)
Comments
OMG! But thank goodness it wasn't real blood.
Reminds me of a friend's dog - my friend left a cake cooling in her kitchen and her dog - thinking she wouldn't notice that the cake was a) smaller and b) had toothmarks - carefully nibbled his way around the entire 360 degrees of the cake.
Posted by: Michelle C at February 7, 2006 7:39 AM
Bad dog! BAD!
The sofa cushion would have done it for me. Every time we get a new dog, I sit down and have a chat with the canine -- think Tom Hanks in the brilliant and underrated "Turner and Hooch" -- about what is and is not off limits in the house. My shoes and the furniture definitely fall into the OFF LIMITS category.
Although now I'm wondering if we have the same couch. Especially since I'm stalking you and all. Does yours have three rounded curves on the back?
Posted by: Whitney ![[TypeKey Profile Page]](http://www.literarychicks.com/nav-commenters.gif)
at February 7, 2006 8:38 AM
LOL!! Crates are a GOOD THING. Especially if you begin using them at the puppy stage; then they become the cozy, comforting den (and my leather couches don't become scratching posts).
Alesia
Posted by: Alesia Holliday at February 7, 2006 9:33 AM
I've been drooling over this dog crate . . . I especially like the martini on top.
Posted by: Whitney at February 7, 2006 10:11 AM
Whitney--
The sofa was actually a hand-me-down from my parents, so the loss didn't hurt as much as if I had actually picked it out of the showroom myself.
We have my next check earmarked for a new couch. I hear microfiber is the way to go with pets.
And I love the fabulous mod crate/cocktail table, but Friday is a 70-pound oaf. No way would he fit in there. He'd need the wet bar version...
Posted by: Beth at February 7, 2006 11:50 AM
I think I'd stick to leather. I have two microfiber chairs that I had stain-treated, and they are easy to clean . . . but dog hair sticks to them. I'm constantly chasing Lulu off of them.
Posted by: Whitney at February 7, 2006 12:46 PM
Stories--oh, do I have stories about all of MY foster dogs!! You don't even want to GO there! LOL! MY puppy managed to barrel around the back yard so fast that she apparently ran into the ONLY terra cotta pot left and busted it into a thousand pieces the other night! (sigh) The miniature rose in the pot has survived several puppies/dogs who have decided that they are part pruning shears, but none of them has ever managed to break the pot itself until Lucy.... (sigh) the only good thing abuot a cement back yard is that the dogs can't dig it up! :~D I wish I could crate Lucy--she cried so loudly the one time I did it that the neighbors called Animal Control on us! Never again....
Posted by: Sheri at February 7, 2006 6:13 PM
