Tag Archives: dogs

Gun Shy

 

A million years ago, when I was 28 for the first time, I wrote this short story for a creative writing class I was taking. 

“You just can’t find Hops gun oil anymore,” Frank Theterson mumbled to himself while he sat on a lawn chair in his backyard cleaning his handgun. This was the latest in Frank’s collection, a gift from his son, and his current favorite. It was a Smith and Wesson 686, a Combat Masterpiece. Frank had wanted to buy it for himself at the gun show he and his son had recently attended, but he had talked his father out of it. Now Frank knew why.

Frank carefully removed the lower receiver and placed it on a cloth on the grass next to the upper receiver. He oiled the chamber with the generic gun oil he had picked up from Wal-Mart after finishing his security guard shift at Weston Lakes Community the night before. Frank had started working for Wackenhut security a couple of months ago. He was on the third shift, eleven at night until seven in the morning. Frank volunteered for the shift because all of the other guys were married and had families to go home to. Frank lived alone. The long nights didn’t bother him. It gave him an excuse to drink more coffee and stare at the stars.

Frank rubbed the small amount of corrosion off of the chamber. The gun was in pretty good condition; it wasn’t new but it had been taken care of by its previous owner. As Frank rubbed oil on his bun, he reached down into a brown bag of peanuts, with his non-oily left hand, and threw one at the squirrels who lived in his yard. The four squirrels ran over to the peanut, but the smaller one grabbed it and ran with it in his mouth before any of the others could get there. Frank threw three more peanuts over to the hungry animals. He enjoyed having the squirrel family inhabit his tree. He would sometimes just sit in the yard and watch them chase each other or hide the nuts that Frank gave them. They were like pets to him. If he could have told them apart he would have named them all. He called the small one Sumo. The other three were the same size and color; so, Frank just called them the dancers.

Since his wife died two years ago, Frank had been pretty lonely and had become more comfortable outside with the squirrels than inside the house with Helena’s clothes, knick-knacks and the furniture that they had picked out together. They had only been married five years when Frank found her on the floor in the hallway one morning. A heart attack. She was only 54 years-old. Frank always thought he would go first. He was six years older and overweight. Frank never watched what he ate; he enjoyed his baby-back ribs and steak. Helena was the opposite – always exercising and dieting. She started taking herbal diet pills too, Ephedra or something like that. The doctor said the pills probably caused the heart attack. All of Frank’s friends told him that he should sue, but going to court and talking about Helena every day was more than he could stand right now.

Frank raised the gun and aimed at the house to check the sites. The chamber was empty, so he pulled the trigger. His son had just given him the gun the day before and Chuck knew enough about guns to unload a gun before giving it to somebody. Click. If the gun had been loaded Frank would have just blown away the Tinkerbelle wind chime that Helena had bought in Disney World six months before she died. If he had known he was going to lose her, he would have spent the extra money and gotten a room at the Polynesian Resort instead of the Holiday Inn. Helena had always wanted to stay at the Polynesian and go to a luau with Mickey and Minnie; but, Frank just couldn’t see spending over two hundred bucks a night on a place you just slept in. He wished he could go back and let her have the luau.

Frank held the reassembled gun between his knees, by the handle, and polished the barrel with a felt cloth. He rubbed around the trigger, removing his oily fingerprints from when he had been checking the site.   The gun was now aimed towards his neighbor’s back yard. There was some oil built up on the trigger, so Frank folded the cloth so it was smaller and scrubbed the trigger. Click. He had pulled the trigger by accident while he was cleaning it. He would have taken out a rose bush that time. Nancy Johnson would have been angry. She loved those roses almost as much as she loved Tom, her husband, or Sergeant, the couple’s German shepherd or her children.

The trigger still felt gritty to Frank, so he grabbed a clean cloth and folded it in quarters. He rubbed it against the trigger as hard as he could. Bang! The gun went off! Shit! Frank had thought for sure it was empty. The gun had kicked back, burning Frank’s inner thighs. “Son of a bitch!” Frank yelled, hearing himself as if he were in a tunnel. His ears felt clogged from the noise of the gun going off. He started thinking about how stupid his son had been not to unload the gun and how stupid Frank himself had been not to check the gun. Damn! Thank God it was a weekday. Frank could have shot one of the kids. He felt very relieved.

Frank got up from his lawn chair and brushed off his jeans and grabbed the handkerchief out of his back pocket to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Good thing he hadn’t changed into shorts before going outside, like he usually does; his thighs would have been really burnt then. Frank shook his legs so that his jeans pulled away from his thighs a little. Damn! That hurt, he thought. Frank walked over to the fence separating his yard from the Johnson’s. He wanted to make sure he hadn’t hit a rose of something. The Johnsons weren’t home; like most of Frank’s neighbors, they both worked during the day. Frank also wanted to get the shell. Even though it was empty, he didn’t want the kids to find it. The Johnson kids were still little. Todd was 5 and Mary was 3. Frank didn’t want them to put the shell in their ears or mouth.

Frank looked through the large holes in the chain length fence and looked into the rose bush. “Sergeant!” Frank yelled. The dog was lying under the rose bush. He wasn’t moving. “Sergeant! Get up boy!” Frank yelled. He thought, maybe he was just sleeping and too tired to get up. Then, Frank heard a slight whimper and saw the blood on Sergeant’s neck.

Frank hopped the fence into the Johnson’s back yard. He kneeled next to the rose bush and lifted Sergeant. The dog yelped and tried to nip at Frank’s forearm as he moved him, but the dog was too weak to sink his teeth into Frank. Frank needed to get Sergeant to a vet immediately.

Frank backed his Explorer into the Johnson’s driveway and got out of the SUV quickly. He ran back to the yard and picked up Sergeant. The dog felt like he weighed as much as Helena, about 90 pounds. Frank put Sergeant into the cargo bay on a blanket. He wrapped the blanket around him to keep him comfortable. It was still early in the day, so the SUV was not hot yet, but it was kind of warm outside, even for South Florida. Frank hopped back in the front of the Explorer and looked at Sergeant in the rear-view mirror. “You’re gonna be ok, boy. We’ll get you to a doctor,” Frank told Sergeant as he pulled slowly and gently out of the Johnson’s driveway. Frank drove slowly down the street to prevent Sergeant from moving around much.

They arrived at the vet within a few minutes. It was the same vet that Frank used to take his cats to. He wasn’t sure if the Johnsons brought Sergeant here or not; Frank decided to alter his story a little, just in case. He was so afraid to tell his neighbors that he was responsible for this. They would hate him. The Johnsons didn’t believe that civilians should be able to own guns. Frank and Tom had had many debates over the fence in the evenings. Now this.

Someone was coming out with a Dalmatian on a leash when Frank was carrying Sergeant up to the door. The man held the door and Frank stepped in through the open door and went up to the counter. “This dog has been shot. I found him on the side of the road near my house. He needs help now,” Frank told the woman at the counter. The woman yelled to someone in the office behind her, and this woman ran around and opened a door into an examination room, where a vet was waiting. “Put him down here!” the doctor said, pointing to a gurney. Frank put Sergeant down and patted him on the head.

“You’ll be ok, boy,” he said, and then the doctor wheeled Sergeant away. Tears came to Frank’s eyes, and he sat down on a plastic chair in the exam room and started to cry. He could not believe that he had been stupid enough not to check if the gun was loaded or not. Damn it! What would he tell his neighbors? He couldn’t tell them that he had done this, that he had pointed a gun at their yard and fired it. He just couldn’t do it.

Frank looked down at the blood on his shirt. He still had on his Wackenhut shirt. It seemed like a lot of blood. He hoped they could give Sergeant a transfusion or something. He would donate blood to the dog if it would work. Damn it! How could he have done this? He would do anything for a time traveling Delorean right now. What was he thinking? Playing with guns after working all night — that was smart.

Frank buried his face in his hands and started whispering. “Hey, God. It’s me, Frank. I know you haven’t heard from me since Helena was sick, and I know I’m not a regular church goer and stuff, but you gotta help me out here. Well, just — you gotta help Sergeant. Nancy and Tom love that dog so much, and he’s so good with the kids. Please keep him alive, God. I swear I’ll never touch another gun as long as I live, if you just keep Sergeant alive.”

“Sir?” A woman’s voice interrupted Frank’s prayer. “Sorry to interrupt. I just need you to fill out this information sheet for the dog. Bring it to the front counter when you’re done.” The woman handed Frank a clipboard with a white paper and a pen on a chain attached. She walked out of the room, her shoes squeaking with every step.

Frank got up from his chair and grabbed a couple of tissues from the Kleenex box on the counter behind the examining table. He blew his nose a couple of times and then grabbed another tissue, shoving the used one in his pants pocket. Frank wiped his eyes and looked down at the paper and the blue stick pen that was attached to the clipboard. The alcohol and wet dog smell was getting to him. He looked down at the blood on his shirt, and the combination of the blood and the smell made him gag. He dry heaved into the red biohazard waste can next to the counter.

Frank sat back down and wiped his face with another tissue. There was cold sweat all over his face, in his hair and on his arms. He felt chilled, like he was sick. Frank picked up the clipboard and filled out the form quickly so he could go home. He put his name address and phone number. He wanted to have the chance to talk to Nancy and Tom about the accident before they talk to anyone from the vet’s office.

Frank got up from the plastic chair, holding the clipboard with the pen dangling from it. He could feel the air from the ceiling vent blowing on the back of his sweaty shirt and through his moist hair. He still felt shaky and queasy, but he knew he had to check on Sergeant’s progress and he had to get home to tell Nancy and Tom where their dog was.

After hearing that Sergeant was out of surgery and would probably make a full recovery, Frank headed home. As soon as he got into the house, Frank unbuttoned his bloody Wackenhut work shirt, took it off and threw it in the kitchen trash. He put his blood stained undershirt in the garbage too. Next, he grabbed two large black trash bags and went into the guest room. He opened the closet door and grabbed his five handguns, making sure each was unloaded before tossing them all into the trash bag. He tied the bag and put it next to the door. Frank then opened the other trash bag and grabbed his pile of Gun and Ammo and threw them into the bag, too. He grabbed all of his Wackenhut shirts from the closet and threw them in the bag. He even grabbed the one shirt he had in the hamper and tossed that in as well. Frank took off his blue, stained work pants and threw them in, along with the pants from the closet and hamper. Then, he tied the handle ties and placed the bag next to the door, with the other bag. He stopped to look at his wedding picture. Then he grabbed both bags and carried them out of the room to place them in the garage. He put the bag of guns next to the garage door and put the other bag in the trash bin. If Helena were still here he never would have taken a night job or gotten so interested in guns. He would have been working during the day or traveling with her. They had loved to travel.

After throwing the trash bags away, Frank took a shower. He stepped into the shower and turned the water on as hot as he could stand it. Steam filled the bathroom within minutes. Frank grabbed the bar of Irish Spring and lathered his whole body, including his hair, with the green soap. He stood under the hot water until his pale skin was red. He let the water beat his scalp, listening to the pulsating sound with his eyes closed.

When he got out of the shower it was 2:30. Nancy, a school librarian, should be home soon. Tom, a bus driver, got home shortly after her. Frank Figure 3:30 would be a good time to go over and let them know what happened. Frank got dressed and called the veterinarian’s office to check on Sergeant.

After keeping Frank on hold for a few minutes, the receptionist told him that Sergeant was awake and doing well. The bullet did not hit his jugular vein and just went through some fatty tissue and muscle. Sergeant would be sore for a while but he would be ok. Frank was lucky. It could have been so much worse. He had to get rid of those guns. He had heard that the police station would accept them, so he carried the bag out to his truck and put it in the cab. Frank locked the truck door and was about to walk back inside the house when Nancy pulled in to the driveways with Tom right behind her.

Frank walked over to their driveway, being careful not to step on a row of new gardenia plants Nancy had just planted the week before. He folded his arms in front of himself as he approached Nancy’s car, and looked down at his black sneakers.

Nancy got out of her white Ford Focus with her purse and lunch bag in her hand, and walked to the back door to get the kids out. They were in the back seat, smiling at Frank. “Hey, Frank! You’re up early. What’s the occasion?” Nancy always kidded Frank about his odd schedule.

Frank looked up from his shoes to Nancy’s smiling face. “Nancy, I’m afraid there’s been an accident. Sergeant..”

Nancy dropped her bags on the hood of her car and said, “What happened to Sergeant? Oh my God! Is he ok? SERGEANT!!!”

“What’s going on?” Tom said, standing next to Nancy.

“Sergeant’s at the vet’s office. He was shot but now he’s—“

“Shot!! What! Where’s our dog?” Tom demanded.

“Up the street at Coral Springs Animal Hospital. He’s going to be ok.”

Nancy and Tom were in Nancy’s car before Frank finished his last sentence. Frank stood in the driveway for a few minutes and thought about how his oversight had caused so much pain and stress. He walked around the gardenia plants to his own driveway and walked into his house. He sat down on the couch, picked up the phone and called Wackenhut to let them know that he would not be in that night, or ever. Maybe he’d get a job at the grocery store.

Cats Seeking Dog’s Death

Hello Humans and Felines Out There,

Andre here. I need your help in making my New Year’s Resolution a reality. As you know from reading the pet resolutions, I would like to see Sophie’s demise in 2015. I have never liked the dog because in addition to having the intelligence of snail dung, she is loud, smelly, and stupid.

By loud, I mean she interrupts naps with her incessant barking at absolutely nothing. I think the poor dear hallucinates. We have a church and a graveyard behind our home, and sometimes humans walk, either alone or with other stupid dogs, through the graveyard. I find this rather morbid, but whatever. As long as they don’t bring the canines in my home I have no quarrels with them.

Great Dane Lab
The stupid creature eats snow! Snow is not food.

Sophie, the creature’s given name is smelly because she eats her own excrement. Mother is even annoyed by it. What kind of cretin does this? Mother supplies us with two meals and two snacks daily. How much more does she need? It gives her horrible breath and she refuses to lick the mouthwash bottle like I do.

She also eats other non-food items, like the baseboards, chair legs, and cat toys. I’m not a toy playing kind of cat, but my sister Boo is, which is helpful

My sister Boo's "medicine." ©DankDepot
My sister Boo’s “medicine.”
©DankDepot

I have enlisted my sister’s help with the demise of this dog. Boo loves a good catnip mouse. She truly is a stoner, as you humans say. So, I have her toss cat pot mice downstairs for big and stupid. The big, ignorant dog falls right into my trap. She EATS them. Does the creature have no sense? The first time she ate an entire mouse, which had enough pot in it to last Boo for at least 6 months, I thought she would perish. I watched. I hoped. I followed her around with a gleam in my eye to witness her suffering.

And sadly, nothing happened. Sophie galloped around the living room like a horse with a lobotomy, and tossed the mouse around. She tried to engage Lola, small and yippy, in this asinine game. Lola declined, as for a dog she is not that stupid. She IS rather yippy, but I will put up with that as she is the only one who has seniority over me in this home.

Thus far, the horse dog has survived.  But don’t you fret, dear reader; I will keep trying to end this creature. You have my word as a feline and a gentleman.

 

Note from Picabo (Boo Boo): My name is not Boo; It’s Picabo. And, I use mice medicinally. I’m not a stoner. That is so insulting. Also, Let’s get this straight right now; I did not throw the mouse down to Sophie to kill her. I was merely taking a break from my catnip and I wanted her to hold it for me for a while. I am not homicidal like my brother, though I would not miss the huge creature if she left us.

Note from Sophie: Hey you guys, Mean Kitty wrote this but I can’t quite read all of it because he uses fancy words. He likes to pretend he is from that other place with the kings and queens and the guys who wear food cans as clothes and ride horses. Can you tell me what he said in the comment section?

The heinous creature disturbs my naps.  She shall perish for this!
The huge,  heinous creature disturbs my naps. She shall perish for this!

Dog Murdering Hawthorn Tree

 

Hi Light Square People,

Sophie here. I’ve been embarrassed to talk about this, but since Mean Kitty already told you about the time I almost died, I figured I should probably tell you my side. As usual, Mean Kitty makes it sound like I’m just super stupid and decided to eat a poisonous tree. Um, no. That’s not how it happened.

Well, if you’ve read some of my other blogs, you know I like to chew stuff because it makes my teeth happy. Plus, it’s just something to do, you know? I’m home all day with boring Mama, cats, and an older dog that looks like a puppy (this still confuses me). Anyway, mama never plays with me because she is always staring at her light square, and kitties don’t really like to play. They just sleep, eat, and make motor or snake noises. They are super weird. Lola, my little dog older sister, plays with me, but she gets tired because she is like 70 in people time. So, a lot of times, I just sit and chew on something. I really like to chew on wood. I’ve chewed on a lot of wooden things in the house. Mama even got me a toy that was made of some kind of fake wood that I was allowed to chew on. I guess she didn’t like it when I left teeth marks on the dining room chairs.

I tried to eat the wall once.
I tried to eat the wall once.

I don’t just chew inside wood. Sometimes, I chew outside stuff, too. I have eaten some of the plants in my back yard. It’s OK though because Daddy made sure that he didn’t plant anything poisonous because he is a dog-loving kind of guy, and he knew I would probably chew on stuff. He forgot to check all of the trees though.

So, one day, like last fall, I was outside and I noticed this one tree that was different from the other trees in my yard. Most of the trees in my yard look like Christmas tress, but without the tasty ornaments and little blanket thing. This tree was really different, and it had pretty red berries on it. Red is usually a yummy color. Apples are red and I like them. So, I started nibbling at the tree a bit. Then, I went inside and had a cookie.

A little bit after that, Mama was sitting on the couch listening to people talk on the light square, and I was on the floor snoozing. My stomach started biting me and it woke me up. I went to the back door because I figured I had to poop, but Mama was just staring at the light square and didn’t see me. So, I just pooped all over the floor. Then, I walked a little bit and pooped again. I started to throw up, too. That’s when Mama noticed me. I had foamy stuff coming out of my mouth. She told me to go outside, and she called Daddy. Daddy came out to the back yard and put shorts on me because my butt was leaking. He put me in the car and took me to the doctor. I felt so sick at this point that someone had to carry me in to the doctor’s office.

I was so tired when I got home from the hospital.
I was so tired when I got home from the hospital.

I stayed in the hospital for like a really long time. I had all of these needles in me and bags of water stuff around me. I couldn’t eat food for days. I heard the doctor tell Mama and Daddy that she thought I was gonna cross the rainbow bridge because my tail wasn’t wagging like it usually does. But, the medicine worked and I’m still here.

While I was at the hospital, Mama was trying to figure out why I got so sick. First, she thought someone poisoned me. Then, she thought maybe I ate something outside. Daddy and the doctor told Mama that I just got into something and not to worry about it. Mama always worries though because she is a mama. One day, while she was looking around the back yard, she spotted that tree with the red berries and she just knew. See! She really is a witch.

Daddy took a piece of the tree to the plant store and they told him it was a Hawthorn tree. Hey, people and other dogs reading this, pay attention. Hawthorn trees are really bad for dogs. They are poisonous. Do not eat them, even if wood makes your teeth happy. Your tummy will be SO NOT happy. Plus, you could die. If my little older sister Lola had eaten some of that tree, she would have died because she is smaller than me.

This is the only safe wood to chew.
This is the only safe wood to chew.

So, I didn’t try to kill myself like Mean Kitty was saying. I just thought it was a good, normal tree and I wanted something to chew on. That tree isn’t in my yard anymore. Mama and Daddy had some guys take it out. You should make sure you don’t have one in your yard.

Thanks for reading this. If you like my blogs, leave me a comment. I will answer you.

Love and Sloppy Kisses,

Sophie

Crouching Kitty, Starving Tiger

This is my panic room.  There are shoes but no food.
This is my panic room. There are shoes but no food. I didn’t plan for a real attack.

I asked Trample (Sophie) to carry the light square up to my undisclosed location in the house so I could alert you to my scary situation. She is both the largest and stupidest pet, so she is the only one who could venture down to the common area to do this errand for me. You see, we have been invaded, and I fear for my life. I may even starve to death, as I have not eaten in 72 minutes.

I won’t be able to eat third lunch or first dinner because the food bowl is down the stairs in the small room where the litter boxes and the loud fur washing machines are. I don’t dare leave my hiding place as I suspect I would be killed. There are strangers in my house, and they smell and sound like monsters.

Strange visitors worry me.
Strange visitors worry me.

It all started shortly after my third afternoon nap, right after second lunch. The bell noise rang and my canine sisters sounded the bark alarm. I immediately ran upstairs to Mother’s book room, where my favorite daytime couch is. From there, I could look out the window and what I saw horrified me. There were at least four of those wheeled things that humans use to take poor, unsuspecting creatures to the vet. So, my first thought was that we were all going to the doctor. I hid behind the couch as any sane individual would. Little did I know it was worse than I imagined.

Several strange humans entered my home. I heard noise, a lot of noise, and strange smells. None of the smells were tuna fish or decent cat food. There were stinky drinks and bad human food smells, oh and feet. The humans removed their paw protectors and left their scent everywhere. This is when I made a run for the closet, or as I like to call it the panic room.

Mother and this stranger have turned Mean Ninja and Yippie Dog into flash lights.  This is scary.
Mother and this stranger have turned Mean Ninja and Yippie Dog into flash lights. This is scary.

I have been here ever since. As I have mentioned, my access to nourishment has been blocked. You know a manly cat of my frame needs a constant intake of calories. I may starve, or at least drop a few ounces. Please send help when you read this. The vet may be able to revive me with proper nourishment and fluids. Until then, I will stay here amongst Mother’s shoes.

 

No Labor Day for Dog Guards

Maltese
No holiday sweater needed for Labor Day.

I noticed something odd today. Mother, father, and the boy slept until after the sun was bright. I found this unusual because this is the third day in a row that this has happened, and the decorated tree is not in the living room. By my toe calculations, the family gets up before the sun and is in a hurry to leave the house without me and the other furry creatures for five days. Then, there are two days where there is a lot of noise in the yard and the humans nap on couches while humans chase balls around on the large light square.

I happened to hear Mother tell the boy that it was “Labor Day,” which meant he didn’t have to go to school and they didn’t have to go to work. From the sounds of it, humans get a day off on Labor Day unless they do any work involving food because Mother talked about getting some Chinese food. So, they must be working at the Chinese restaurant. Chinese food frightens me because of something I read on Facebook. I won’t go into details here.

I don’t cook food, but I also can’t take the day off since I must protect the family. If you have read my blog you know that I am a canine secret agent. So, I must continue my duties, as the family will no doubt do more foolish things since they will have their guard down. Father has even been known to set fire to a metal square outside and place perfectly good meat on it. This is highly dangerous and I bark at him when he does it. The man could burn his paws off.

Since Sophie is outside with Father a lot, and since she has been given the gift of size to make up for her lack of intelligence, I will continue to train her as my backup guard. I’ve been working with her since she was a puppy. Here is a training film from one of our first sessions.

As you can see, my work will never end. Thanks to Mother for narrating the film for me. She got my thoughts exactly correct. You will all be happy to know that Sophie does at least use the restroom in the correct place now.   She is still far from being a proper dog. Where did they find her?

Well, I’m off to lick the kitchen floor in hopes of finding a morsel of dropped potato salad, or maybe even a forgotten chunk of hot dog. As usual, I have received nothing but my standard issue dog food.   Some holiday!

Mean Kitty Murderer — By Sophie

Hey people living in the light square, I need someone to call the cops or something. My mean brother is at it again. He is trying to kill me. I know this because I have been really sick with throw up stuff, and my poop’s been all mushy. I haven’t even tried to eat it in the yard, and that’s one of my favorite treats. My tummy kind of hurts, and I’ve been super tired. I just want to nap in the sunny spots like all day. I think the cat put poison in my water. That’s the only explanation I can come up with.

My sister Lola saw the kitty over by my water even though he has some fancy water fountain that he likes to drink from. She took some pictures so we would have proof for mama. Mama just thought they were cute because she loves Andre like more than anything except for daddy, the boy, and that stinky red drink in the fancy bowl.

See! He is spitting poison into my water.
See! He is spitting poison into my water.
He looks guilty here.
He looks guilty here.

Not only do we have pictures as evidence, but the Mean Kitty also confessed that he wants to kill me in this blog. It’s like practically a real signed confession, only he didn’t put his paw print on it and he probably won’t. I will ask Orange Kitty to put his paw print on it and say that it was Mean Kitty. Mean Kitty is mean to him, too, so I know he will help me.

I wanna get Mean Kitty in trouble because I’m scared he will really kill me and also cause this sickness has been terrible. I’ve been really hungry from the throwing up and Mama wouldn’t let me eat my throw up, even though my belly was so empty. She said it was gross and she made me go outside while she cleaned it up and put chemical stuff on the floor. I don’t see what the big deal is. Cows eat their throw up all the time. They don’t let it come all the way out, but they bring it back up into their mouths and eat it again. Food is tasty and throw up is just warmer food that is easier to chew. Plus, then Mama wouldn’t have needed to clean it up.

Daddy was all worried about me and he took me to the doctor. This was no fun at all even though I love my doctor and all of her helper ladies. First, it was OK cause they were just petting me and looking at my mouth and stuff. But, I didn’t like it when they put some kind of stick in my butt to tell if I was too hot.  They could’ve just asked me.  I would’ve told them that I’m not hot. I just feel like throwing up. That’s it. It’s just a simple throw up sickness because the cat poisoned me.

I’m starting to feel better now. Mama and Daddy took super good care of me and made me special food with chicken, pumpkin, and rice in it. I love food, so I was really happy about that. I still don’t want to get sick again, even if it does mean that I get special food.

So, light square people, please send help to my house. I don’t want this Mean Kitty to kill me for real next time. As you can see, he is vicious.

Halloween Kitty
This is how he welcomed me to my new home.

Hey, readers, Sophie here again. If you want to help stop other animal murders, you can ask other humans to sign this.

 

Undercover Maltese

I have witnessed my sisters and brothers use Mother’s light square to talk to you all. In my position, I’m no stranger to technology, but I’ve been trying to avoid telling my story because it will blow my cover. You see, I’m not a dog in the regular canine sense. I’m a Designed Operational Guard, or DOG for short.

Here I am, undercover as a stupid dog in a dress.
Here I am, undercover as a stupid dog in a dress.

You may not realize this, dear humans, but you all go about your lives watching your noisy story windows and eating Cheetos (I do love when Mother shares Cheetos) without noticing the dangers that surround you. I follow my mother more than the other humans, as she appears to be the queen bitch. I mean this in the regular canine sense, not in your silly human way. Every time mother moves, I fall in behind her to vocally alert her to such dangers as:

  • Invisible evil spirits that make the trees move.
  • Other humans approaching our territory.
  • Small humans near the property balanced on numerous things with wheels.
  • Suspicious canines shouting propaganda in the grassy areas near our home.
  • Feathered drones, armed with white poison, landing in the trees to spy on us.
  • The uniformed agent who places unknown items in a box near the property.
My true identity
My true identity

Whenever I alert Mother to these dangers, she uses her angry human voice and says something that sounds like, “Shut your pie hole.” I’m not entirely sure what that means as I have never eaten nor defecated pie. The woman is not easy to guard due to her harsh temperament and the fact that she is constantly moving from room to room and saying things like “vacuum” or “pig sty.” I have trouble keeping up in my standard issue short legs. If only headquarters had thought to give me longer legs with optional wheels. I will continue to alert mother, even though she does not appreciate it. It is my duty and the woman clearly needs my help as she does many dangerous things, like:

  • She leaves the home without a leash or the protection of a crate.
  • She opens the front protective barrier when strange humans make ringing noises.
  • She sheds her fur and bathes ON PURPOSE.
  • She refuses to eat feces for the extra vitamins.

Aside from protecting mother, I have other duties.  Here they are:

I guard my older sister Boo Boo.
I guard my older sister Boo Boo.
I am a professional slipper warmer.
I am a professional slipper warmer.
I take harmful food away from the cats, for their protection.
I take harmful food away from the cats.
I protect father from Mother's image gathering machine.
I protect father from the image gathering machine.

Clearly, I have my work cut out for me.  I’ve been on the job 10 years, and I will continue to serve and protect. You probably doubt my might based on my size, but I will have you know that I am the tug-of-war champion in this house, even when I oppose Sophie, a moose-like traditional canine. She is not a trained guard like me, but I use her as backup. I leave you with this video evidence of my might.

 

 

I know my mama loves me. By Sophie the dog

My mama wrote this letter to me and said I wasn’t her dog, but that’s a lie. I know I’m her dog because she feeds me. You wouldn’t feed someone that you didn’t love because why would you share food with an enemy. Food is very important and it makes your belly feel nice and full. You wouldn’t just give it away. That makes no sense.

Also, when no one is here, mama says nice things to me. I don’t speak people, so I don’t know really what she is saying, but she says it in her mama love voice. You know, the soft one she uses when one of us, even the boy, is sick or scared of thunder. You don’t speak love to someone you hate.

Dog with big sock monkey
Mama bought me this for Christmas. She loves me.

She also hugs me when she wipes off my feet and whole body after I’ve been outside in the rain. You wouldn’t hug someone you don’t even like unless they were giving you food or something. I never give mama food. She eats stinkier stuff and drinks harsh water. I don’t know why the woman just can’t eat Blue Buffalo like the rest of us.

This is the main reason I know mama loves me. When I got attacked at the really crappy day care I used to go to, mama made sure that my ouchy was taken care of by a good doctor. She even comforted me when I was kind of scared at the doctor’s office. She took really good care of me when we got home, too.

Mama put a shirt over my ouchy and gave me a hug.
Mama put a shirt over my ouchy and gave me a hug.

Mama is just one of those people who tries to be all tough, kind of like a Doberman, and she thinks being mean is funny. Mean is not funny; it’s just mean. Mama hasn’t learned that yet. I will be patient with her and keep going in my crate when she makes her growly noises and her mean face. The woman will grow out of it at some point. Until then, as long as she keeps giving me Kongs, and food, and cookies, and toys, I’m good. The hugs are OK, too. She won’t let me kiss her, though.

Dog kisses
Mom won’t let me kiss her, but I know she loves me.

Poop and the Work at Home Office

My friend Michelle over at Rubber Shoes in Hell wrote a blog about her co-workers.   Unlike me, Michelle actually puts on acceptable clothes (this probably includes a real bra, not a cami) and shoes that are not made of fluff and foam, and gets in her car to go to a building that is not her home all before the coffee fully begins to work. I’m shaking my head at the horror of this scenario. My guess is she probably doesn’t watch the Today Show while she goes through her email. The horror!!

So, since I LOVED Michelle’s co-worker blog, I decided to share my own wonderful co-workers with you. Most of the beings who share my office are not human, but it is easy to imagine how they would be as “real” co-workers. Feel free to leave a comment about your co-workers, human or otherwise.

Maltese

Lola – Maltese and Security Guard — Lola is short, pasty, and weighs in at 8 pounds. In her mind, she could beat Mike Tyson. She is the first to go nuts when anyone is at the door. She barks at people who walk down the street and trees that sway in the wind. When she is not protecting this house and everyone in it, she humps Andre. Even though she has her own restroom (a potty pad), Lola frequently poops on the floor. Lola would be that person who is always yelling over her cubicle at her co-workers rather than just emailing them as nature intended.

Andre Andre – Super Model and Wannabe Murderer — Andre is one of those guys who is more beautiful than some ladies, and he HATES that. Andre is fond of tuna water and most people. He hates the vet and Sophie with a white-hot passion. He tolerates Lola’s humping, snuggles with Boo Boo, and frequently starts fights with Morris. If Andre were a human, he would be in prison for attempting to murder an annoying co-worker

 

seductive cat Boo Boo — Prefers Picabo and Boar’s Head – Boo is a lady, unless she wants cheese. She will only eat Boar’s Head white American cheese. Boo does not like strangers or being chased by Sophie. She has also been known to pee, poop, or puke on herself in a carrier. Boo is an easy puker and frequently pukes into the shared dry food bowl. Her brothers are horrified. If Boo were a human co-worker, she would be that sort of snotty thin girl who barfs after lunch.

 

Morris Morris – Professional Drooler – Morris begs for food and attention (mostly for food). For real. He gets on his hind feet and rubs his front paws together while meowing. He also drools on people when they hold him. He gets along with everyone, but beats the crap out of Andre when he starts a fight. If he were a real office worker, he would be that guy who is at his desk all day but no one knows what he does exactly.

 

Sophie Sophie – Friendly Poop Eater – Sophie is 81 pounds of poop-scented love. She enjoys tearing the stuffing out of toys, digging in the yard, and barking at her own little imaginary world of demons. If Sophie were a person, she would be someone who just quit smoking, as she has to have something in her mouth 96% of the day. She tried to bring a frozen turd in from the back yard once. If she were a real office worker, she would be the person that steals your lunch from the fridge. She would also be the person with the really bad breath.

Wedding Husband – PT Office Manager – My husband leaves the home to work. So, he is only PT in this office. However, he is industrious enough to be in a management position as a PTer. He is the executive in charge of all things icky, sticky, heavy, and disgusting. He cleans up poop and other fun stuff  when he is at the office. He hired Sophie.

 

SergiosingingJessicaReed Son – Rock Star and PT Associate – My son is 17 and he is PT during the school year. He plays with the furry employees and vacuums up their fur. When he is not engaged with the co-workers, he provides musical entertainment for the office when he writes new music or practices with his band. He does not poop on the floor.

Picabo the Cat Speaks the Truth

Dear Readers,

Cat on computer
I wrote this myself.

I have taken over the light square with letters to tell you the truth about this house and everyone in it. I am tired of reading the lies from the crazy people, felines and canines that live here. I’m going to set the record straight right now, and tell you the truth.

First of all, the most glaring lie is my name. My original name in that prison they called an animal shelter was Peek-A-Boo. It’s obviously a ridiculous name given to me by a child. Loud, scary children surrounded me in my previous home. The parents there decided to have all of my claws ripped out on all four feet so that I could not protect myself. MONSTERS! I was so happy to be adopted into a good home with mother and father, and I was glad when father suggested that we change my name to Picabo, after Picabo Street, a strong and fearless athlete. I was all for this change, but mother had other ideas. While my official name at the doctor is Picabo, mother insists on calling me Boo Boo, like I’m some kind of clown or Yogi Bear’s sidekick. That woman gets on my last nerve some times.

That monster family named me Peek-A-Boo because they claimed I was shy. I’m not SHY; I just know that I am too good to be touched by just anyone, especially loud children with sticky paws. It took me a while to get used to the boy in this home—like two years—but once he got taller and quieter, I grew to love him.

Cat after bath
It took me FOREVER to dry off after that bath.

My parents love to tell people that I mess myself in my carrier. I do NOT pee myself whenever I have to go to the vet or take a car trip! That is a lie. Andre framed me. He urinated in my carrier when no one was looking. So, when I was forced into the thing (I never go quietly), I got the urine on my fur. So, father had to give me a bath. I cooperated, as I no doubt needed one. It’s a miserable experience. I don’t see why mother so enjoys it, especially with those stinky bubbles.

I have never wished my youngest sister dead. While it’s true that I don’t like the big, black dog, I’m not supportive of my brother Andre’s plans to murder her. Sophie is the creature’s name, but I think that is too lovely a name for such a loud and scary creature. So, I call her “Thing.” (Please note I have no photos of the beast.)  I would never cause harm to her myself, but if she did disappear I certainly wouldn’t shed a tear and I would not cooperate in any investigation of my brother.

Mother deprives me of the proper nourishment. She insists that I can live on wet and dry cat food, without any cheese. She knows full well that I prefer Boar’s Head White American, and no other kind, but she NEVER buys it because she claims it has caused her to become heavier in the haunches. The stupid woman has offered me Swiss, cheddar, and mozzarella. She even attempted to give me Kroger cheese. I refuse all of them. Why can’t she just buy my damn cheese?

And I am not a pothead!! What is wrong with rolling around with a catnip filled bunny from time to time? I see mother and father drinking the stinky drinks in the tiny water bowls and I don’t say a thing. But I take a whiff or two of herb, and suddenly I want cheese because I have the munchies. No! I want cheese because it’s good, but only Boar’s Head White American. For the love of sunny spots and tuna fish, can we not keep it in stock?

Excuse me. Perhaps, I have gotten a bit rude. I must calm myself down and act like the lady that I am. Readers, if you care about the welfare of the animals in this house at all, or just me, please send a block of Boar’s Head American cheese and a Sophie-sized shock collar. Also, if you can spare a bag of catnip, I would be forever in your debt.

Respectfully,

Picabo

P.S. Please review these photos and send me a block of cheese.

cat and teen boy
I grew to be quite fond of the boy.
Cats
I get along with Andre, even if he is homicidal. That’s father and Morris behind us.
cat with jammies
I love father, but not all of his “fashion” choices.
seductive cat
I modeled for Playcat magazine in my youth.
cat in bed
I enjoy a cozy bed like anyone else.