Took the family to the Vets yesterday.
Not that it wouldn’t be entirely out of place for our little band of 5 to require those particular medical services, but no, this trip was in honour of the newest addition to the ranks- Chester the dog.
Mostly of unknown origin (he was an RSPCA rescue pet) we think he is of Shih Tzu descent (with the regular Heinz variety thrown in for good measure), about 2 years old (maybe more, judging by his lack of teeth, but that could be from the ‘affections’ of the *previous owner). He is also the sookiest little furball I’ve ever encountered (again, remnants of the above*). And he is, we have discovered, allergic to fleas.
Given our geographical location, and the early onset of summer, you have no idea what joy that brings (it’s the gift that keeps on giving).
With temperatures soaring into the 40s I decided the furry little monster needed another haircut, so took to him with a pair of scissors last weekend (leaving enough fluffy stuff lying around for Dr Frankenstein to create an entirely new creature, should the desire strike him). This is how I discovered his whole-body aversion to fleas. Even just one of the little suckers will do it.
Being a good (if not reluctant) pet owner, I booked him in for a total health check up, and annual vaccination. Not wanting to miss out on the fun, the children insisted on tagging along. This is how our entire family came to be perched on two plastic chairs in the Vet’s waiting room, trying to break up the stare-offs and sniffing contests that ensued with other pending patients. Not to mention apologizing for the piddle puddles (boys will be boys, even if they don’t have all the ‘toys’, if you know what I’m saying).
Two hours and $186.02 later (good lord, I don’t spend that much money on myself!) it was home-again home-again jiggedy jig with a 3 month supply of flea/tick treatment, a bottle of specially-medicated shampoo, and 3 weeks of antibiotics in the form of 42 not-so-little white pills.
As I am always thinking of others, I thought it fair to share with you. I have previously posted my experiences with washing the dog (see Doggone It) so you can imagine the fun I’ll be having twice a week for the next 4. And so I will cut to the chase and present “Jo’s Guide to Dosing your Dog” (also applies to cats, with an additional warning/step of applying full-body armour to avoid the subsequent scratches).
Consider it my contribution to the pet-owning community … and my mother’s calendar of entertainment.
1. Get tablets
2. Get gloves
3. Get dog
Now, anyone when has ever attempted this knows all too well that numbers 1 & 2 combined can take a lot less time than number 3. Especially if the dog in question has been subjected to the pill popping process before. I have also found from previous personal experience that surprisingly, large dogs are easier to catch and hold than small dogs. Unfortunately, due to a paralysis tick, we have been forced to trade our large dog for a small one. :-(
4. Find a comfortable position (NOTE TO SELF: squatting down on the floor does not meet the criteria: little dogs can generate a great deal of forward momentum, and face planting is no fun for anyone)
5. Get dog
6. Firmly park backside on floor (can’t fall too far from there)
7. Put on gloves (MENTAL NOTE: probably should move this one up a few numbers)
8. Get dog
9. Wrap legs around dog
10. Using gloved hands, tilt dog’s head back and open mouth (the dog’s that is, yours is best screwed up tight, with or without lips between teeth to aid concentration)
11. Holding tablet between two fingertips, gingerly poke into dog’s mouth, in general vicinity of throat
12. Hold dog’s mouth closed
13. Release dog’s jaw
14. Pick up saliva-coated tablet from floor (not as simple as it sounds, I can assure you)
15. Get dog
16. Attempt to repeat numbers 9 to 11, poking pill further down back of throat (trying to avoid gag reflex for both dog and self at same time).
If successful, again move through numbers 12 & 13.
17. Providing there is no remnants of tablet within visible range, carefully release dog and prepare for small furry object ricocheting across the floor
18. Remove gloves, wash hands thoroughly (resist urge to use bleach) and follow with antibacterial rub for good measure
19. Refrain from cursing Veterinarian as you repeat steps 1 through 18 twice daily for the next three weeks.
I tell you, next time the kids ask for a pet, I’m going to recommend a rock.
Jx
©2009
Showing posts with label dogs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dogs. Show all posts
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
To Sleep, Perchance to Dream
I’m an insomniac from way back.
Oh as a kid I was a dream- took myself off to bed before the rest of the family had even finished dinner, on more than one occasion.
But only because I knew I’d be awake in the night long after everyone else had headed for the land of nod, or up before the sun.
It’s a condition that’s plagued me into adulthood, and is especially bad during periods of high stress (which pretty much sums up my life at times).
And there are reasons that sleep deprivation is used as a form of torture. Just ask any parent of a newborn. Or a long-term insomniac.
It’s also a booming industry…just ask your friendly pharmacist.
I’ve tried counting sheep (but must be allergic to wool or something), I’ve tried whole-body relaxation techniques (by the time I reach my head, my feet are wide awake again), I’ve tried every kind of ‘natural’ and medicated sleep aids (most with the unnatural reaction of making me more alert), attempted to master the ‘Mindfulness’ thing (but keep getting distracted by the very thoughts meant to relax me), I’ve also tried reading to make myself nod off. Non-fiction books are best.
My Beloved couldn’t believe it the night he woke to find me sitting up alongside him thoroughly ensconced in the pages of ‘Hamlet’. “No one reads that by choice” says he, “I haven’t picked it up since high school, and even then I’m sure I didn’t finish it!“ I, on the other hand, have now discovered that I had a fairly decent grasp of the plot after all, according to the notes scribbled down the margins of my copy from senior school (see Mrs V, I was paying attention!); I have also found that the Bard is almost unequalled in his ability to lull one into slumber by his scribing.
So I have managed to finish the sad story of the prince of Denmark, along with the tragic tale of the Montagues and Capulets, the nocturnal musings of Midsummer, and even got something out of “Much Ado About Nothing” before I begin to doze.
But even then there’s a big gap between getting to sleep and staying asleep.
On the nights where I do manage to get a solid stretch of shut-eye, odds are it’ll be broken by either a family emergency with one of the children allegedly finding crocodiles in their bed, or dreaming they’ve trotted into the bathroom while are in reality still soundly between the sheets (you know the joy I’m talking about)… or the dog decides it’s his night to play alpha male of the neighbourhood. Like last night.
Yes I was rudely awakened from a most scintillating subconscious state where I was the first (and may I say hilarious) female presenter on 'Top Gear' (What the? Must be all that car research I'm doing!) when the silly little critter joined in the canine chorus of the wee small hours, strutting all along the fence line with his pathetic little bark.
I am ashamed to say that where my previous dog- a rather large Labrador- could shake the surrounding streets with his booming “WOOF!” echoing throughout the night air, this fluffy little mutt we rescued from the RSCPA can’t even manage to startle the possums perched on the porch.
After an hour and a half of “ruff, ruffruffruff, ruffruff, ruff”, I had to go shut him up for his own sake- it was such an embarrassing display, I certainly didn’t want anyone knowing that dog belonged to us (even though it seemed to disturb no one else but me).
But then another hour later, after he had finally slipped into doggy dreams himself, I was still wide awake and prowling the bookcases for something to help switch my mind off again.
“’The History of the English Language’ looks good”, I thought, as I propped up the pillows behind me and settled in to read.
A mere twenty pages into the story of how first the Celts, then the Romans, and then the Normans claimed Britain and changed the local lingo I felt my chin hit my chest and took the cue to kill the lights.
Before I knew it, the kids were bouncing into the room for their Morning Hug, and I was shuffling out to the kitchen to greet the coffee maker with a similar level of enthusiasm.
Hopefully I’ll manage to inject enough caffeine into my system to get me through the hours until I can chase the kids to bed and start the game of cat-and-mouse with Mr Sandman once more.
I better keep a copy of “the Scottish play” beside the bed just in case…
Jx
©2009
Oh as a kid I was a dream- took myself off to bed before the rest of the family had even finished dinner, on more than one occasion.
But only because I knew I’d be awake in the night long after everyone else had headed for the land of nod, or up before the sun.
It’s a condition that’s plagued me into adulthood, and is especially bad during periods of high stress (which pretty much sums up my life at times).
And there are reasons that sleep deprivation is used as a form of torture. Just ask any parent of a newborn. Or a long-term insomniac.
It’s also a booming industry…just ask your friendly pharmacist.
I’ve tried counting sheep (but must be allergic to wool or something), I’ve tried whole-body relaxation techniques (by the time I reach my head, my feet are wide awake again), I’ve tried every kind of ‘natural’ and medicated sleep aids (most with the unnatural reaction of making me more alert), attempted to master the ‘Mindfulness’ thing (but keep getting distracted by the very thoughts meant to relax me), I’ve also tried reading to make myself nod off. Non-fiction books are best.
My Beloved couldn’t believe it the night he woke to find me sitting up alongside him thoroughly ensconced in the pages of ‘Hamlet’. “No one reads that by choice” says he, “I haven’t picked it up since high school, and even then I’m sure I didn’t finish it!“ I, on the other hand, have now discovered that I had a fairly decent grasp of the plot after all, according to the notes scribbled down the margins of my copy from senior school (see Mrs V, I was paying attention!); I have also found that the Bard is almost unequalled in his ability to lull one into slumber by his scribing.
So I have managed to finish the sad story of the prince of Denmark, along with the tragic tale of the Montagues and Capulets, the nocturnal musings of Midsummer, and even got something out of “Much Ado About Nothing” before I begin to doze.
But even then there’s a big gap between getting to sleep and staying asleep.
On the nights where I do manage to get a solid stretch of shut-eye, odds are it’ll be broken by either a family emergency with one of the children allegedly finding crocodiles in their bed, or dreaming they’ve trotted into the bathroom while are in reality still soundly between the sheets (you know the joy I’m talking about)… or the dog decides it’s his night to play alpha male of the neighbourhood. Like last night.
Yes I was rudely awakened from a most scintillating subconscious state where I was the first (and may I say hilarious) female presenter on 'Top Gear' (What the? Must be all that car research I'm doing!) when the silly little critter joined in the canine chorus of the wee small hours, strutting all along the fence line with his pathetic little bark.
I am ashamed to say that where my previous dog- a rather large Labrador- could shake the surrounding streets with his booming “WOOF!” echoing throughout the night air, this fluffy little mutt we rescued from the RSCPA can’t even manage to startle the possums perched on the porch.
After an hour and a half of “ruff, ruffruffruff, ruffruff, ruff”, I had to go shut him up for his own sake- it was such an embarrassing display, I certainly didn’t want anyone knowing that dog belonged to us (even though it seemed to disturb no one else but me).
But then another hour later, after he had finally slipped into doggy dreams himself, I was still wide awake and prowling the bookcases for something to help switch my mind off again.
“’The History of the English Language’ looks good”, I thought, as I propped up the pillows behind me and settled in to read.
A mere twenty pages into the story of how first the Celts, then the Romans, and then the Normans claimed Britain and changed the local lingo I felt my chin hit my chest and took the cue to kill the lights.
Before I knew it, the kids were bouncing into the room for their Morning Hug, and I was shuffling out to the kitchen to greet the coffee maker with a similar level of enthusiasm.
Hopefully I’ll manage to inject enough caffeine into my system to get me through the hours until I can chase the kids to bed and start the game of cat-and-mouse with Mr Sandman once more.
I better keep a copy of “the Scottish play” beside the bed just in case…
Jx
©2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Of Mice and Women
Who was that cartoon cat that said “I hate meeces to pieces”?
I’d like to shake his, er, paw. Because I couldn’t have said it better myself.
Yes every year, ‘round about now, the local mice population decides to relocate en masse into our ceiling. And so every night at this time of year, I am serenaded by the sound of scratch scratch scratch within the walls.
Now I don’t begrudge them wanting to come in from the cold. I wouldn’t like to be raising my family out there in the backyard either. But unlike the mice, we work hard to earn money to put a roof over our head. We don’t just try to freeload off somebody else’s shelter.
And unlike the mice, I don’t feel the need to disturb all the occupants of the abode while making my bed.
The first inkling that our annual visitors were en route came about 2 weeks ago, and I haven’t managed a decent night’s sleep since.
There I was, deeply dreaming about … well, um, we don’t really need to go there do we… suffice to say I was deep in sleep when suddenly and inexplicably, the man of my dreams started to scratch himself. In a most undignified manner too, I might add. Even in full flight of fancy I found the behaviour a little odd and was none too impressed to be dragged out of fantasy into reality where the man was gone, but the scratching continued.
I stared blankly at the blackness trying to establish what the sound was and from whence it came. I then tried the element of surprise by flicking on the light with hopes of scaring anything away that was in the room. Sadly no, the tactic was not a success and that damn scratching continued. I realised it was going to be full-blown warfare as the enemy had obviously bunkered down above my head.
Cursing that the rotten rodents had the upper hand this time, I made a mental note to bring out the big guns the following night. (I also tried to make as much noise as possible in the daytime to disturb their sleep, but it doesn’t seem to have the same effect on them.)
Daylight saw me digging out the traditional set-and-forget mousetrap; the wooden base thing with deadly steel spring that would snap shut on any hapless creature trying to score a free meal. After many attempts to fix the thing without doing damage to my fingers in the meantime, the trap was set. All we had to do was wait for nightfall to come.
6 hours later I silently cheered as I heard the distinctive snap of the trap.
4 hours after that I was muttering about sneaky little so & so’s and their lucky escape.
Mice: 1, Jo: zero.
Next I bought some of those heave-and-leave poison packs, and we scattered them in the crawl space above.
Seems our resident mice have more selective taste than that, and not a single rat sack was even sniffed at, 2 days later.
Mice: 2, Jo: zip.
So it was back to the hardware store discussing my options with the helpful 12 year old who was on deck that day (well he seemed about 12 anyway), I purchased a couple of the newer mouse-friendly plastic traps. This, I don’t get, as isn’t the whole idea to mercilessly eradicate the little blighters?! Nonetheless, feeling sure that my actions would not be frowned upon if by chance anyone from PETA stopped by unannounced, it was home again to prepare the traps, this time using peanut butter as the bait- a supposed "guaranteed" way to catch any pests that dared pilfer the proffered foodstuff (try saying that quickly three times)!
After another scratching session through the wee small hours, I went to check the traps to see how they fared.
The sound of plastic being dragged across the floor should’ve prepared me.
There, looking like the most sorrowful little caricature one could imagine, was a teeny weeny little mouse entrapped by one teeny tiny toe it seemed, trying to make good its escape from the kitchen with trap in tow.
After trying to shield the pitiful little critter from the prying eyes of two small children and a dog, I called for my Beloved to take the pathetic little thing outside to release it. After calling me every kind of wuss under the sun, he did.
I’ll give you one guess who came back that night for a joyful family reunion that seemed to progress from one end of the house to the other, from dusk ‘til dawn.
Mice: 3, Jo: zilch.
It was at this point that I discovered a much better way to invest my money in this perpetual rodent rebellion, and I’m happy to say that last night at least, I didn’t hear a thing.
And so Mr Jinks, I totally concur with your summation of the situation whenever Pixie and Dixie were around: I too, hate meeces to pieces. But I’m lovin’ my new earplugs!
Jx
©2009
I’d like to shake his, er, paw. Because I couldn’t have said it better myself.
Yes every year, ‘round about now, the local mice population decides to relocate en masse into our ceiling. And so every night at this time of year, I am serenaded by the sound of scratch scratch scratch within the walls.
Now I don’t begrudge them wanting to come in from the cold. I wouldn’t like to be raising my family out there in the backyard either. But unlike the mice, we work hard to earn money to put a roof over our head. We don’t just try to freeload off somebody else’s shelter.
And unlike the mice, I don’t feel the need to disturb all the occupants of the abode while making my bed.
The first inkling that our annual visitors were en route came about 2 weeks ago, and I haven’t managed a decent night’s sleep since.
There I was, deeply dreaming about … well, um, we don’t really need to go there do we… suffice to say I was deep in sleep when suddenly and inexplicably, the man of my dreams started to scratch himself. In a most undignified manner too, I might add. Even in full flight of fancy I found the behaviour a little odd and was none too impressed to be dragged out of fantasy into reality where the man was gone, but the scratching continued.
I stared blankly at the blackness trying to establish what the sound was and from whence it came. I then tried the element of surprise by flicking on the light with hopes of scaring anything away that was in the room. Sadly no, the tactic was not a success and that damn scratching continued. I realised it was going to be full-blown warfare as the enemy had obviously bunkered down above my head.
Cursing that the rotten rodents had the upper hand this time, I made a mental note to bring out the big guns the following night. (I also tried to make as much noise as possible in the daytime to disturb their sleep, but it doesn’t seem to have the same effect on them.)
Daylight saw me digging out the traditional set-and-forget mousetrap; the wooden base thing with deadly steel spring that would snap shut on any hapless creature trying to score a free meal. After many attempts to fix the thing without doing damage to my fingers in the meantime, the trap was set. All we had to do was wait for nightfall to come.
6 hours later I silently cheered as I heard the distinctive snap of the trap.
4 hours after that I was muttering about sneaky little so & so’s and their lucky escape.
Mice: 1, Jo: zero.
Next I bought some of those heave-and-leave poison packs, and we scattered them in the crawl space above.
Seems our resident mice have more selective taste than that, and not a single rat sack was even sniffed at, 2 days later.
Mice: 2, Jo: zip.
So it was back to the hardware store discussing my options with the helpful 12 year old who was on deck that day (well he seemed about 12 anyway), I purchased a couple of the newer mouse-friendly plastic traps. This, I don’t get, as isn’t the whole idea to mercilessly eradicate the little blighters?! Nonetheless, feeling sure that my actions would not be frowned upon if by chance anyone from PETA stopped by unannounced, it was home again to prepare the traps, this time using peanut butter as the bait- a supposed "guaranteed" way to catch any pests that dared pilfer the proffered foodstuff (try saying that quickly three times)!
After another scratching session through the wee small hours, I went to check the traps to see how they fared.
The sound of plastic being dragged across the floor should’ve prepared me.
There, looking like the most sorrowful little caricature one could imagine, was a teeny weeny little mouse entrapped by one teeny tiny toe it seemed, trying to make good its escape from the kitchen with trap in tow.
After trying to shield the pitiful little critter from the prying eyes of two small children and a dog, I called for my Beloved to take the pathetic little thing outside to release it. After calling me every kind of wuss under the sun, he did.
I’ll give you one guess who came back that night for a joyful family reunion that seemed to progress from one end of the house to the other, from dusk ‘til dawn.
Mice: 3, Jo: zilch.
It was at this point that I discovered a much better way to invest my money in this perpetual rodent rebellion, and I’m happy to say that last night at least, I didn’t hear a thing.
And so Mr Jinks, I totally concur with your summation of the situation whenever Pixie and Dixie were around: I too, hate meeces to pieces. But I’m lovin’ my new earplugs!
Jx
©2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Doggone it
If there’s one smell I cannot stand it is damp dog.
No, there’s no metaphor at play here. I simply do not like the scent of a canine coat once it is wet. It is an affront to my olfactory system.
After the terrible loss of our chocolate Labrador to a tick last year, we now have this funny little creature that was rescued by the RSPCA, by the name of Chester. He’s an 18 month old Shih Tzu, we think. He has strawberry blonde fur. But also has a rather nasty habit of chewing it off. This leaves him looking like a cross between a hairless cat and a floor mop.
Since it’s winter and he complains about the cold (but doesn’t stop chewing his hair off, mind you) I bought him a couple of doggy sweaters. But instead of ‘out of mind out of sight’, it only seems to highlight the male-pattern-baldness the dog is displaying. He’s quite a sight, and definitely not one seen on the dog show circuit.
Anyhow, after a few too many days of rain turned our backyard into a bog the little critter being close to the ground, has kinda dip-dyed himself and has a dark brown to blonde thing going on (Sorta like Madonna in the ‘let your roots show’ phase, only in the opposite order).
With great reluctance I realised it was up to me to do something about it.
As soon as Chester heard me turn on the tap in the laundry tub he bolted.
After chasing him around the backyard for a few minutes, I resorted to bribing him with food to get him close enough to grab him (I actually caught him by the jumper which handily half came off in the process). Then after a few futile moments foraging in his fur I was able to find and remove his collars in preparation for the big event.
There is now the saddest pair of big brown eyes peering up at me from top of the washing machine, and he suddenly discovers some Chihuahua in his parentage as he starts shaking in anticipation (or maybe it’s trepidation).
After trying to coax the dog into the tub of his own accord, I attempt to lift the little fella up. I swear his toenails grew two inches as he tries to hang on for dear life- unsuccessfully I might add- as it’s a little tricky getting a grip on whitegoods.
At last he’s in the water. So far so good. But now the little devil won’t sit down. “Sit!” I say, using the accompanying hand signal (and not the one usually reserved for those who are peeving one off), and start pushing down on his rear end. (Goodness me when did he get so strong- he’s barely a foot long for crying out loud!) I finally get his butt down and reach for the doggy shampoo, only to find him standing up again. This scenario is played out for a couple of minutes until both the dog and I are decidedly drenched.
I would like to say that things get easier once I have shampoo in hand. But you would not be reading this blog right now if that were the case.
Oh no, Chester’s fondness for the smell of shampoo is obviously equal to my liking for wet dog, as he tries to bolt again, but I manage to catch him just as he escapes over the side, by wedging his little body against the tub with my tummy.
At this point my Beloved sticks his head in the doorway with an “Everything ok?” I find myself addressing his rapidly retreating back as he realises that it is not. This little dog is well and truly giving me the Shih Tzus.
Vowing not to let a little blonde bundle of fur defeat me, I soldier on with the shampooing, and eventually get enough suds from top to tail. Then, after despairing that there are more knots here that the Sydney to Hobart yacht race, I resort to doing some wizardry with the scissors.
How hard is it to hold a dog with one hand while trying to trim with the other and not cut anything that the mutt might need?
Here’s usually when my children come to see what I’m up to and offer their assistance. Chester takes this as an opportunity to break free from my grip and takes a flying leap off the washing machine and frantically tries to get his footing on the tiles. Not fast enough. Against all common sense, I launch myself at the little wet woofer before he streaks off up the hall. And then find myself becoming a human windshield while two kids take cover behind me as Chester starts shaking off the water.
I manage to wrestle him back on top of the washer, and give him a good towel-dry before I put him down and stand back for the post-wash performance (Chester running crazily around the house, rolling on the floor, rubbing his head up and down the hall, all interspersed with more distribution of water droplets).
At this point I am wishing we had funds to enlist the professional services of a mobile dogwasher, and am well and truly lamenting the fact that we are all but banned from the local pet stop after I accidentally sprayed the assistant with flea rinse (well, she would come asking questions whilst I had hose in hand). Plus Chester choosing to act all top dog like and mark his territory on the counter didn’t help the situation any (they said it happens all the time, so perhaps he could be forgiven).
But for now at least the dog is lovely and clean again. While sadly, I smell like…wet dog.
Jx
©2009
No, there’s no metaphor at play here. I simply do not like the scent of a canine coat once it is wet. It is an affront to my olfactory system.
After the terrible loss of our chocolate Labrador to a tick last year, we now have this funny little creature that was rescued by the RSPCA, by the name of Chester. He’s an 18 month old Shih Tzu, we think. He has strawberry blonde fur. But also has a rather nasty habit of chewing it off. This leaves him looking like a cross between a hairless cat and a floor mop.
Since it’s winter and he complains about the cold (but doesn’t stop chewing his hair off, mind you) I bought him a couple of doggy sweaters. But instead of ‘out of mind out of sight’, it only seems to highlight the male-pattern-baldness the dog is displaying. He’s quite a sight, and definitely not one seen on the dog show circuit.
Anyhow, after a few too many days of rain turned our backyard into a bog the little critter being close to the ground, has kinda dip-dyed himself and has a dark brown to blonde thing going on (Sorta like Madonna in the ‘let your roots show’ phase, only in the opposite order).
With great reluctance I realised it was up to me to do something about it.
As soon as Chester heard me turn on the tap in the laundry tub he bolted.
After chasing him around the backyard for a few minutes, I resorted to bribing him with food to get him close enough to grab him (I actually caught him by the jumper which handily half came off in the process). Then after a few futile moments foraging in his fur I was able to find and remove his collars in preparation for the big event.
There is now the saddest pair of big brown eyes peering up at me from top of the washing machine, and he suddenly discovers some Chihuahua in his parentage as he starts shaking in anticipation (or maybe it’s trepidation).
After trying to coax the dog into the tub of his own accord, I attempt to lift the little fella up. I swear his toenails grew two inches as he tries to hang on for dear life- unsuccessfully I might add- as it’s a little tricky getting a grip on whitegoods.
At last he’s in the water. So far so good. But now the little devil won’t sit down. “Sit!” I say, using the accompanying hand signal (and not the one usually reserved for those who are peeving one off), and start pushing down on his rear end. (Goodness me when did he get so strong- he’s barely a foot long for crying out loud!) I finally get his butt down and reach for the doggy shampoo, only to find him standing up again. This scenario is played out for a couple of minutes until both the dog and I are decidedly drenched.
I would like to say that things get easier once I have shampoo in hand. But you would not be reading this blog right now if that were the case.
Oh no, Chester’s fondness for the smell of shampoo is obviously equal to my liking for wet dog, as he tries to bolt again, but I manage to catch him just as he escapes over the side, by wedging his little body against the tub with my tummy.
At this point my Beloved sticks his head in the doorway with an “Everything ok?” I find myself addressing his rapidly retreating back as he realises that it is not. This little dog is well and truly giving me the Shih Tzus.
Vowing not to let a little blonde bundle of fur defeat me, I soldier on with the shampooing, and eventually get enough suds from top to tail. Then, after despairing that there are more knots here that the Sydney to Hobart yacht race, I resort to doing some wizardry with the scissors.
How hard is it to hold a dog with one hand while trying to trim with the other and not cut anything that the mutt might need?
Here’s usually when my children come to see what I’m up to and offer their assistance. Chester takes this as an opportunity to break free from my grip and takes a flying leap off the washing machine and frantically tries to get his footing on the tiles. Not fast enough. Against all common sense, I launch myself at the little wet woofer before he streaks off up the hall. And then find myself becoming a human windshield while two kids take cover behind me as Chester starts shaking off the water.
I manage to wrestle him back on top of the washer, and give him a good towel-dry before I put him down and stand back for the post-wash performance (Chester running crazily around the house, rolling on the floor, rubbing his head up and down the hall, all interspersed with more distribution of water droplets).
At this point I am wishing we had funds to enlist the professional services of a mobile dogwasher, and am well and truly lamenting the fact that we are all but banned from the local pet stop after I accidentally sprayed the assistant with flea rinse (well, she would come asking questions whilst I had hose in hand). Plus Chester choosing to act all top dog like and mark his territory on the counter didn’t help the situation any (they said it happens all the time, so perhaps he could be forgiven).
But for now at least the dog is lovely and clean again. While sadly, I smell like…wet dog.
Jx
©2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Too much Testosterone...So little Time
If you logged onto my blog thinking you were in for some juicy news about a cougar-cub on the prowl, well I’m sorry to disappoint you- the story here is much more mundane, although you just might see some animal action if you read on…
We’re car-hunting at the moment. And hunting seems a close to appropriate word for it- it is a jungle out there in used car territory!
I’m also starting to think that the representatives selling these vehicles wouldn’t be entirely out of place wearing animal skins whilst beating their chests about how good a deal they’re doing you.
At the very least, they remind me of a pack of wild dogs chasing a scent.
I’m a big one when it comes to researching if we're about to outlay any significant amount of money. Partly because we never seem to have that kind of cash ready to go too early on in the piece; also because if I am going to hand over our hard-earned dollars, I want to make darn sure that someone else is going to work for it as well!
So I scour the motor vehicle classifieds, check out the Trading Post online, log onto the plethora of places that offer ‘realistic’ valuations on used cars, sign up for eNewsletters with the latest hot deals, and make the odd phone call to scout out the pedigreed from the mongrels before we go see who’s best in show.
But the other day, on impulse, I stopped in at a caryard I drive past on my way to work, and took a walk through the automotive graveyard (which should’ve tipped me off straight up as the whole arrangement kinda reminded me of carcasses around a kennel). There were cars in every body shape and size– sedan, hatchback, ute, 2, 4, and All-Wheel-Drives, and those funny little coupés and convertibles mostly driven by men who like to feel the wind in what hair they have left.
Anyway, not long after I entered this classic masculine domain, the dominant male in the pack came sniffing around:
"So, how can I help you today?"
(Um, I’m here to get my legs waxed, how do you think you can help me?) “Yesss, what can you tell me about this car?”
After much prowling and posturing, he proceeded to parley with me about the various pros and cons of the carcasses -I mean, cars- answered a few questions, got out a business card and then said the fatal words: “So bring your husband in with you and we’ll take it from there.”
Now if there’s ever been anything to raise my hackles, that’d be it.
I growled out a “Thankyou” and slunk back to my low-value trade-in.
See, my husband (God love him), though he possesses the XY gene that apparently automatically provides one with an encyclopaedic knowledge of all things motorised, has never been in "top gear" when it comes to the mechanical (mind you, he does bear a passing resemblance to Jeremy Clarkson in hair and height). He takes care of the basics, but is lacking a basic instinct when it comes to bargaining.
And when it comes to driving home a deal, my Beloved best take the passenger seat.
My husband squirms in said seat when I ask questions like “Is it a full-sized spare?”, “Do you have a fuel consumption comparison?”, and the good old conversation starter (or stopper, depending on the answer) “Why’s it for sale?”
And my Beloved is well and truly reaching for the door handle when it comes to fine-tuning; “So that’s with all the mats and plastics and tint included, yes?”
Therefore my husband knows if anyone in any way suggests that I bring him in to seal a deal, the writing's on the wall- and it's an obituary at that.
Nosirree, that certain car dealer might be top dog when it comes to his particular pack, but he found out it can be a real bitch to bargain with the one actually holding the purse strings.
So maybe there was the world’s best car deal waiting for me in that pokey little yard I still go past on an almost daily basis, but damned if I’ll be driving anything out of there.
And it looks like the hunt is to be continued…
Jx
©2009
We’re car-hunting at the moment. And hunting seems a close to appropriate word for it- it is a jungle out there in used car territory!
I’m also starting to think that the representatives selling these vehicles wouldn’t be entirely out of place wearing animal skins whilst beating their chests about how good a deal they’re doing you.
At the very least, they remind me of a pack of wild dogs chasing a scent.
I’m a big one when it comes to researching if we're about to outlay any significant amount of money. Partly because we never seem to have that kind of cash ready to go too early on in the piece; also because if I am going to hand over our hard-earned dollars, I want to make darn sure that someone else is going to work for it as well!
So I scour the motor vehicle classifieds, check out the Trading Post online, log onto the plethora of places that offer ‘realistic’ valuations on used cars, sign up for eNewsletters with the latest hot deals, and make the odd phone call to scout out the pedigreed from the mongrels before we go see who’s best in show.
But the other day, on impulse, I stopped in at a caryard I drive past on my way to work, and took a walk through the automotive graveyard (which should’ve tipped me off straight up as the whole arrangement kinda reminded me of carcasses around a kennel). There were cars in every body shape and size– sedan, hatchback, ute, 2, 4, and All-Wheel-Drives, and those funny little coupés and convertibles mostly driven by men who like to feel the wind in what hair they have left.
Anyway, not long after I entered this classic masculine domain, the dominant male in the pack came sniffing around:
"So, how can I help you today?"
(Um, I’m here to get my legs waxed, how do you think you can help me?) “Yesss, what can you tell me about this car?”
After much prowling and posturing, he proceeded to parley with me about the various pros and cons of the carcasses -I mean, cars- answered a few questions, got out a business card and then said the fatal words: “So bring your husband in with you and we’ll take it from there.”
Now if there’s ever been anything to raise my hackles, that’d be it.
I growled out a “Thankyou” and slunk back to my low-value trade-in.
See, my husband (God love him), though he possesses the XY gene that apparently automatically provides one with an encyclopaedic knowledge of all things motorised, has never been in "top gear" when it comes to the mechanical (mind you, he does bear a passing resemblance to Jeremy Clarkson in hair and height). He takes care of the basics, but is lacking a basic instinct when it comes to bargaining.
And when it comes to driving home a deal, my Beloved best take the passenger seat.
My husband squirms in said seat when I ask questions like “Is it a full-sized spare?”, “Do you have a fuel consumption comparison?”, and the good old conversation starter (or stopper, depending on the answer) “Why’s it for sale?”
And my Beloved is well and truly reaching for the door handle when it comes to fine-tuning; “So that’s with all the mats and plastics and tint included, yes?”
Therefore my husband knows if anyone in any way suggests that I bring him in to seal a deal, the writing's on the wall- and it's an obituary at that.
Nosirree, that certain car dealer might be top dog when it comes to his particular pack, but he found out it can be a real bitch to bargain with the one actually holding the purse strings.
So maybe there was the world’s best car deal waiting for me in that pokey little yard I still go past on an almost daily basis, but damned if I’ll be driving anything out of there.
And it looks like the hunt is to be continued…
Jx
©2009
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