Eat Your Puppy

My favorite part of Sunday is not football or church. There are two specific things that get me out of bed by 8 am on Sunday morning; CBS Sunday Morning and NPR's brilliant show Wait Wait Don't Tell Me. It's safe to say that even with five hundred channels and enough TV shows to choke a hippo, Sunday Morning is my favorite television show on the face of the planet. Interesting stories, in depth conversations with people I like and a focus on all that is beautiful in the world. The last two minutes of every show are a gorgeous presentation in some random place in the world, filled with silence or maybe a babbling brook. That's it. Seems so simple, but anyone who opens their mouth during the final moments of my show can bet on getting a dirty look or a not-so-accidental shove as we are passing in the hallway. One Sunday, I chose not to speak to anyone in my house for two hours because an unnamed roommate ran down the stairs asking for breakfast during the only two minutes of silence I ask for all fucking week. Anyway, that's not where we are going in this post, but do yourself a favor and tune in Sunday 8 AM MST.

My other Sunday lover is Wait Wait Don't Tell Me which finds humor in every possible news story that has happened during the previous week. With a few comics, a live audience and great commentators, this show gets me laughing out loud more than a few times. I absolutely adore laughing by myself, mouth full of coffee, decked out in my slippers that have begun to smell like corn chips. That's an issue for another post.

Today, they had a news story about dog perfume. That's right people, if you can't handle the stench of your mutt you can purchase a scent just as disgusting as that Axe spray you insist on lathering yourself in every fifteen minutes, but for your pet. Create coughing fits on your morning walk with scents such as vanilla lavender and poochie patchouli, for all you hippie dog lovers out there. As I was researching this moronic invention for 21st century pet owners, I came across this little blip on one website selling perfume specifically for those yappy dogs that fit in purses and toaster ovens.

"Your senses with be overwhelmed with childhood nostalgia when you give your furbaby the scent that will make him or her smell good enough to eat."

First off, gross. Why do you want your pet to smell good enough to eat? Perhaps that is why most pets smell like rotten fish and anal glands, so we won't consider them for the crock pot. I'm disturbed by the fact that they use the term 'furbaby' and then talk about feasting on aforementioned baby. I didn't use perfume on my babies for that exact reason, I didn't want the temptation to eat my young. If they smelled like a dirty diapers and spit up I could keep myself from licking their forehead or dipping their toes in ketchup. Personally, I think dogs smell like dogs because they should smell like dogs. By all means, bath your dog and brush his teeth in order to keep those doggy kisses from smelling like an acid bath, but I call bullshit on dog perfume. It's bad enough that I am forced to sit next to you and your musk obsession at the movies, I don't want your dog to smell like rose water, too. Unless you decide on bacon perfume, then by all means, spritz yourself and Fido. Just don't act surprised when I follow you home, start chewing on your leg and licking your puppies paws.

The Last Walk

I missed my Friday blog because...it's Summer!!! We went to the pool, ate ice cream, made macaroni salad and had a BBQ, which left no time to write. I won't apologize because it was amazing and I find that I am a better writer when I allow myself to live in the real world and not just behind my computer.

When my husband and I were first married, we wanted a dog long before we wanted kids. We lived in a small apartment and the pet situation wouldn't work there so we waited. Once we bought our first house I was ready to take the plunge and I would beg my husband every weekend to "just look" with me. As we all know, there is no such thing as just looking when it comes to puppies and kittens, so thankfully he wouldn't oblige until we put a fence in and had a yard that a puppy could be proud of.

We went to the Humane Society on a warm May afternoon with the intention of adopting an older dog, I was eager to bypass the potty training shenanigans. We hung outside with a few older dogs and while they were great, there wasn't a connection for either one of us, so we made a plan to come back another day. If you know me, you know how impatient I am and that when I get my mind set to something, I want it now. I was leaving with a damn dog. Today.  I kept looking in kennels and peering around corners as we were making our way out of the building and that is when I saw an empty cage with a name tag that said 'Captain Crunch'. I crouched down to see who this Captain was, but the cage was dark and from what I could see, empty. The employee behind us opened the cage and stuck her arm in, pulling out a 5 week old Blue Healer mix puppy. He was black and fluffy with white spots on his nose and black spots on his tongue. Basically, he was adorable.

He needed a new name so my husband chose Colt 45, not because he is a big drinker, but because he thought our new pup needed a tough name. A hell of a lot tougher than Captain Crunch. Our new family member had been abandoned with his siblings and they were all taken to different shelters. Colt was timid and sweet and in true puppy fashion, he pissed and shit all over our new house. He welcomed the birth of both our kids and the adoption of the bitchiest cat ever the walk the planet. He licked toddling baby faces, cleaned up high chairs, and happily allowed the kids to pull his ears and play with his food, all without a complaint.

That was 12 years ago. My kids ask how old they are in dog years and then how old Colt is in dog years. Dog years or human years, he's old and it's starting to show. He has been on steroids for 4 years for an internal illness that almost took him from us. He sleeps more, pees without knowing that he is and struggles to make it down the stairs. After a day at the lake, he was unable to stand on all fours and I found him using his front paws to drag his old hips to the water dish. It was heartbreaking. He eats and drinks and seems happy, which is why we have let it go on for so long. We know this is his last summer and there is nothing worse than thinking about what that means for our family. I know dogs don't live forever, but I never imagined how fast 12 years would go by and now I want to have just a few more years with him. And a few more after that.

I don't know how to let go. I don't know how to have the last walk with a family member. That job was filled by my parents when our dogs were sick and I am not ready for it to be my turn. I don't know how to look at my kids and tell them it's time. I don't know how to wake up without the sound of his claws on the kitchen tile. I don't want another dog. Or a goat. Or a rabbit. Or a cat. I want Colt. I want him to live forever. So we can watch him nose my beer and sleep under my feet. So I don't have to explain death or cry for an entire day. Or an entire week. There is no manual on how bad it should get before you say enough and frankly, I don't want to say it. So we spoil him and love him and wait for him to tell us "Okay, that's enough." It sure would make saying goodbye a lot easier.