I know it’s mid-January, and I’m just now getting around to uploading my holiday shots.
That’s festive Biscy snuggling with his stuffed squirrel. Well, it was stuffed until he ripped the innards out. He still loves it though. The squirrel’s tail contains a squeaker, which makes the pup happy. Prey makes us all happy, doesn’t it?
I started writing this while I was in Atlanta for the pre-Christmas party circuit, but I abandoned it because of time constraints.
The sked was packed, and unfortunately, I didn’t get to see friends, other than a bunch of my sister’s buds who came to a party she hosted at her home. Where we were staying.
I tried to go to sleep around 1:00 ish last night but vaguely remember being awoken several times over the next couple of hours by hip hop music and loud-voiced commercial realtors.
I don’t look much like my sisters, which caused some interesting confusion, as I was wandering the party with Biscuit in my arms for a good part of the night. I think people thought I’d just brought my dog with me as an accessory. A la Paris Hilton. The truth was that when I put him upstairs with the kids he tried to dig through the door, according to the baby sitter. Later, he whined, waking the kids up (even more so than the loud party-goers). And he’s so small, I was afraid he’d trip someone. Or someone would step on him. So I carried him around the party when he wasn’t busy cleaning the floor of sausage dip and cupcakes (he got in trouble for scarfing a couple mini cupcakes off a low table. Luckily, he seems to have a strong tummy).
So I found myself explaining to several people why I was carrying an exhausted Dorkie Poo around a semi-formal party. My middle sis said she overheard one guy say, “What’s with the lady with the dog?”
That said, I found that the pup was a great ice breaker. And that I like talking to people who like dogs. People who smile when they see dogs are my kind of folks. Even if I am the crazy lady wearing high heels and carrying a scruffy mutt around a party.
Biscuit coming off anesthesiaActually, the pup was only pitiful for about 8 hours after his surgery (yep, it was the one guys don’t want to talk about).
I’m supposed to keep him “quiet” for 7-10 days. Right. Once the anesthesia wore off, it was back to frisky Biscy. When I refused to play with him, he commenced to humping his bed enthusiastically. I guess it takes a while for the testosterone to work its way out of his system.
Houdini, the pelvic-fractured feline, is getting a bit better every day. He just started moving around a bit, albeit gingerly, looking rather like a 95-year-old man maneuvering on an uneven surface. He spends most of his time on his bed, either in the crate or in the sun on the screened-in porch. He’s happiest when snuggling. Luckily, the kids help me love on him.
I tell you though, the litter box is about to do me in. It’s a very small litter box, small enough to fit inside the crate with the cat, the cat’s bed and food and water (see below). Therefore, when he uses it, Houdini either paws a good of bit of litter out of the box or just turns the whole box on its side. Yuck.
Remarkably, Biscuit seems to understand that his friend is injured, and when I let Houd drunkenly wander around the living room, Bisc just gives him a hello lick and watches him for a few minutes. He seems perplexed by the fact that the kitty doesn’t want to run, play or swat at him.
Eeeeekkkkkkk! I just found TWO fleas on the Bisc. TWO. That I had to track down under his wiry fur and crush between my fingernails like a mother chimpanzee. Then I combed him, suspiciously examining each bit of dirt removed in the process. Fleas!
Fleas on the pup who spent part of the night snuggling in MY bed against ME. Fleas on the pup whom I religiously dose with Sentinel once a month. Fleas on the pup who right now is sleeping on my favorite reading chair.
I’ve NEVER seen a flea on the cats, whom I dose regularly with Revolution. Maybe I should throw some extra Revo on the Bisc? Chemicals smemicals. I love the environment and my health as much as anyone else, but damn, I hate fleas. They are almost as bad as flies. Not quite, though.
I really, really hate flies. I bit E-spouse’s head off and considered feeding his brain to the seagulls when we were leaving the beach and he left the van open, every smucking door open, next to the full trash cans. There was an open banana on the boy’s seat. When I put my camera in the van, there were at least 20 flies buzzing around, INSIDE the van. I freaked. Poor E had to drive around the block with the windows open swatting flies out the window for like ten minutes while I hyperventilated and the kids hid.
Flies are disgusting. Their babies are maggots. They get nasty disease-ridden motes of blood and poop on their little insect legs. THEN they land on your food. The food that you’re about to put in your mouth.
Flies eat poop. Biscy eats poop too. But he’s adorable in every other way.
According to the lovely Joshilyn Jackson, Friday was “Take your Dog to Work” day. As the Bisc often sleeps at my feet as I work, or chews on my feet if he’s feeling frisky, TYDTW day didn’t seem to apply to me. I did decide, however, to take our dog out to dinner with us Friday night.
Asheville touts itself as a dog friendly town, and in my ignorance, I assumed the large outside patio at Mellow Mushroom would be particularly canine receptive. But no. No dogs are allowed, and, according to the apologetic hostess, if you tie your dog on the outside rail, on the sidewalk, next to the table where you are eating, he’s considered an “unattended animal” and both you and the restaurant will be ticketed by the big, bad police.
So we walked over to Asheville Brewing Company, who have a “we love pooches on our patio policy.” There we got fabulous za (the Sheer Delight is, well, a delight), excellent beer brewed on the premises, and our pup, who happily chewed on pizza crusts at my feet.
I remember when there was only one Mellow Mushroom–the first, in Midtown Atlanta, which was a bit of a dicey area in the late 70s and early 80s. But they had good hippie za and served pitchers of beer to underaged kids. Like me. All the servers were perpetually stoned.
The possibly apocryphal story behind the restaurant was that it was started by a couple of dropouts from nearby Georgia Tech who were soon joined by a University of Georgia dropout who came up with the now prescient “all natural” angle.
Now, the restaurant has something like 28 locations in five states. I guess it’s a grand success story. I was thrilled when it came to Ashvegas. They still have the psychedelic menus, funky decor, and happy mushroom mascot. But they’ve lost something. They’re practically mainstream now. The servers are still funky, but clean. In every way. I’m sure they card folks relentlessly. And they prohibit pups from their perky patio.
Friends? See Houdini’s tail? That’s cat for “hello.” It’s a good sign.
What Rocky thinks of the Bisc. Bisc tried to get sumo cat to play ball with him tonight. The pup raced around the house, holding his tiny tennis ball in his mouth. He caught sight of the Rock as he rounded a corner and stopped. Sweet puppy dropped the ball, which rolled towards the large one. Rocky and Bisc both looked at it for a few seconds. Then the Bisc gave up, but with that optimistic puppy frisk, grabbed the ball, and recommenced racing around in puppy spaz circles while sumo watched disdainfully.
Maybe next time you’ll get the ball, right Rocky? I’ll bet the Bisc will give you another chance.
I’m not sure if it’s smart for me to be blogging before I drink my morning coffee. But it’s so quiet around here. The kidlings are camping with E-spouse. I’m home with the pup and the kitties, though I will be venturing out into the wilderness with the Bisc later today. And with lots of cold beer, because we car camp.
Yes, car camp, as in load up the Edgy van with as much crap as we can stuff into it and take it into the woods. This morning I felt that the house seemed empty, then I realized that I’d sent every pair of shoes in the shoe basket with the kids. Because when camping, you can NEVER have too many shoes. They’re always getting wet, and it only takes a couple of hours of wearing damp shoes to get foot rot. And I’m not sleeping in the same tent with kidling foot rot.
Somehow, part of this post went live before I’d finished writing. I accidentally deleted your comment when I updated the post, M. Sorry bout that. Thanks!
Oh well. Ahhhhh, wilderness. Happy long weekend to all.
1. 
2. Panda Cam!
3. All the loverly comments left on my Lurker post by both lurkers and frequent commenters AND Scott Avett and Harry P. A shot in the arm for my blogger ennui!
4. The boy, asleep in his own bed, ALL NIGHT, for three nights and counting. Probably just jinxed that one, didn’t I?
That would be my role. My boy, age five, decided to define our roles in relation to the puppy. He said: “I’m the Daddy. Sister is the Mommy. Daddy is the master. And you, you’re the puppy teacher.”
I always get stuck in the responsible position. And with my mouth open.
Please disregard the fact that E-spouse has no clue how to focus my camera. Perhaps I look a bit better fuzzy anyway.
