Wordless Wednesday

Where I go to clear my head, which lasts a few minutes until Max lies down in the middle of this pretty scene and proceeds to attack a dead fish.

Dog days

I live in a house with 3 dogs: my old lady dog (Daisy), my crazy-I-think-he-shoots-Red-Bull-&-coffee-when-I'm-not-looking boxer (Max), and my sister's humps-anything-that-makes-any-rash-movements Yorkie (Frank). The combination is simeltaneously hilarious and absolute torture.

5:00am-Max is turning tight circles in his crate at approximately 25 mph. The sound of his nails on the plastic bottom of the crate can be heard 2 blocks over.
5:05am-Daisy wakes from the dead and hobbles to my mother's room.
5:07am-After the hobbling, she puts her head on the edge of the bed and begins a deep-throat whine. Also? She basically wiggles the entire time, since she cannot keep her weight on all 4 legs at the same time. Shuffle-switch-shuffle-switch. Oh, and THUMP THUMP THUMP: her tail hitting the wall as she wags away.
5:10am-My mom gets up & lets Daisy out, who barely makes it off the porch before she pops a squat and pees.
5:12am-Still peeing.
5:13am-Still peeing.
5:14am-Mom lets Daisy in. Frank shows up out of nowhere, wanting to go out. Daisy in; Frank out.
5:17am-Frank in.
5:18am-Max is still furiously turning circles in his crate. We avoid letting him out toooooo early because....well, you'll see.
5:20am-Daisy is hobbling in front of the empty food dish. This is probably the most alert she is all damn day. Actually, not probably but for sure, without a doubt.
5:21am-Mom fills the dog bowls.
5:24am-Mom bends down to unlock Max's crate, hoping to prepare for the upcoming clusterfuck by standing on her heels only.
5:24:01am-Max tears ass out of the crate like a racing horse out of it's chute, crashing into my mother's legs, barely missing her feet, pounces up on the couch, takes off of the pillows on the couch, and careens towards the back door. Frank has decided that he CANNOT handle Max's energy level, so he is going to go all alpha dog on Max.
5:24:30am-Frank flies out of the kitchen and yap yap yaps at Max's face. He actually gets Max's big jowls several times a week.
5:25am-My mom makes her way through the alpha dog debacle to the back door, and shoos them out.
5:30am-The 2 males are done pissing on each other's pissing spots in the backyard. Max is either oblivious to the alpha dog debacle, or doesn't give a shit (I'm going with option #2). He just wants to PLAY.
5:31am-All 3 dogs are now in the kitchen, where Daisy has managed to snarf down 2 bowls of dog food in less than 5 minutes. Fantastic. Max sniffs tentatively towards the bowls, and Daisy goes all alpha dog on his ass: snotting, growling, snarling, drooling, snapping.
5:32am-Max takes this as a sign of "OH YAY! She wants to PLAAAAAAAAAY!" And goes ape-shit in the house.
5:33am-Daisy lies down in front of the empty dog dishes, and glares at Max as he bounds through the house at warp speed.
5:34am-Frank is done eating the leftovers, and has decided that Max is just too damn hyper. Again with the biting of the jowls. Max continues to think Frank is playing.
5:35am-Frank is now too excited for his own good, and begins trying to hump Max, who in turn thinks Frank is playing a new game.
5:36am-Frank moves on to Daisy: "Ooooo, old lady dog that doesn't fight me when I try to hump!" Except, he forgot that she is the most alert this first hour of her day, and she turns on him, doing the snotting, growling, snarling, drooling, snapping thing.
5:36:30am-Frank takes off for my sister's room, to lick his wounds (just injured pride, as Daisy doesn't really actually get him).
5:37am-7:00am-Max stands at my closed door and SNIFF SNIFF SNIFFSNIFFSNIFF 's. When the sniffing doesn't work, he begins talking and whining. And scratching on the door. Just 2 scratches at a time: Scratch-scratch. whine. talk. whine. sniffsniffsniffsniffsniffsniff
7:01am-I open my door and tell him to shut the hell up. If I let him in, he bounces on the bed & pisses off my girl. So I try to avoid that until she is up and dressed. However, Frank always sneaks in & then STARES AT ME while I brush my teeth. Wth??
7:02am-Max is put off by not being allowed in the room, so he bounces his ass through the house, tongue hanging out with a smile on his sweet face, and goes to torture my mother and sister as they are getting ready for work and school. He jumps on their beds, nips at their feet and hands, jumps up on them, licks random body parts, and then begins digging in the bathroom trashcan.
When he drags out all the trash, my mom locks him in his crate, where he begins the tight circles in his crate again.
8:20am-When I get home from dropping my girl off at school, I let him out and he takes off around the house again. He refuses to go out in the backyard. Daisy is now laid out in her usual spot in the middle of the living room, nose running, snoring loudly. She is oblivious to most of Max's antics all damn day long.
8:30am-I take Max for a walk, where he pulls me the entire time, and stops approximately 1000 times in the 45 minutes we are out. He also marks his territory on the same damn branches, corners, and bushes every day. Why?? So annoying.
9:15am-We are back from the walk. Max's tongue is almost touching the ground, but he is STILL NOT WORN OUT. He drinks a gallon of water. Daisy doesn't even know we have been gone. Frank? Has barked the ENTIRE time we were gone. He was in his crate, and he is covered in his own slobber from barking furiously at our absence.

I don't even have the energy to tell you what the rest of the day is like, but seriously? All fucking day I am letting them out, letting them in, yelling at Frank to stop staring at me while I'm on the computer, yelling at Max to stop getting into every fucking thing, and Daisy just snores away.

At night, I take Max for a walk. Yet, every night, at about 10:30pm, he stands at the back door and talks to me. But when I open the door, he backs away. Actually, lately he has taken to running into his crate when I open the back door. What the hell, dog? This is where I am done with his cute personality and I yell at him to get the hell outside or shut the hell up, or I chase him around the house in the hopes that I can chase him out the back door. My exercise for the day.

Then he comes back in, and tears around the house again, bouncing on and off of furniture, knocking over shit, trying to get into my sister's room, and just batshit crazy.  Daisy? Still asleep, with my feet rubbing her side. Frank? He has ran around trying to alpha dog Max into shutting the f- up. When he fails at this, he then begins to try to hump everyone and everything. When he fails at this, he jumps up in my mom's lap, where he pants disgusting dog breath in her face. Then she pushes him off the couch, and he hides under my bed.
Finally I convince Max to get up on the couch between my mom and I.
Then? He lies there and farts the most disgusting dog farts ever.
All with a smile on his face.
These f-ing dogs run our house.

Wordless Wednesday (shitty snapshot)

Yes, those are my knee highs. And yes, Max IS INDEED trying to pull them off of her legs.

The souls of dogs

I received two books for Christmas: one, Have a Little Faith by Mitch Albom, I had really been hoping for, and the other, The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein. I will admit that I knew nothing about the second book-I had barely noticed it in passing. In fact, I remember seeing the cover, with a partial of a sweet dog's face, and actually avoiding it, for fear that it would make me think of Marley & Me (which I read long before the movie came out, which I did NOT see), which would inevitably make me think of my old man dog, Kooter. I didn't want to think about that. 
I was happy when I opened the packages from my sister, thinking of starting Have a Little Faith the next morning, if at all possible. My mother said immediately, "You need to read The Art of Racing in the Rain." I nodded, thinking I would open Mitch's book first. I have read Mitch's other books, and I remember finishing the last one in full-out sobs, it was that striking for me. He's a great writer; his books are concise, yet full of real, raw, life-changing emotion.
Just after New Year's, my mother asked if I had read the book yet. I had not, as I was finishing a book I had started in August, The Guernsey Literary & Potato Peel Pie Society. (As a sidenote, let me just say that book was fabulous. I loved the characters, the ease of writing, and I would have read it all in one day, if possible. Go read that book!) She kept asking me if I'd read the book yet, every few days.
I started the book last Monday, and was immediately hooked. I was laughing out loud within a few pages. By page 39, I was already in tears, with my husband looking at me like I was a nut. If I didn't have a child, or a job, or 7000 things to do, I would have finished that book the same day. But, I can only assume there was a reason it took me all week to read it, no?
I don't want to ruin it for anyone, but I can say this:
If you are a dog lover, you must read this book.
It has given me insight into the mind of my dogs. Although I know it is fiction, I truly do believe there is truth behind the sentiment of this story. It is written from the dog's point of view, and it is fascinating to look over at my Daisy snoring on her dogbed, and wonder what exactly she thinks of me, what she would tell me if she could.
I finished the book five days after beginning it, sobbing uncontrollably, sitting in my oversized chair with my sweet boxer Max laid out next to me, all four of his mighty paws in my lap. I was thankful to be home alone, knowing full well that my hubby would give me that look if he saw me (The same look he gave me when I finished The Five People You Meet In Heaven, while pregnant. He came out of the bathroom to my sobbing in bed, trying to explain just why I was so incredibly struck by the story, between hiccups.)(Go ahead and run away screaming now; I know I'm a bit emotional about things, or SENSITIVE, as my mother likes to call it.). I was unable to stop my tears, pushing my face into Max's neck. I then went into the living room to find Daisy, who spends most of her time sleeping on her dogbed these days. I frightened her with my sobs, waking her. I laid on the floor next to her, sobbing, telling her I loved her sweet face.
I know, I know. (RUN. NOWWWW.)
See, the thing is, I've always talked to my dogs, telling them what I'm doing, how I'm feeling, and having one-sided conversations with them. I ask them things, knowing they can't answer. But this book? It got me thinking about what exactly my dogs would say if they could answer me. And the end? Oh, it's bliss. Heart-wrenching bliss.

A year ago today, I had to put Kooter to sleep. My sweet old man dog. And a year later, I still doubt the decision. It actually took the breath out of me when I noticed the date on my desk calender. How had a year gone by already? How had Daisy and I made it without our sweet companion? It amazes me that it's been a year. We've moved again, we've taken so many walks, without him. His leash is still in the drawer of the laundry room; I can't bring myself to get rid of it, or use it. His picture, from that day, is still on the desktop of this laptop. I see his sweet face looking up at me every time I open it, several times every day. And yet, somehow, it's been a year.
My dreams of Kooter have slowed. Maybe that means he has moved on....maybe he knows that I am happy with another dog who takes up my time and bits of my heart, every day. I feel a twinge of guilt at loving Max so much, even though I can feel the love for Kooter still right.here.
Each night, as I read this book, I fell asleep thinking of my sweet Kooter dog, wondering where he could be now, if he would come to me in my dreams soon. And so far he has not, that I recall.
And then I would wake up thinking, maybe I am living too much in the past with my dogs. Why am I not thinking about the remainder of Daisy's life? Am I doing her a disservice by continuing to think about Kooter? Am I holding back with Max out of guilt?
If you don't have a dog, you are probably shaking your head at me right now, thinking that there are things far more earth-shattering to be pondering. But for me, right at this very moment, I sit watching Max dream, nose twitching, jowls shaking, eyebrows shaking. I glance over at Daisy, running in her sleep, eyes rolling in the back of her head. (Just what are they dreaming about?) And I know that they are an extremely important part to my story. I know that I would not be exactly who I am if it were not for these dogs, these domesticated animals, in my life. I feel blessed to have had them in my life, am blessed by the presence of their souls.
I can only hope that they know how much I love them, now, and even after they are gone. I can only hope that they get what they want out of life, that they get the chance at reincarnation, like the book claims. And if they do come back as humans, I truly hope that I was a good enough person that they would remember me and seek me out.

Music Lover Monday-To my new love

Norah Jones' new song "Man of the Hour" on her new album, which I am all SQUEEEEE! about, of course.

It speaks to me, as many of her songs do. You really need to listen to the words. If you are a dog lover, you will feel the same twinge I do, looking down at my silly Max, lying stretched out on my feet under my desk. He is very alert, and looks at me with those kind eyes when I speak to him, or when I sing. He's vocal, growling & whining when he wants my attention. He has learned the word 'walk', and gets all perky and intense when I say the word. He's stealing bits of my heart, every day.

After all the others, he is "the one"

I've been pretty quiet about this whole "adopting a boxer" thing, until last month, where I sweetly stated the following on Twitter:

I'm *this.close* to saying F*$% this adoption place.

8:29 AM Sep 30th from TwitterBerry

We have officially decided to pass on this boxer rescue, which I will now call Lick-my-ass Boxer Rescue. There are a couple of other boxer rescues in our area, and I'm sure we will look into them, but right now I'm so beat down by it that I would prefer to shoe shop online. How about these?:

*As a side note, I can't afford any of these damn boots. I mean, I could, but I would have the guilt FOREVER.*

Anyway, while I drool over the can't have's, let me give you the short version of Lick-my-ass boxer rescue agency:

We filled out the paperwork the very end of July. We waited.

And waited.

Finally, mid-August, we get an email that they are processing our paperwork, & should have someone call us to set up a home visit.

End of August: home visit by the most annoying bitchface volunteer evah. She immediately rubs me the wrong way, questioning how we care for Daisy. Then she starts steering us away from the dogs we are interested in, one of which we met the day before at a dog adoption event. She also starts steering us towards dogs we have not been interested in. She also throws in, "You probably don't want to get a dog that will take your attention away from your daughter." I hate her. I make faces at her after she leaves.

Mid September: We meet dogs, but none that we originally wanted to meet.

Dog 1: Obsessed with the tennis ball so much that he has to be dragged back to his foster mom's car, barking, pulling, & foaming at the mouth. Not at all interested in us, although he was great with my girl.

Dog 2: Adopted before we could meet him.

Dog 3: We meet a sweet dog that just had tumors removed w/ no biopsy results yet. We like him, of course.

Dog 4: Mysteriously, he "became aggressive" the day we were supposed to meet him, so they cancelled the "meet & greet" until they "can figure out what is going on with him". They assure me his profile is being taken off of their site, that we will get to meet him soon.

Dog 5: We don't want to meet him, so I avoid the foster mom's email.

Dog 6: We grow interested in this guy, seeing that he supposedly has a sweet personality. We meet him, and he is very sweet with us. But when he meets Daisy? He tries to eat her face off. Several times. And she's a patient old lady, but she could only take it for 35 minutes or so before she tried to take his face off. He had to be dragged out of our home.

Yeahhhh, not so much.

Dogs 7, 8, & 9: They give us the wrong information about several dogs, all of which we don't get to meet.

By this time, I am more than beat down. They start emailing us pictures of dogs that are new to the rescue, and I immediately respond to the ones that sound like a good fit. We do not get to meet any of these guys. 4. 4 damn dogs that we don't get to meet because the lady is a bitchface. And they have these random excuses for it: "Oh, another family asked to meet him before you did" (even though I responded to the email a full 3 minutes after it was sent to me), or "He's not really 3, he's 7", or "He's not a good fit for your family".

Then the biopsy results come back on Dog 3. Not good. I take the results to my vet, to get an opinion from a trusted, well-liked individual. He says to RUN, not walk, away from this sweet boy. Based on the results, he will surely have more tumor issues. I can't do this. I can't adopt him, only to have him be so sick, only to have to put him to sleep if he gets too sick. I just can't. I still miss my old man dog, and I can't do this shit again so soon. I can't do it to me, my girl, our old lady dog. No.

So I tell them of our decision concerning Dog 3.

That's when all the shitty emails begin. They are pissed that hubby compared adopting him with buying a lemon of a car. They start questioning our "financial ability" to care for a boxer after I stated that I didn't want to incur a cost of more than my mortgage payment right off the bat. Then they want to know if we have really researched the breed: Are we aware how common tumors are in boxers? Are we aware of their needs? Then they get upset that we might not care enough about our 'fur family members', how they do not agree that we have felt steered by them, that they do not need to justify why we couldn't meet certain dogs, that they "must be doing something right", since they have had over 1100 dogs adopted out in the last 5 years. FML.

SHOOT ME NOW.

So, after a few days of emails, we are done. As of September 30th, we are done. We stop responding to the snotty emails from the head of Lick-my-ass Boxer rescue.

After almost 2 weeks of nothing, we decide to fill out the application for another boxer rescue in the area. On October 11th, we fill out the application, look at the dogs' profiles, and pick out a few that we would like to meet.

On October 12th, I get an email back from this rescue, asking for a bit more information.

That same day, Lick-my-ass emails me about a new foster. I guess they didn't read our last email about being done with them? I calmly respond that we will not be adopting a dog with them. The end.

On October 13th, I receive a call from the foster mom of one of the dogs at this new rescue, stating that she would like to see our home and bring a dog, King Tut, for us to meet.

We meet King Tut on the 16th. He is sweet & gorgeous & way too skinny.

We ask to meet him again on the 18th, when it isn't raining, so we can walk him w/ our old lady dog.

We get approved on the 18th.

He comes over and stays.

He is ours.

Here is our Max:

He looks a little out-of-sorts here, after less than 24 hours with my crazy kid & my crotchety old lady dog. But he is sweet and silly and soft and so loveable. He is playful in the mornings. He loves all of the neighborhood dogs. He is scared of my hubby, but is growing more comfortable with him by the day. He fits here.
He also pees & poops on the floor if he's at home more than 5 hours w/out us. He has torn up the most random things, including one of my flip flops, a throw rug, and a My Little Pony. We bought him a crate this past weekend, and he loves it. No complaints from him at all about being in it at night or during the day when I am gone.
He loves to lie on me & nibbles me when I scratch his side. He finally growled this morning, staring out the front door at the pumpkins on the porch. He "talks" to me in the morning when I am getting ready, sitting proud on my bathroom rug, making sweet puppy eyes at me. He follows my girl everywhere, and likes to watch her splash in the bathtub.
He is stealing our hearts.
*******
As for Lick-my-ass Boxer rescue, this week I emailed the one foster mom we really got along with. She is the sick dog's foster mom. I sent her a picture of Max, & asked about her sick boy. He is doing well, she says, and is planning to adopt him in spite of his health issues. We discussed the similarities in personality between the two boxers. She is happy for us. I can only hope she lets the assholes that run that agency know just how successful we were with another agency.

Wordless Wednesday

It's a blurry & miserable-looking picture, but it's my girl & my dog, and I love them both so much lately....just so damn much. She is no longer a baby; she is a little girl.

For the love of all that is just and holy, shut the holy hell up!

Two things are keeping me from a decent night's sleep:

[Please excuse the darkness, the fact that I can't figure out which light switch goes to the outdoor light (hi-i've lived here almost 2 years), & the shitty visuals. Sleep.deprived.]

In the myst of the mosquitoes

I've got a beautiful backyard going on, if I do say so myself. I still have a long way to go, but I'm slowly getting there. I've got sweet potato vine that needs to start growing already, will ya?, tomatoes that need to turn red, strawberries slowly getting there, & lots of blank areas just waiting to be filled with beautious stuff.

I can lose hours in the day while weeding, pruning, planting, and watering my plants and flowers. Last Sunday, while my girl & her friend Lorelei squealed in the kiddie pool (the real one, not this one), I had time to spend doing those things.

Also? Look at the birdhouse my girl painted. She is so proud of it, and of course, so am I.

And then there is Daisy. The dog that used to avoid me at all costs. The dog who now follows me everywhere I go in the yard, who's snout goes up my ass if I stop short. Yet, she apparently

does not want her picture taken. Seriously?

I can't tell you how many pictures she ends up in because she must be around one of us at.all.times, yet, when I want to take a cute picture of her, this is the crap I get.

I plan on planting some more herbs this weekend, (the ones to deter the stupid mosquitoes), as well as a few ferns & other sun-loving, flowering things. I can't wait!

Missing him still

The last few nights, when going through the night time rituals with my girl, she has told me this:

"Mommy, I really miss Kooter. I want to see him in heaven."

And she cries.

I feel bad. I know that this is an early lesson in learning to live in spite of a loss. A lesson in loving sight-unseen. I want to take the pain from her, but know that I can't, nor should I, really.

She is coping well:
She gives lots of attention to Daisy. We talk about Kooter, how we love him, miss him, how he is still in our hearts, how he can visit us in our dreams, how he is probably happy & at peace, playing fetch with an endless supply of tennis balls.

The last few mornings, when I go into her room, she has moved her pictures around. She has framed pictures of her Monkey Matt, her Aunt Angel, and 2 pictures each of Daisy & Kooter. They are all on her nightstand, but when I go in her room, one of Kooter is on her dresser, facing her bed.

This morning, not only was that picture there again, but the other picture of him, a close-up of his silly face when he was a puppy, was in her bed with her. Also? A tennis ball.

When I asked her about the tennis ball, her simple response choked me up:

"I wanted to play fetch with Kooter if he visited me in my dreams."

My sweet girl, if only you knew what you do to me.

(Nothing) Like Strangers in the Night

It's been about 3 months since I had to put my dear old man dog down. The first few weeks were excruciating-I would call his name when I called my other dog in from the backyard. I would look for him in the middle of the night when I got up to go to the bathroom. I ached for him.
I still do ache for him, although, it is like with any loss....it is getting easier. I am getting used to his silence, his absence.
Daisy, on the other hand, is not faring well. Kooter is all she ever knew, and I think she is really aching for her companion. The first couple of weeks, she whined all night long, and stared at the garage door, waiting for him to come back. Then we progressed to her going in the backyard and running from the door to the gate, back and forth, like a maniac. Now, for well over 2 months, we are in what I think is the depression stage. All she does is sleep. And whine. She wakes me up hourly, from about 2-6, whining and pacing on the wood floors. She also follows my girl around EVERYWHERE. I am glad that they are bonded so well; I think it is truly helping Daisy heal.
I take her on walks, I play with her in the backyard, and I spend a good 20 minutes around 2am each morning, lying on the floor with her, rubbing and loving on her. I give her treats (she got leftover prime rib yesterday!), I talk to her, I remind my girl to give her extra kisses when she goes to bed. Yet....she is still a mess.

My Kooter was always such a kind soul with me. Anytime I was upset, he would sit on my feet, press his head on my legs, and stare up at me with his sweet eyes. If I cried, he found a way to lick my chin. When I would yell, he would hide, but would periodically come out of his hiding spot and do a 'drive-by' check on me: he would walk by me, touch his nose to my hand, and look up at me. He was just so.....I don't know. Is it possible to say that an animal had an 'old soul' about him? I truly think that's what it was. It's like he truly loved me, and understood me, and yearned for me.

A few weeks ago, I was not in a good place, emotionally. I was sad, angry, enraged, depressed. I felt lost. Many nights I fell asleep on the couch, leaving my hand to hang over the couch, grazing the floor with my fingers. I really wanted my Kooter when I realized that this was the first emotional time I was without him.
During this time, I began to dream about him. I would dream that he was chasing Daisy around, they were barking and going after a tennis ball. Then I would dream that he was sitting on my feet, staring up at me with those eyes. Then I would dream that he was chasing my girl, barking, panting, and smiling (yes, yes, dogs do smile). Each night, I dreamt of him during the course of my sleep. On more than one occasion, he would nudge me, lean his weight into my legs, and sniff my hand. One time, he sat in my lap and licked my chin. I was crying. I woke up with such a sense of relief and I felt safe. I can't explain it any other way.
It took me until last week to realize that he was coming to my dreams for a reason-I needed him, so he came. And then he walked through one of my dreams the other night.....no nudge, no lick, no contact-just walked right through my dream like "Hey, I'm just coming by to check on you; don't mind meeeeee."
I told my mother about it, because I knew that she wouldn't think I was reading too much into this. (You might think I'm a nutcake, but honestly, I have meaningful dreams. I have had dreams about people's babies, deaths, etc., before they happen. I have had loved ones visit me in my dreams, and tell me things that do end up happening. Think of that what you will. ) And my mother told me: He was coming to check on me, and also to show me that he is okay. Also, it's possible he is coming to get Daisy-he is preparing me.
Now I wonder if Daisy is in pain. Signs that dogs are in pain include: not wanting to do their normally enjoyable activities, sleeping a lot, whining, limping, not eating much, puking....Daisy does all of these things. I was chalking it all up to missing Kooter, but maybe...??
Is my Daisy dying of longing for her companion? Can my love (and my girl's love) be enough for her? I don't know that I can take another dog passing away so soon. These dogs are my family. Losing Kooter was one of the hardest things I've dealt with (and please don't think that by my saying this, I am discounting any of the other losses that have gone on over the past couple of weeks in the blogging community), next to losing my grandmother, and having my mother get sick when I was younger. The peace I felt when realizing that Kooter comes to me in my dreams every night.....I only hope that he visits Daisy in her dreams too, and that when she is barking, running, and yapping in her dreams, she is chasing Kooter around the backyard of her mind.

On the occasion of his last afternoon

While today is a noteworthy, insanely historical day in our country, I am not as elated as I wanted to be. I am sidetracked and things are a bit out of focus for me.

I had to take my old man dog to the vet to be put to sleep this afternoon. I am a bit in shock-or maybe at peace?-I am not so sure which one it is.

This dog has been my companion for almost 11 years. When I first set out to get my first I'm-in-college-and-must-exert-my-independence-by-buying-a-pet, I actually adopted a beautiful black cat. He had soft, silky fur, or so it seemed. I wouldn't know, really, because the minute I opened his cage in my apartment, he took flight, and dove behind my couch. For days, I tried to coax him out, with food, water, toys, treats. Nothing worked. I have no idea if he even went to the bathroom. I pulled the couch away from the wall, and with each inch I crawled closer to him, his hissing and spitting were amplified by several degrees.

One morning he wasn't behind the sofa. I searched high and low for him in my teeny less-than-1000-square foot apartment, and finally found him flattened under my stereo cabinet. I have no idea how he actually fit under there, but he let me know he was alive and well by smacking me in the face.

This oh-so sweet kittie left my apartment one day. I opened the door, and he darted out so quickly I actually thought twice about the possibility that I had seen a ghost. He hid in the bushes, and took off with one final hiss when I peered under the bushes.

Buh-bye, kittie.

So. Since the cat thing didn't work out quite as planned, I decided on a dog. I wanted a chocolate lab. One with green eyes. My husband, who was just my boyfriend at the time, agreed to trade a rifle scope for a chocolate lab. So we make the trip to this random person's home to pick up my papered chocolate lab. When we get there, the momma comes out with 6 large puppies trailing and stumbling behind her. No chocolate labs left. They had given away the last one by mistake. My boy was the only one left with his sisters.

I'd like to say there was some defining moment that resulted in my picking him out of all of those little girls, but there really wasn't. They were all sweet, puppy-breathed, squirmy balls of energy. They all attacked my legs. I just picked him, the only boy.

Kooter Brown is his name. No idea where the name came from (besides, duhhhh, Dukes of Hazzard-only the most awesome show of my childhood! (well, besides Full House, Punky Brewster, Transformers, and Fresh Prince)), but it stuck.

Kooter was a mess to begin with. He knocked over bowls of food and water in the apartment, so I was greeted with bits of kibble that looked like paper weights. Once he peed on my couch, ate one of my school books, and ate the highlighter. I came home to yellow highlighter on the carpet, on the baseboards, on the tile, on his tongue. It was hard to be mad at him when he yawned large and loud, with a bright yellow tongue.

He fell in the lake once, right off a small dock. He tried to climb back up the ladder. My husband had to jump in and drag him to shore.

He loved to dive in the water and go after your fishing lures. Fishing around him was a damn fiasco.

He loved to swim in my in-laws' pool. We could never get him out. He would swim laps for hours. We would literally have to drag him out and then hold onto his collar to prevent him from jumping in again.

He loved to play with tennis balls. He would chase it forever, as long as someone was throwing it. It was sorta like the nutso dog on Dr. Doolittle-"Throw the ball, throw the ball, THROWTHEBALL!!!!" And he wouldn't let you take it out of his mouth. He had to get it just so, and push it with his nose at you. This always resulted in a big ball-full of slobber.

When he was young, he loved my sister. She was a toddler at the time, and he would lie on the floor with her. He would let her poke his eyes and nose: 'EYES. NOOOOSE.' He licked her face constantly. He also dug up her sandbox, sat in her kiddie pool, and stole every ball she had.

He ate a flat of flowers belonging to my mom once. He dug up bushes in her backyard. He ate a hole in the very center of her living room carpet. I have no idea how he did that.

One time, when taking him to the vet, he jumped out of the back of the truck and took off down this little road, after a rabbit. I had to pull into the ditch, get out, and chase after him.

He also tried to jump out of the back of the truck at the Chic-fil-A drive-thru. The lady was scared shitless to have this 80 lb. black ball of energy jumping in the window at her. He actually got most of his body through the window before falling to the ground.

He had this silly thing of looking up at me with these soulful eyes, and licking my chin. Always my chin.

At some point in time, around 2 years old or so, he became less-than friendly. In his lifetime, he has bitten 7 people, including my girl (he bit her this week). He killed a kitten when we lived in Springtown. He went after cats. He went after my friends' dogs. He even went after Daisy when we first got her. He was not happy at all with her. It took a couple of weeks of growling, snarling, baring teeth, all culminating in Daisy's little head in Kooter's big mouth. After that, they were tight.

It's been difficult having a dog that does not get along with others. We've had several close calls: the rat poison situation, the time he nipped a neighbor's kid (the 2nd incident) after being provoked...I couldn't find his shot records, so he had to be quaranteened for weeks. Each time he has bitten someone, he has lucked out-they were all people who loved me, or loved him, so all was forgiven.

When my girl was born, we made the agreement that if he ever bit any of our children, we would need to get rid of him. When she started crawling, I had to get in the habit of putting him outside, because he would growl at her. I began seperating him from everyone when people came to visit, unless it was family. I had to walk him at night, for fear that we would run into another person walking their dog, and he would attack. There were several close calls in that regard. I had to teach my girl at a very young age that you don't mess with Kooter. But as she gets older, she doesn't understand. Why can't she pet him? Why can't she lie next to him on the floor and rub his belly?

I tried. I really did. I tried resocializing him with people and animals. But it didn't work. Just the other day he put his whole head through our fence at our soon-to-be neighbors' little fuzzball of a dog. And even after the very minimal bite to my girl's finger (barely broke the skin), he growled at her last night.

Last night, I slept on the couch with him. Shitty sleep, let me tell you, but I had to spoon with him one last time. He was a great spooner. I loved on him. Kissed him. Stroked his fur. Examined his paws. Ran my hands along his spine. Scratched his ears.

Today I took him for one last walk, one last chasing of the tennis ball, where amazingly, he let me take it out of his mouth. I fed him things he shouldn't be eating, like animal crackers, chicken nuggets, candy. For one minute, I thought about making him some of my favorite comfort food: pasta.

Today, I did one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life. It was just so damn hard. I felt like a traitor. For an instant, I felt the strong need to pull on his leash, escape from the confines of that small examining room, and just run away with him. But, I know that's not logical. So instead, I petted him, kissed him, let him lick my chin, and fed him dog treats. I rubbed his head and ears at the end, thanking him for being such a good friend, such a good dog, for 11 years.

It was only a matter of time before he bit again. It was only a matter of time before we found out that tumor was cancer. It was only a matter of time before I had to do this very thing that I never wanted to have to do.

I left the vet's office with his collar and leash, my face a mess. I felt like a total dumbass, like a traitor, like someone who lost my best friend. All of those things.

So, while others have been cheering about Obama, I am sitting here crying, with my remaining dog, Daisy, sitting on the couch next to me. She is whining deep in her throat. She keeps looking towards the garage for him. This will be interesting for awhile. There's a hole in both of our hearts now, that no dog can replace.

My sweet Kooter dog:

Why I should (NOT) be allowed out of the house

My dogs are currently living in the garage of our house. With the painter, and 4000 pounds of sawdust from putting in new wood floors, being inside is not really an option for them. And outside? Well, outside is a disaster. We had faulty sprinkler heads (and here I was thinking maybe I was crazy because there was always at least 6 inches of standing water in my backyard, and my husband didn't believe me when I told him over and over 'That is JUST.NOT.RIGHT.') and they are finally being fixed. And?

I am totally getting a beautiful backyard!!! It may be small, but it's about to have a patio under the beautiful arbor, and plants, and roses, and flagstone pathways, and, and, and! This is the best part!: A fenced-in area for my dogs to stay when I put them outside. I am so excited! You have no idea! If I had thought about it, I would have taken some 'before' pictures (standing water and mud holes galore!), but I didn't know that we were doing this! This is my Christmas present from my husband! How cool is that?

Now really, it's so frustrating. He always gives me awesome gifts (remember?: he bought me a telescope for my birthday!!!), and I can never compare! My gifts to him pale in comparison. And I realize that is not what gift-giving is all about, but just once!, I would like to be able to take his breath away by a gift. Sighhhh.

That little story leads to the whole reason behind my post (thanks for hanging in there):

My dogs are living in my garage. I am living in a temporary house, far too big for me, down the street. My dogs can't live in this house for several reasons, but mostly because they create mud holes where ever they go. And their farts make the paint peel. There's that. Oh, and the temporary house doesn't have a fence. That might be an issue.

Anyway, so the other day I got off work and went to walk my dogs. Due to the disaster in my backyard (oh! and front yard too! There's a leak in the sprinkler system there too! Front yard=mud hole), I have a 10 foot by 2 foot patch of grass for them to do their business on. Considering it doesn't take long for two large dogs to ruin that 10x2 foot area, I decided to run them to the park area at the end of my block.

Now, we have a way of doing things. It doesn't vary much, these walks. We walk to the end of the block, hook a right, walk to the end of that street, do a U-turn, walk through the park area, do another U-turn, and make our way back to our block. This isn't difficult, people. Same shit, different day, I tell ya.

We get to the end of the block, and.....something happens.

Namely, my old man dog hooks a hard left. Right in front of me. And, at the same damn time, like they are syncronized walkers who practiced this shit in the garage before I came home.. my old lady dog? The deaf one? She hooks a hard right. Right in front of me. Guess what happens? Just guess.

I trip over both of them.

I actually land on old man dog, who begins to lick my face, all 'Oh, so nice to see you down here'. Old lady dog proceeds to the right, like nothing else is going on, and gets choked by her leash. And then goes, 'Oh! Look! It's a pile of my favorite people!', and comes back, pouncing on my back.

This all happened in about 2.4 seconds, I'm pretty sure. And they acted like it was supposed to go down this way. And the best part? (Yeah, it always gets better): Someone drove by immediately after this happened. And stared.

And then?

We all get up, dust ourselves off, and continue like nothing happened.

Until old man dog begins to poop in the middle of the street.

When she was fixed

Not long after moving to Springtown, the dogs did leave our property, but they didn't go near the crazy neighbors and their blessed chickens. They loved to roam around our ponds, and Daisy loved to eat the cows' shit. How gross is that? (I told you the girl has issues, and it's not just the rat poison. )
Anyway, one day I went out on the front porch to call the dogs in. I hadn't seen them in awhile, and I know by now if they are quiet and stealthily, we have a problem.
I called and called, and no answer.
I went out in the pasture, walked along the dam of one of the ponds, and yelled again.
Within a couple of minutes, Kooter showed up behind me. He seemed innocent enough, so I started calling for Daisy.
I actually had to walk in circles, scanning every inch of the property, because she is blondish/yellowish/reddish, and tends to blend in with the hay. Lovely.
All of a sudden I spot her at my other neighbor's house. With one of their dogs.
Male dogs.
A male dog who is allegedly a blood hound, but looks like a freakin' beagle. Squatty legs. Floppy ears. Dumb as hell.
And guess what this dumb dog is doing???
You guessed it- Humping Daisy.

I got her attention, and got her back to the house. She was not fixed. I started covering the holes under the fence so she couldn't get to her damn boyfriend. Yet, every day, she would somehow disappear.
This went on for about 2 weeks, and my neighbor came by one day, laughing about how we were 'going to have cute puppies'. Uh, NO. Can you imagine?? Blood hound and yellow lab, neither apparently the sharp tool in the shed??? Oh, HELL no.
That evening, she snuck back under the fence, all sweaty.
The next morning, I called the vet and made an appt. to have her fixed.
******************************
When she returned back from the vet, she was a mess. She couldn't walk, she was all doped up, and she was sore. She slept a lot. She didn't even try to get down on her belly and crawl under the fence to her boyfriend. He came to visit once, but Kooter growled at him and he left, tail between his legs, big ears bouncing in the wind.
Her incision got infected. It was a bad deal. She had a seizure. She bled all over the floor.
She gained weight. Lots of it.

When she finally recovered, she was too chunky to squeeze under the fence, or around the edge of the gate.

I had won this battle.
But that's when it got more interesting.

She might have a problem

We moved the night before Thanksgiving. The house in Springtown was built in the 70's, and for all intents and purposes, had stayed in the 70's. When we bought the house, we got the house full of furniture and mice. The previous owners had done their best to keep up with the mice, but they were elderly, and you could tell that they had lost the battle. There were droppings everywhere. Among the droppings, we also found little chunks of yellow flaky stuff, that strangely resembled dried-up playdoh.
I quickly learned it was rat/mouse poison.

By the time we moved our stuff in that day, the sun had set. Our stuff was everywhere. You could barely see the floor. After the warm welcome from one of our neighbors, I didn't want to let my dogs outside unattended. So they stayed in with us, and after we lost steam trying to unpack and attempting to move the old furniture into the garage, we slept in the living room. My hubby slept on the couch, I slept on the loveseat/chair, between us a sea of boxes and furniture.

I woke up to a dark house, and could hear a crunching sound. I realized that one of the dogs was chewing on something. I assumed that it was one of their porcelain dog bones, as I had unpacked them on a whim. I went back to sleep.

Awhile later, I woke again, to Kooter sitting in front of my chair, his wet nose about 2 inches from mine. Daisy? Nowhere to be found.

I convinced him to lie down, so I could sleep a bit longer. However, I started to hear a crunching sound again. I decided to check up on the sound. I maneuvered my way into the kitchen, only to find Daisy eating something strangely resembling dried-up playdoh.

The fucking dog ate rat poison.

And with the house such a mess, there was no telling where the hell she found it, or how much of it she had eaten.

At 6:30am on Thanksgiving morning, I was frantically calling the animal hospital 20 miles away, trying to find out what the hell I needed to do. I was told 'Your dog will go into convulsions, have seizures, go blind, and then die'. LOVELY.

We spent the better part of our Thanksgiving at an animal hospital about 45 miles away. The only one open anywhere near us. We had to bring both dogs, because we weren't sure if Kooter had eaten any of it. They had to induce vomiting. And Daisy, the dog who not only eats everything, but pukes at the drop of a hat, would not puke. They had to give her the medication twice before she puked up some yellow playdoh shit.

Kooter? No poison in his tummy.

They both got shots in the ass, and were given prescriptions for Vitamin K or some shit like that, to make sure they didn't die in the next month. Do you really want to know how much this set me back??

On the way home, the dogs were in the back of my SUV, with all the seats down. Daisy tried to lie next to Kooter, and he started growling at her. She started to get all submissive 'I'm sorry I put you through hell at the vet's office', but he wasn't buying it. She kept at it, and Kooter attacked her. While we were driving down the highway. Scary fangs, foaming at the mouth, growling, barking, trying to kill his sister.

Daisy flew from the back of the SUV to the front in about .5468 seconds. Fur was flying all over the place, she was drooling everywhere, and she jumped into my lap in the front seat, stuffing her dumb head under my armpit.

Kooter laid in the back the rest of the ride home, growling and shooting her the evil eye any time she peeked out from under my armpit.

Fucking dogs.

Don't break into my house

A couple of weeks ago, it was extremely windy here. I'm talking 60 mph winds! It was crazy! Neighboring areas had trees, power lines, and fences blown down. Lucky for us, the only damage we had was some old branches blown out of the tree behind our house, and they landed in our yard.
The second day of these high winds, I came home to no electricity. So, no cooking. I took my girl out to eat, and we ran some errands. By the time we got home, the electricity was back on. However, the rest of the evening, the power kept flickering on and off.

At about 2am, I woke with a start. The power had just flickered off and on and back off again. I laid there, listening to the fan slow to a stop. The trees behind our house were all over the place; I watched them through my windows, bending and struggling in the wind. The wall behind my head was making odd noises.

All of a sudden, the alarm panel across the room starts flashing. A door is open. For a second I contemplate getting up and making the rounds on my own. But then, my favorite enemy Fear, shows it's ugly face, and I decide to wake up my hubby.

Me: Poking him in the ribs. "honey, honey."

Him: Snooooooorrrrre. Silence. Snoooooooooorrrrrre. Silence.

Me: 'Honey! Wake up!' Kicking him in the calves.

Him: 'Huh? Whaaaa?'

Me: 'Uh, hate to wake you, but the power went out again, and one of the doors is now open.'

Him: 'Fuck.'

So, he proceeds to get up, find his gun (cringe), and walk towards the bedroom door in his, ahem, birthday suit. I have fleeting thoughts of him coming up on an intruder, and the intruder being shell-shocked by his nakedness, not the gun.

Him: 'Where are the dogs?'

At the same exact time, me: 'Don't use this as an excuse to shoot the dogs.'

See, our dogs are old. They sleep in the living room, and they sleep through everything. Everything. They used to get all worked up when it would storm, or when weird things happened out in Springtown, but I beat them into submission, and now? They are too deaf, or too afraid of me smacking them, to even bother acknowledging any noise in the house. This time around, they didn't even stop snoring long enough to know that my hubby walked right by them with his gun cocked (no pun intended, sorta).

My husband searches the whole house in the dark, with the gun, naked. I lie in the bed, all tense, straining to make out any noise. And all I hear is the f-ing wind making the wall behind me creak.

My hubby finally makes it back, and it was just as I initially suspected: the wind was so strong that it blew open the door from the garage to the house. It doesn't have the tightest seal all the time.

No burglars, no tornado, no mad ax-murderer on the loose. Whew!!!

At this point, we are both wide awake. Hubby puts the gun back, and as he climbs back into bed, he says to me: 'Would you like to handle my glock?'

Fucking men.

Why I hate my Daisy-Mae lately

The dogs have been home for awhile now, and things have gone pretty well, for the most part. My girl is slowly learning that she needs to give Kooter space, and she backs up when he growls. They have gotten right back into the groove of things: eating on the back porch in the mornings, playing ball for a bit afterwards, sleeping on the cool wood floors during the day, & cozying up on the couch at night. However, Daisy has recently gone back to her old ways.

Last week I caught her digging a hole under the gate. It's a wrought iron fence and gate, so it's not like she was just trying to get a peek of the front of the house.

Three days last week, I came home to the contents of two bathroom trash cans scattered throughout the house. Cotton balls, 75258 pieces of tissues, a used pull-up (shredded, of course), and other random stuff.

Yesterday morning, I woke up to find a pile of puke on the dining room floor. Or rather, it was a Clorox cleaning wipe that someone thought she could eat, but obviously regurgitated.

And last night was the worst of all. After being gone for a mere 5 hours, I walked in the house to find a dozen or so pictures on the floor. In about 140,000 pieces. Pictures I had just organized a couple of weeks ago, so I could buy frames for them. I don't even know how the hell she got them, but she did.

Pictures that can't be replaced. My brother at 4 years old, wrapped up in a blanket our grandma made for him. My brother at 7 years old, with a too-serious look on his face, in a pose that is eerily-similar to mine in a picture from when I was 4. Three pictures of my foster brother. Three pictures that I really loved of my foster brother. Shredded.

Of course, I don't have the negatives, but I'm hoping they just happen to be in my dad's house somewhere. Of course, I couldn't find all the pieces of each picture, because Daisy fucking eats the stupidest stuff!, so I can't even try to have the pictures restored by someone. And I damn sure am not going to root around in her 7000 piles of crap for the missing scraps.

Times like this, I wish we had never gotten her. This morning she is perky, as usual, bouncing around as I feed her, drooling all of the place, like everything is fine. This morning, my mind is scrambling, thinking of all the places photo negatives could be stashed in my father's house.

Welcome Home, Pookies!

$146 at the groomer, minus 15 lbs. of fur each , and.....

My doggies are home!!! I don't know who was more excited-them, me, or my girl. She was all giggly and yelling, "My koower and day-ay".

They spent a good 30 minutes walking around the house, sniffing this, licking that, getting their bearings again. They were so sweet to my girl, licking her face, and letting her put blankets on them, so that she could pat their backs and 'put them ni-ni'. They finally settled down, Daisy on the floor under our feet, and Kooter on the couch, snoring away.

I've never shaved my labs (actually didn't even know that was an option!), but figured it would ease the friction between the dogs and the hubby, so I went for it. OH.MY.GOSH. They are so damn soft, and cute, and have big poofy tails. I swear, I spent 3 hours just petting them last night.

This morning, the dogs were outside eating on the back porch. Grace stood at the back door, chatting away at them, like they were listening, or were even interested.

Then she yelled at me through the house, "Mommy, can you get my Koower and day-ay?" I explained they were eating, and would come in later.

"SIGHHHH. Noooooooo Mommy! My Koower and day-ay in my bed!!"

Oh. Her stuffed animals-a black lab and a yellow lab.

So, I get them for her. And she proceeds to talk to the real dogs, through the door:

"This is my Koower. He sleeps wif me when you gone."

"This is day-ay. She, she lellow (yellow) just like you is, Day-ay!"

My heart just melted, right there.

Driving Miss Daisy

Somehow, I have failed to mention anything about my fur-babies thus far. So, without any further delay (bad mom, bad mom, bad MOM!)....

Here is my yellow lab, Daisy. She will be 8 in October. She is a papered lab, to be exact, so her full name is Driving Miss Daisy Mae...and although you aren't allowed to use cuss words for papered pets, her last name, in my book, will always be: Bitchface. She may be papered, but she is anything but distinguished pedigree.

Notice the buda belly, and the golf ball in the mouth. And the 'What the fuck do you want?' look in those green eyes. My Daisy is a mess. She is lazy. She loves golf balls, and will lie for hours like that. When no one is looking, she will tear the ball to shreds. And then try to eat it. And then I find pieces of it all over the yard for the next week, as she tries to shit it.

Daisy is not the sharpest crayon in the box. Nor the brightest. But she has 9 lives, apparently. She has eaten rat poison and lived. She has attacked the crap out of my other Lab, and lived. She has been hit by a car, and lived. She has chased cattle (and a bull), and lived. I promise you, I have Daisy stories galore. Do you have any idea how much money we have invested in this damn dog???

Daisy was the cutest puppy in the world. She was fuzzy, furry, soft, puppy breath sweet. She snuggled. She also puked in my husband's lap as he was bringing her home to me. First clue, right there.

Second clue: She pissed on my head and pillow a couple of weeks after we got her.

My Daisy really is a mess. She has very stiff hips, and needs exercise. But due to the broken leg, she has a 12 inch metal plate in her front leg, so she can't really bend the elbow, and the foot sorta flops when she walks. So walking her at a high rate of speed is out of the question, as is jogging with her. So, she is thick and there's not a damn thing I can do about it.

She hasn't liked me from Day One, although she is allegedly mine. She ignores me. She runs into me. She steps on my feet, on purpose, I swear. She runs away from me. Oh, I have soooo many stories about this girl.

But, she has a fairly good redeeming quality about her: She loves my girl. She is so sweet and gentle with my girl. I do not worry about my girl with Daisy. And, she loves my other Lab.

Which leads me to, Kooter Brown:

Kooter Brown is a black lab. He is papered as well. My husband traded a deer rifle scope for him. He was the last boy of the litter, and I will never forget when I met him...his tail whacking me at a high rate of speed. He was supposed to be a Chocolate Lab, hence, the name. His name was picked out prior to ever seeing him.

Kooter turned 10 in February. He is an old man dog. I have taken to calling him Old Man
River, and he answers to it. He has a gray face, and other random gray spots on his belly, and on his who-ha. He is supposedly my husband's dog, but he is soooooo mine.

Kooter came from two 100 lb. parents. He was a big boy too, for awhile. I got him to lose weight, but my mother has fattened him up lately. However, regardless of what he weighs, he still likes to sit on my lap. He loves to spoon with me. He loves to lie next to me on the couch. When I am standing up, he will literally sit on my feet, and look up at me with those big brown eyes. Sometimes, he makes all sorts of noises: grunts, growls, whining....like he is trying to communicate with me. He totally should have been born a little lap dog.

However, Kooter has an odd side to him, that has made me very weary the past several years: Kooter has snapped at and bit several people. It's always been very odd-he's fine one minute, and they next he just snaps at them, and usually in the face. And after he has done it, he is so very sweet to that person. For instance, he bit my brother once. My brother was throwing a tennis ball for him, and Kooter apparently thought my brother faked him out. He ran out in the yard for the ball, didn't see it, and ran back to my brother. My brother pointed to the ball, and Kooter jumped up and bit my brother in the lip. And my brother tried to block his face, so his hand got bit too. There was no previous aggression, no growling or baring of the teeth, nothing. And afterwards, he was sitting on my brother's feet, being very docile, like he knew he had done wrong. And since that time, he loves my brother when he is around. He follows him, and sleeps with him.

Understandably, now that I have a child, this worries me. So, when my girl was at the crawling stage, my dogs got the boot. They were outside when she was awake. When she went to sleep, I let them in. And that was a big adjustment for them. And for me.

Then, we moved into a rent house with my mom last year, while our current house was being built. And my little sis has a little dog. And the fear that Kooter would eat her little dog was real, for all of us, so my dogs were booted outside, for about 3 months straight. It killed me. I felt so very bad. And in that time, I found a tumor on Kooter. One that was open and bleeding. And can I tell you how guilty I felt? I mean, if they weren't stuck outside all the time, maybe I would have seen it sooner????

And then, we moved into our new home. And my fat ass Daisy broke the fence. And they started running away. They didn't terrorize anyone; they just wandered the neighborhood. See, they had 23 acres to roam on, for about 3 years, when we lived in Springtown. Now, they have like 1/32 of an acre, seriously. So, it's not a surprise that they want to wander. So, I moved them to my mom's backyard, temporarily, while they put up our new fence, and fixed the drainage issue in our backyard.

That was 5 months ago.

I want my dogs back. I miss them. I love the companionship.

But, my husband is not thrilled. He stopped loving them the instant our daughter was born; I have no idea why. He doesn't pay attention to them, nor does he even look at them. I know he wants them to be gone for good, but I can't do that. They are mine and just as important: we are theirs.

My dilemma at this point is this: Kooter listens, he is calm, he is an old man dog who just wants to sleep and cuddle. Daisy doesn't listen, destroys plants, digs, drools nonstop, and randomly moves shit around the house. If it were just Kooter, I think things would be less complicated. But I cannot bring myself to separate them, to give Daisy away. How could I do that??