Ivy League

Granddog Ivy had gone to the canine coiffure the day before she and her peeps visited us and frankly, Dearly Beloved and I weren’t sure what to make of her new “do.”

Sometimes her grooming has left her fluffy and other times she’s been shaved to waif-like thinness.  This time, she had a fluffy tail, shaved body and a pouf topknot which came off looking more like a permed mullet.

She seemed more reserved than she has on earlier visits.  Only during walks did we see signs of her usual enthusiasm.  Even our daughter thought that Ivy seemed a bit depressed.

(What was it about that hair style?   Shirley Temple?  Roseanne Roseanna Danna?  Aunt Pittypat?  I couldn’t put my finger on it.)

I e-mailed a picture of Ivy to my British pal.  She wrote back immediately that, “the dog looks like a real floozy.” 

Really?  Look at that melancholy expression.  It says, “I’m a sensitive, pensive  adolescent.”  

Does it say, “floozy”?  I think not!

Ivy’s lack of zest was so obvious that even Miss Piggy, who usually considers the granddog a pest,  seemed sympathetic.  She made a real effort to get closer.

After Ivy returned home to her peeps, I continued to worry about her.  Worried, that is, until I received an e-mailed photo from my daughter.   I couldn’t believe it was the same dog!

The subject line:  “Ivy and her boyfriend.”

Good grief!  My friend had a point!

Phantom of the Night

My Dearly Beloved is a very light sleeper.

I have previously explained our differences in sleeping habits. I sleep soundly and deeply.   So that I won’t be mistaken for a corpse, my engine purrs when I sleep– loudly, so DB frequently reminds me. Snoring is my emergency generator.

Noises rarely disturb me, but jostling the bed may, and I’ve been waking at suspiciously odd hours lately, like a few nights ago during a thunderboomer.  I thought perhaps my dog-mom instincts were kicking in.  Miss Piggy likes to hide from storms, so I pushed back the covers to get up and go help her find a good hidey hole.

“Where are you going?”  DB asked before my feet hit the floor.  There was no trace of sleep in his voice.

“To check on Miss Piggy.”

“She’s in our closet,” he informed me, a smug note to his voice.  ”I’ve already taken care of her.  Can’t you hear her snoring in there?”  

No, I couldn’t hear her snoring, nor did I want to.  I don’t lie in bed and listen for sounds to obsess about.  Why should both of us do so?  I realized that it hadn’t been the thunder that awakened me; he sounded too guilty.  He’d been prowling around the house again.

Before I was able to drop back into Dreamsville, he was out of bed once more, searching for some imaginary moth wing-decibel noise.  Most people in search of disquietude might arm themselves with something like a baseball bat.  Not DB.

His weapon of choice is a pillow.

To his credit, he makes the bed every morning.  That way, he can collect the pillows he strategically placed during his ramblings to cover excesses like the blazing beams from electronics (i.e., the VCR button) and to smother deafening sounds (electric clock.)

“Why don’t you simply unplug the clock?” I asked him one night.  I mean, it’s not like it’s even set to the right time.  Nope.  That’s not the way he works.

I have removed my little bedside radio from the nightstand in order to save him a pillow.  (And to protect mine, lest he snatch it from beneath my head.) I would not be surprised to find one on the bathroom counter, covering his electric toothbrush.  That green dot on the handle that shows it’s charging must be a lighthouse beacon to Mr. Light Sleeper.

Wondering why he doesn’t simply close the door to shut out some of the distractions?  He wouldn’t dream of it.  He has to track the offending objects to their source and punish them for their misdeeds.

Last night DB got back into bed after one of his spectral searches.  None too carefully, I might add, for he woke me in the process.  He’d heard a noise.  I don’t mean a “someone is breaking in” sound.  Oh no. I’m talking a Was-that-a-leaf-dropping-off-that-loud-plant-of-yours cacophony.

“What time is it?”  I asked, sleepily.

“12:30.”  

Great.  I’d been asleep for about an hour.  I groaned and rolled over when he came back to bed.

“Don’t worry.  My golf clubs are safe in the garage.”

I didn’t respond.

“You’ve seen that commercial, haven’t you?” he asked in his let’s chat voice.

I haven’t seen the commercial and didn’t want to hear about it at 12:30 AM.

(And my dentist wonders why I grind my teeth at night.)

DB says not, but I’m wondering if the man has OCD (Obsessive/Compulsive Disorder.)   I certainly realize what I’m dealing with in my own situation:  PITA.

Pain In The Ass.

(BroJoe's beach moon from 3/11)

Did you hear about the great new restaurant on the moon?

The food is excellent, but there’s no atmosphere.

Bite Me!

By now, because of all of our walks with Miss Piggy, we have met most of the neighborhood dogs.  Some are dainty doglets with bows on their ears and cute little raincoats covering their coiffed curls,  while others are just good ol’ dawgs that wouldn’t be caught dead in a dog sweater.

The late Howard Lee had a wardrobe which consisted of XL and XXL men’s t-shirts which still had to be cut in the neck to accommodate his XXXL large head.  He wore them, quite contentedly, to protect his stitches following his operations, after expressing his opinions about cone collars to his veterinary surgeons.  He also had several pairs of boots, to protect his paws from the Minnesota slush and salt.

Miss P’s doggy wardrobe is sparse:  one striped t-shirt which matches the grandsons’ pajamas of several Christmases ago.  (I have yarn to knit her a sweater, but it’s way down in my stash.)   It could never compete with the wardrobe of the ever-fashionable Stella, the granddog whose closet is probably larger than mine.

Sock Monkey Stella

And then there is our other granddog, Ivy, who has moved well beyond her initial Little Match Girl portrayal to a wardrobe fit for a Calendar Dog.  Check it out–it’s feminine, but quite tasteful.

Our neighbors wonder if they should assemble a wardrobe for their dog, a large, lazy Lab who spends much of her time on the window seat in their large bay window.  Look at the photograph which Dearly Beloved took yesterday.  Even with the glare and reflection in the picture,  I think you can make out the unfortunate scene unfolding there.

They’re uncertain as to exactly what article of clothing might address their situation before they receive an admonition letter from the Homeowners Association.

 Does anyone even make capri pants for dogs?

Sure, I Surf. Pass the Remote.

After Labor Day, beach crowds thin and dogs on the beach become a common sight, even though the No Dogs On the Beach rule is in place for another month or so.

In mid-autumn, when the restrictions are formally lifted and meters are removed to make beach parking free, the ocean is still warm enough for the Labs and Golden Retrievers to splash in the waves.  The free parking we enjoy, but allowing dogs on the beach doesn’t change much for us, other than making us more careful where we step.

Miss Piggy is not a beach dog.

She won’t fetch on dry land unless it’s for something edible, so there’s zero possibility that she’s going to follow some loopy Lab into the ocean to fetch a stick. Since she won’t even walk on dewy grass, her paws aren’t likely to feel the salt water on them.

Not that I’m criticizing.  I haven’t been in the ocean over my calves in years.  That’s as far as I can go without putting on a bathing suit and that’s not going to happen unless scientists prove that salt water removes cellulite.

Taking Miss Piggy to the beach is risky because we never know which dog will arrive.  Some days she’ll prance, looking like she’s humming Under the Boardwalk under her breath.  Other days are strictly “NOOO-bod-ee knows the trouble I’ve seen…” and she walks along in determined, mule-heading-back-to-the-barn mode.

I believe such is the derivation of the term dogged determination.

Again, it’s not that I’m unsympathetic.  I liken it to the feeling of heading for the bedroom to finally change after a day in constricting bra and panty hose.

I doubt that this video will inspire her, but it’s awfully cute.  Maybe she’ll think the English bulldog is a Hunk.

The skateboard part is my favorite.  That dog has moves!  Well, so does Miss Piggy, but she eats hers.

Dyson Dog Syndome

Yesterday I was looking through some old photos and came across this one of Miss Piggy and The Late Howard Lee.

Our scanner isn’t working, so this is actually a picture of a picture.  It is also a prime illustration of how looks can be deceiving.

Notice how Howard looks like a slob, spread out over the floor like an Akita skin rug, while Miss Goody Four Paws sits daintily on the rug.  Oh, so wrong!   Howard had nobility and dignity.  Miss Piggy ?  No, no, no, not one drop of either.

The same dog that won’t step in dewy grass and doesn’t like to lie on the bare floor,  gets down and dirty in other situations.

I’ve noticed, during my recent forays on the Trail of Turds (our walks), that Miss Piggy’s droppings have been liberally peppered with little black flecks.  Perhaps I watch too much NCIS, but couldn’t this mean trouble?  My curiosity was aroused, not to mention my gag reflex.

While granddog goldendoodle Ivy was here, we fed them identical amounts of kibble, eliminated Miss P’s table food scraps in the interest of fairness, and cut back on dog treats.  Because Miss Piggy lives to eat, I feared that she would go into a depression but, perhaps because she saw that Ivy was getting the same treatment, she handled it pretty well, concentrating on stealing Ivy’s rawhide chews during that period.

A visit to the vet confirmed that this new diet regimen reaped big rewards.  She’d lost almost five pounds.  Our trimmed-down cocker spaniel now has more energy and takes longer walks, so we have continued to maintain that tough dietary stance.  (Okay, there was the Boar’s Head wiener incident, but that was only one bite…!)

What SHE adds to her diet is beyond our control and she is disgustingly creative about that.   After she raids the compost pile,  she trolls the yard, looking for any poop that strikes her fancy.  Dog poop…rabbit poop… bird poop… and probably chipmunk and squirrel poop, too, although I can’t be sure of that.  What does squirrel poop look like?  Do they bury it in some of those holes they dig?

Back to the peppery poop….  I asked Dearly Beloved if he’d noticed it.  He had… and was confident that he had identified it.

Thistle seeds.

Our  bird-brained pooch is eating bird seed!  The seeds fall out of the feeders and she scarfs them down the ol’ hatch before the birds or the squirrels can get to them.

Not that her behavior doesn’t have an upside….  For one thing,  she wants to go outside more, so she isn’t leaking in the house now.  Too, the damnsquirrels are discouraged by the slim pickings around the feeder.  Is that why, after years of ignoring our feeders, the bluebirds visit regularly in surprising numbers?

All this time, we’ve been thinking she should to earn her keep by doing something about those tree rats, like chasing them, but her handling of the situation seems to be working.  She sniffs around the yard, making her piggy noises as she vacuums everything into her gut.

Are we about to have a diverticular dog on our hands?

She doesn’t appear worried.  And her solution is working.

She may not be noble, but she’s certainly making a noble effort.

Our Mood Is Going to the Dogs

Next week, I guess we’ll be singing the blues.  The song?  Ivy Doesn’t Live Here Any More.

Daughter and her family are ready to reclaim their goldendoodle, the granddog we have been keeping for them since before Christmas.   No bad backs, no snow or ice on our roads, no sick grandkids.   In other words, we can’t come up with any excuses to keep her longer, darn it.

It’s going to be tough for Dearly Beloved.  Like Batman losing Robin… even though Robin will be returning to her band of merry men (three fun little boys!)  in this case.

Yes, I know I’m mixing my tales.

Leaf patrol.

 

Let's try the new 2-wheeler.

Twosome & two-wheeler.

Waiting, waiting.

Pat for a pal.

 

——————————————————————————————

Are you thinking that Miss Piggy is out there, too… enjoying the fresh air and the company?

Guess again.   She’s by the kitchen door, on Crumb Patrol.   She was groomed this week.  Does she look thinner, after her hair cut?

 

 

 

 

Get ready for this.  I’m going to show you why we call her Miss Piggy.

It’s shocking.

Porker.

No way is Miss Piggy going to follow that wheelbarrow.–unless it’s filled with dog treats.  Even then, she’d want a ride.

 

 

Mother Goosed

Aging makes a bunch of collateral strikes that one doesn’t expect.  That’s assuming you already know that spider veins and age spots are going to decorate your body and those darned skin tags are going to show up in extremely irritating places.  (Or maybe it’s just me who gets them underneath my bra elastic.)

Why do ears and noses continue to grow even as hearing and sense of smell decline?

Feet?  When I was in college, I wore a size 6.  Are my feet growing, too, or have my arches sunk 2 1/2 sizes?

Even as some parts are balding, let’s not even talk about inappropriate hairs that crop up in other places.   Last week when we were preparing to drive back to Charlotte, Dearly Beloved pointed to his nose and asked, “Do you want me to tweeze these white nose hairs or would you rather I leave them so you’ll have something to obsess about on the trip home?”

I voted for the pluck.  (But thanks for asking.)

No, in the ever-changing period between maturity and over-ripening,  I was referring to the noises we find ourselves emitting.  It’s hard to know where to start…! I’m not speaking of gas, although more than one friend has confessed how irritating it is to have spent all those years telling their children it is rude to break wind, only to have grandchildren now whispering that Grandma “let one.”

I wonder if T. Boone Pickens is looking into harnessing this.   He’s already thinking “natural gas” to run cars.  I can see it now. . . a world where senior citizens and 9-year-old boys fuel the country’s transportation needs.

No, I was speaking of noises within my own house.  For sometime now, DB and I have  realized that we’ve developed some decidedly annoying habits.  By the time he pointed mine out to me,  it was full-blown and hard to break:  I grunt.

I grunt when I sit down and when I stand up.  I grunt when I reach for the car door or when I bend over to retrieve something.  Not just a soft sigh kind of grunt, either.  If you heard Venus Williams in a tie-breaker at Wimbleton and me as I was reaching in the back of a lower cabinet looking for a pot lid,  you’d be hard pressed to guess which one of us was exerting the most effort.

DB, on the other hand, is a yawner. In his case. . . well, remember the Dr. Seuss character named Von Vleck, who “is yawning so wide you can look down his neck”? What do you want to know about the view beyond DB’s tonsils?   His yawns are not silent; there is a deep breath intake, followed by a lion-worthy roar.  Since he is Mr. Proper,  it is quite out of character for him to yawn so widely that it exceeds the span of covering hand.

To add to the audio, we have Miss Piggy, the snorter, still trolling the kitchen floor.   The sounds would be appropriate on a truffle hunt, perhaps,  but are way over-the-top for the Crumb Police.   If we toss cereal out for the birds, she will spend hours making sure she finds every single one.

She makes that sound when she has an itch too.   With what we spend each month on flea control, we should be spared the neght-neght-neght-neght-neght as she burrows into various parts of her body on a scavenger hunt for itch-causers.

Picture this bedroom scene because I promise it’s the truth:  DB is asleep, having dozed off watching a baseball game and I am reading a book.  Miss Piggy is soundly asleep in the den at the other end of the house.   When I turn off the tv and the light and am just beginning to fall asleep, however,  here she comes, clicking down the hall to the bedroom.  She climbs into her dog bed and begins the annoying neght-neght-neght hygiene ritual.

I might WELCOME the sound of a buzzing fly or cricket at that point.  I can’t yell at her to stop so I climb out of bed and stand over her to whisper ferociously, “STOP THAT!” She will cease and desist immediately,  sometimes moving into snoring mode before I barely have time to get re-settled in the bed.

What would Mother Goose have thought of all this noise?

Mr. Lee had a habit, you see. . .

he would yawn and open so wide

That a little bird, in a movement absurd,

built a tiny nest inside.

Mistress Mary, sounding quite scary,

emitted groans and grunts of grand scale

The noises were heard by the small yellow bird

Which thought they came from a whale.

Miss Piggy, the dog in the corner,

so convincingly snorted and sniffed as she’d root

Folks thought her to be the Muppet herself,

Hiding in a cocker spaniel suit.

The Lee household sounded so exotic

As they yawned, grunted, groaned, and roared,

Imagine their surprise when the notice arrived:

A Zoo violation, warned the zoning board.

P.S.  Happy Birthday, Son-O-Mine!