Pups Grow Up

I absolutely, positively did not want a puppy. In November 2016, when Brody died and we’d already lost Darwin to cancer in June, I desperately needed a dog. I hadn’t been dogless in my life. I’m not cut out to not have a dog. But I didn’t want a puppy. I’m too old to be dealing with puppy shenanigans.

Then I found Mozzie, and two months later, Oliver.

Yesterday, Mozzie turned 19 months old, and Oliver turned 17 months.

Here they were a year ago, at 7 and 5 months.

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Mozzie, top; Oliver, bottom

Now they’re so grown up. They might grow a little more, and fill out, but Mozzie was 62 pounds at his vet check last month, and Oliver was 57, and I don’t think either of them will gain much more than maybe five pounds. Just look at these faces!

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Oliver, left; Mozzie, right

They wake me up early, follow me everywhere, observe my every move, destroy the yard, bark and tear for the front window at every sound, terrorize squirrels, drag their toys all over the house, and generally behave like hyperactive heathens.

But they play and run and snuggle and make me laugh and keep me company. I didn’t want a puppy–much less two–but it turns out they were exactly what I needed.

Just Look At The Flowers…

Last spring, I still had five rose bushes. I also had two puppies, who are 17 months (Oliver) and 19 months (Mozzie) today. By last fall, I had one rose bush, and it’s definitely the worse for wear. The other four are…gone. Not destroyed or torn up. Obliterated. The three-tier raised garden beds weren’t planted last year, because I’m not a total imbecile. The Direwolves decided the gardens were puppy jungle gyms, so I’ll be scavenging the boards for parts.

At any rate, I’m sticking to my deck rail planters and some large pots on the deck. And as it’s getting springy in eastern North Carolina, we made an outing to get some flowers today. It will be a while before they fill out, but it feels good to be doing something summery.

There are four of the rectangular rail planters and two of the round pots.

We also went to the craft store because the tiny row counter I had has decided to play hide and seek way too often, last night somehow getting completely under the recliner by my couch, way in the middle of the square wooden frame beneath it. I’d just about decided Oliver had eaten it. But I got a bigger one, the red object I sort of chopped out in the image below.

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The yarn is nothing special; I just liked the colors. I wish the one indie yarn shop in town hadn’t closed last year. Now that I’m knitting, I’d love some boutique and specialty yarns. With crochet, my projects tended to be larger scale, making fancy yarn cost-prohibitive.

With the plants planted, it’s time to work on my Rolling Meadows scarf. It’s about 10″ long so far. These images aren’t the best, because this scarf will need a good bit of blocking when done to show off the shape and pattern, so I just stretched it out so you could get an idea.

Information on the pattern and yarn used can be found HERE on yesterday’s post.

Thank goodness I don’t have to cook today! We have guests this weekend, and we went  out to lunch, and have a fridge full of leftover pizza from last night.

If you’re looking for me, I’ll be butt-planted on the couch now, knitting and watching Doctor Who, until 9:00 when tonight’s episode of The Walking Dead starts. I host a live chat in a private Facebook group, so if you’re interested, send me a message on Facebook and ask me to add you!

Grumpypants

Did you know if you do an image search for “grumpy golden retriever” or “golden retriever in a bad mood” you won’t find much? This shouldn’t surprise me. Goldens are almost pathologically cheerful. They can pull off sad, or disappointed, or bored, or play-snarling, but it’s not easy to find a grouchy golden.

Why was I looking for a picture of a grouchy-golden? Because I’m in a vile mood today and wanted a photo representation, preferably in dog form. After extensive research (three or four minutes trying various combinations of bad/vile/grouchy dog in a Google image search), this guy is the clear winner and accurately depicts my current outlook.

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“Whatever you’re thinking of saying or doing…don’t. Just. Don’t.”

But why? Nothing really unusual here at Furwood Forest today. Awoke to customary puppy-snuggles, it’s not raining, internet is working. Some non-standard and disturbing stuff in the work inbox, I guess, and routine tasks that have a few extra-fun complications involved.

Mainly this, though:

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My to-do list is significantly heftier than my motivation, which does present a problem. I find that on days like this, it’s best to unplug, disengage, and do something mindless. Sadly, this is not an option today.

The only plan I can devise is to fire up the brain-focus and get work done so I can then shift into mindless mode and work on my scarf, which is growing quite a bit. It needs to be at least a foot longer, because I want to wrap it around and still have lots of knitted goodness draped down over my front when I wear it.

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A better solution would be to follow the dream I had last night–no, not that kind of dream, so get your mind out of the gutter–and go to England to visit my longtime author friend, where we will go shopping and buy pear vodka (which it turns out is really a thing) while I try to figure out if dollars work in the UK.

That sounds like a lot more fun than what I need to do. But alas, England is far-far away across a vast ocean, and a check of air fares for flights leaving today tells me it would cost about $3,000 to hop a plane to London, and that’s before I factor in the price of the pear vodka, which I can assume would be substantial, because I feel like I want a lot of it.

And this concludes the whining portion of the day, or the whinging portion, as they say in the UK–a word I love for some reason, and also I’m working on my British English so I’m prepared when I finally decide to get a passport and go there.

Actually, there’s likely to be a lot more whinging (see what I did there?) but the only ones who will hear it are Mozzie and Oliver, and when they get sick of listening to me, I might finally get a photo of a grumpy golden, and also a standard poodle, filling a definite void in the meme universe.

Classic: Brody The Mouse-Barker

Some of you might remember Brody, our dearly departed Great Pyrenees, patroller of the yard and guardian of all the things. These classic posts took place ten years ago at our house in Minnesota.

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Rodent Rescue Part One:

I’m not at my most mentally acute at 5:25 a.m. Or at 6:25. Or, truthfully, 7:25. This morning at 5:25 I was in the shower when I heard Brody barking outside. Admittedly, Brody does bark outside a lot. Every day. Until I go outside and chase his fluffy Pyr-butt into the house before the neighbors call Animal Control.

But this was not his usual guardian-type “Brrrrrrrr-ROO-ROO-ROO!” It was a constant series of short, staccato, emphatic yips, and he sounded a bit agitated. The last I’d seen him, he was near the pool, an area in which he doesn’t tend to spend a lot of time due to the risk of accidentally dampening his paws. Brody isn’t a fan of anything moist, unless it is frozen and piled in drifts in the yard.

I told myself I’d just quickly finish my shower, and then go see what his problem was. Then I got thinking, “What if the big idiot fell in the pool?” He’s never been in there, so he isn’t aware of the stairs at the shallow end as a means of exiting the dreaded aquatic death trap. I began picturing a 100-pound, soaking wet, massively furry, coat-blowing, freaked-out, pissed-off Great Pyrenees who would take until September to dry and decided I’d better get out of the shower and see what was going on.

I wrapped a towel around myself and ventured out to the sliding glass doors, where I observed Brody lying by the pool, front paws draped over the edge, staring intently at something in the water, and barking like a broken record. Clearly, further investigation was in order. I hopped back in the shower to rinse off, then threw on some clothes and headed outside.

It wasn’t hard to figure out what was inspiring Brody’s bark-fest. There was a mouse (or possibly a vole; I don’t really know the difference) swimming in the pool. Actually, he was drowning in the pool. He’d paddle frantically for a few seconds, slip beneath the surface, then fight his way back up. I had to help him!

I’m an animal-lover, obviously. I go out of my way not to kill things, at least as long as they stay in the Great Outdoors where they belong. If this mouse (or possibly vole) were pooping in my silverware drawer, I would immediately set a death-inducing trap to put an end to his intrusion once and for all.

I looked around for the pool net and didn’t see it. I did see the pole on which the net belongs, but the net was nowhere to be found. I stuck the pole in the water, and Mr. Mouse tried to climb up on it, but it was too narrow and slippery, and he kept falling off.

Next, I grabbed a beach towel that was lying near one of the Adirondack chairs, and tossed that onto the surface of the water, thinking he could scurry up onto that and I could pull him out, without having to risk actual hand-to-mouse contact. He did not see the carefully thought-out logic and refused to approach the floating towel.

Finally, I picked up a stainless steel bowl, waited for drowny-mouse to get close to the side, and scooped him to safety. I deposited him in the mulch near the fence, hoping Brody didn’t pounce and eat him. That would have been bitterly ironic after my heroic efforts to keep the little rodent alive. Brody continued to monitor the pool for wildlife, and I watched the mouse (or vole) huddle by the fence and begin to groom himself back into composure.

This was a lot for me to accomplish by just after 5:30 in the morning! Plus, it totally blew my morning routine, and we all know how I thrive on routine, especially in the early morning hours when independent thought is far more difficult than it is later in the day.

I hope Mr. Mouse (or Vole) returns my good deed by staying out of my pantry and silverware drawer. If he is foolish enough to pack up his entire rodent family and move in, I will have no qualms about smushing all their little heads in my decidedly not humane mousetraps. I have rules. Just stay out of my house, and we’ll get along fine.

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Rodent Rescue Repeat:

Something suspicious is going on in the rodent world. Once again, before 5:30 a.m., Brody discovered a mouse swimming in the pool. I’m pretty sure it’s a mouse now, because I think voles have shorter tails. I probably need to research that. But if these guys would just stay the hell out of my pool, I’d be spared the necessity of answering this crucial question, which would be fantastic because I really don’t have the time.

This mouse was in much better shape than the one yesterday (if, in fact, it is a different mouse at all), apparently having gone into the drink not too long before he was discovered. Tom had returned the pool net to the patio area, since yesterday it had been downstairs somewhere so he could repair some tears in it.

I scooped mousey-boy into the net and began raising him out of the water. You’d think he’d be grateful, but was he? No, he leaped out of the net and back into the water (which made Brody eight different kinds of crazy) several times before I basically dipped and flung him in the general direction of the fence, where he rustled through the grape vines.

Now I have serious questions. What is going on with these mice? I haven’t fished a mouse out of the pool all summer, and now I’ve done so two days in a row. I have several theories.

  1. This was the same mouse, and he either has suicidal tendencies or was brain damaged in his near-drowning yesterday and returned to the pool as the result of a post-traumatic episode.
  2. These mice were contestants in some kind of rodent reality show, the object of which is to last the longest in the giant, chlorinated ocean. 5:00-5:30 a.m. is prime time for mouse television viewing.
  3. These are teenage male mice, and this is their version of Jackass.

Butch: Hey, Ralphie, bet you can’t swim across that pool, bite the dog on the nose, and then swim back.

Ralphie: Sure I can, Butch, just watch me!

(Splash, paddle-paddle-paddle, gasp, sputter, glug)

Ralphie: Hey, Butch, little help here?

Butch: (Coming from the bushes) Snicker, snort. What a moron.

  1. For some reason, Brody has become the nemesis of all the neighborhood mice, and this is an assassination attempt. They are trying to lure him to a watery death, and the Suicide Swimmer is bait.
  2. They are not mice at all. They are lemmings.

I suppose it could also be a well-planned diversionary tactic, keeping me focused on the back yard while hordes of mice are moving into our laundry room. I hope that’s not it, because I really don’t enjoy tracking mouse-trap casualties on the whiteboard in the kitchen (much). At one point a few years ago it read: “Lori, 11: Mice, 0.”

Ultimately, I just hope Brody’s bladder doesn’t explode. He’s so focused on patrolling the pool for mice that I think he’s forgetting to go out in the yard to take care of necessities. Which, of course, could also be part of the mice’s global dog-destruction plan.

I would feel a lot better if I could decide if these mice are really smart or really dumb. That would help me narrow down the possibilities.

 

 

 

 

Direwolf Grooming Day

Oliver is a standard poodle, which means a trip to the groomer every 6-8 weeks. Mozzie is a golden retriever, which would usually mean grooming also, because I’m old and brittle and out of shape and lazy and happily pay someone to blow out all that dense golden undercoat, but Mozzie has a very light coat for a golden. I take him for a nail trim and bathe and brush him at home. Which is good, because he’s an anxious, twitchy dog, and being left for 5-6 hours in a busy pet resort would freak him out.

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Not Mozzie, obviously, because my bathroom is purple, not pink, and my tub is much bigger. Also, Mozzie would probably be afraid of the rubber ducky.

All I want is to get Nutball 1 and Nutball 2 into the car and to Jill’s Pet Resort with a minimum of chaos, but it never works out that way. The moment I begin laying out my clothes, they know. Bra, jeans, shoes. All things they never see unless there’s an outing in my immediate future.

I get the leashes out while they’re outside, but they still know. I get my purse out of the kitchen drawer…dead giveaway. Putting a harness and leash on two panting, whirling, over-excited, highly suspicious 60ish-pound puppies is challenging, to say the least.

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A couple of groomings ago, I didn’t realize I’d hooked Oliver’s leash through his tag ring instead of the leash ring on his collar. Trying to get two insane dogs from the car to the groomer resulted in ring-failure. I had to grab his collar, while Mozzie was in full fight-or-flight mode, trying to slip his collar and depart for the nearest horizon at speed. Luckily, the staff at Jill’s saw what was happening and came to our rescue.

Which is why they now always wear their harnesses when we go out, and why I schedule grooming for Tom’s day off so he can assist with dog-wrangling. Even with his help today, though, while I was bent over putting on Oliver’s harness, Mozzie came cannonballing through the kitchen and head-butted me at full speed. I don’t know how neither of us is unconscious.

As you know if you’ve followed my dog posts, Oliver and Mozzie are great brothers. They get along better than any two dogs I’ve ever had, and have been raised together since they were four and six months old. They very rarely fight. With one exception. When Oliver comes home from grooming, he’s either over-stimulated or annoyed, and he immediately wants to fight. We’ve been working on sorting this out. Today, Oliver started growling the second he came in the door. They’ll keep their distance for a while, and I’m trying to keep things low-key.

Tom and I disagree about Oliver’s grooming. Neither of us wants a “fussy looking” poodle with poms and rosettes and topknots. But I still want him to clearly be a poodle. So he gets a moderate head-puff, short-trimmed feet and face, natural tail, and short clip on the body.

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This will never happen. EVER.

Tom sort of likes Oliver right before grooming, when he looks like a homeless Muppet. He’s cute, regardless, but eventually you have to clip them back into poodle-shape. Never fear, he’ll be Muppety again in no time.

But what you really want to see is before and after photos, right? Yeah, me too.

Okay, Oliver before. Still mind-bogglingly cute, but getting a bit disheveled-looking, and starting to want to tangle.

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And now after. I’m not totally nuts about the full-on, freshly-groomed poodle clip, but you have to reset the poodlemeter from time to time. I’ll like his look best in about two weeks. I’ll like that for a couple of weeks, then start whining that he needs to be groomed again.

Mozzie got a nail trim and a good brushing, which was all he needed. So no before…but when I was taking pictures of Oliver, he didn’t want to be left out. That golden smile!

Freshly groomed or shaggy and rumply, they’re adorable and totally our boys. Just don’t tell Oliver that Mozzie got to go for a walk in the park and play ball with Dad in the back yard while he was gone.

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Promise To My Dogs

I wrote this last year, when Mozzie was a puppy and just before we adopted Oliver. Now, Mozzie is 18 1/2 months old, and Oliver is 16 1/2 months, and these words are truer than ever.

First Friend Mozziver
I will teach you all you need to know to be able to enjoy the world around you but still allow you to be a dog. We will work on the specifics of obedience, but you will always have fun.
I will never touch you in anger. If I ever handle you harshly, it will only be to keep you from harm.
I will never allow anyone, human or animal, to cause you physical or emotional discomfort.
You will never be cold, hungry, or lonely a day in your life if it is within my power. I will always have time for you.
I will maintain your grooming so you are always comfortable and presentable.
I will make sure you have the veterinary care you need, but I will educate myself and not blindly follow protocols. I won’t over-vaccinate or over-medicate you, ever.
I will feed you natural, species-appropriate food in the appropriate amount, and safe, healthy treats.
You are my love, my life, my heart. You are not an accessory or a notion. You are a vital part of my family and my world, and I will make sure you know that every day of your life.

Dogs And Books And Yarn

I haven’t missed a day of posting since I started Furwood Forest a little over a month ago, but I was stumped what to write about today. I have over 500 posts archived from the old Fermented Fur blog, but nothing was catching my attention as something I wanted to post.

Mozzie and Oliver, AKA The Direwolves, weren’t cooperating, which was downright inconsiderate. They’re made of cuteness and shenanigans, and the least they can do is provide blog fodder. I’m their mama, nurse, activity director, chef, concierge, stylist, entertainment committee, teacher, referee, jungle gym, therapist, and maid. All I ask is for them to pull their weight.

Fine. I guess their snuggles are payment enough.

In desperation, I went outside and captured some video of them playing with their Romp-N-Roll Jolly Ball. Luckily for all of us, they’re adorable no matter what they’re doing.

 

While many of you are enjoying something I’m told is called a “weekend,” Tom is at work, and I am about to do the same. If you weren’t aware, I’m the managing editor for Limitless Publishing–and our new imprint, Crave–so I work at home with my Direwolf assistants.

I’ve already conquered Mount Email, and will continue to do so, but aside from managing the editing and proofreading staff, working with designers to assign our book covers, overseeing the creation of cover blurbs, overseeing all stages of production of our horror and romance anthologies, and a bunch of other publishing-related chainsaw juggling, I also edit, both for Limitless and select independent (indie) authors, and that’s what’s on the agenda today. I need to finish a first round of an edit and get it to the author for revisions.

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True story.

Once I achieve the day’s work goals, it’s on to the reward portion of the day, doing what I want. Currently, this means watching Doctor Who–which I’ve never watched before–and working on my knitting.

I’ve crocheted since I was a kid, but knitting is a new challenge. I’ve only been at it about two weeks, and have only worked on swatches of different stitch combinations so far. This is the most recent swatch, a “seersucker” diamond pattern, which came out fairly well.

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I still have a hell of a time casting off at the end of a piece, which makes no sense, because it’s insanely easy. Do two stitches, pull the first loop over the second and off the needle. Yet I can’t get that first loop off in one piece without losing the second one. I resorted to just sliding both stitches off the needle and using a crochet hook to pull the second stitch through the first, then putting it back on the needle. I’ve concluded I knit too tightly, and am trying to adjust my technique.

Last night, I started what might be my first “real” project, though it’s still just practice of basic skills before I move on to more complex stitches. Technically, it will be a dishcloth with a dog on it, though I am still befuddled why anyone would spend time making something pretty and then use it to scrub barbecue sauce off a plate. I have no idea what I’ll do with it, but washing dishes isn’t on the list of options.

It should look something like this:

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And this is what I have so far:

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See? The bottoms of the little puppy paws are beginning to appear.

Thrilling day? Maybe not, but I like quiet and peaceful creativity. Yes, I have some household chores to do, and puppy interaction, dinner to make, and tonight I’ll have my customary bedtime adult beverages because the brain-train has to be derailed at least a little or I’ll never get to sleep.

Some people pack their (for me, theoretical) weekends with activities, but that’s not my life. I like it calm and tranquil and quietly satisfying.

Having said that, The Direwolves will probably stage an insurrection this afternoon or commit some other act of chaos. But until then, I have a steamy mafia princess story to edit.

And probably a snack.

Don’t Call Me Scarecrow

The people who surrendered Oliver to the humane society a year ago called him Scarecrow because they claimed he was afraid of everything.

He was 3 1/2 months old and in his third home, after the people who were supposed to buy him failed to pick him up from his breeder. The breeder gave him to a friend, whose resident dog didn’t like him, so he was passed on to a relative. That person also declined to keep him and contacted Colonial Capital Humane Society to find him a home.

Which turned out to be with us.

There are a couple of things wrong with calling him Scarecrow, the first being it was derogatory, implying it was his fault he was frightened.

Second, scarecrows aren’t afraid of things; they scare things away.

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Let me tell you, after the first fifteen minutes trembling on our kitchen floor the evening we brought him home, Oliver hasn’t been afraid of a single thing for one second.

Mozzie, our golden, is the timid one, like the Cowardly Lion. That, along with his perpetual puppy energy, was why we wanted him to have a canine companion, so Oliver joined us when Mozzie was six months old.

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Is that scary plastic bag gone?

Not only was the Scarecrow not the ‘fraidy-cat in The Wizard of Oz, he turned out to be the brains of the bunch, and that’s how it’s been with Oliver. He is a standard poodle, which rank second only to border collies on the breed intelligence charts, and one step above golden retrievers.

Seriously, with both a poodle and a golden, I’m outmatched in the intelligence department. If they ever decide to stage a coup, I’m in deep trouble.

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Meet your future Canine Overlords

Goldens are brilliant and can cheerfully learn to do anything you care to teach them. So can poodles, but they’re going to think it over for a while first, deciding if they agree with your strategy and technique, before complying. And if they’ve devised a better way, be prepared, because that’s what they’ll do.

When you talk to a golden, you can see the bright spark of understanding in their eyes, along with plenty of joyful adoration. When you talk to a standard poodle, you see that understanding and intelligence, but you can also see intense concentration, as he analyzes your words, inflection, body language, and intention. Poodles are always watching and evaluating, weighing and measuring, processing everything they see.

Poodles are always watching.

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One thing I can tell you with absolute certainty–Oliver isn’t afraid of a single thing.

And he’s with us now, so he’ll never have to be.

The Unlikely Predator

Mozzie got a bird. Or maybe he found a bird…hard to say, since I didn’t witness the event. I let the Direwolves out for morning potty and settled in the chair on the deck. A moment later, they were in the side yard, where the fence is only about ten feet out from the house, and I noticed they were both standing over something on the ground, examining it very closely.

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Move along. Nothing to see here…

Damn. I’ve been through this before, primarily with Ozark, as I mentioned in this recent post about his fondness for capturing bunnies, which it turns out are not very durable.

Mozzie also found some baby bunnies last spring. He couldn’t get to the ones under the enclosed deck, where the nest turned out to be,  but a couple were just big enough to venture out, and it didn’t go well for them. I eventually rescued and relocated the remaining little hoppers to prevent further unpleasantness.

The boys also surprised a possum one night, but I don’t think it was dead. It was likely just doing its “I’m dead, please don’t kill me deader” bit, and I used the pooper-scooper to put it in the woods outside the fence.

I don’t think Mozzie caught this bird “on the fly,” unless he flushed it and it bonked into the fence and stunned itself. Or it might’ve already been injured when he found it.

When I saw them, Oliver (being a poodle) lost interest in about three seconds and trotted off. I’m pretty sure the bird was still moving then. Mozzie, however, picked it up and tried to make off with it, so I had to corner him. He dropped it, and by now it was dead, so I put it outside the fence.

I have a bird hospital box (an Amazon box with some hand towels in it, very high-tech) for when birds bash into the sliding door, but thus far haven’t needed to use it, because it turns out birds are about as durable as bunnies, which is not very. Once again, I didn’t need to use it today.

For a twitchy, nervous little dog who is afraid of things like the sound freezer drawer opening, ice rattling, rustling of a plastic bag, or dishes rattling when I get a pan out of the cupboard, it’s odd he has this much prey drive. Though now that I think about it, his fears are mostly sound-related. Since baby bunnies and injured birds don’t sound at all like me getting the mixer out, I guess that explains it.

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It’s like if you found out the shy kid who always sits by himself on the bus is secretly a ninja.

I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s a golden retriever, a sporting breed. But he dislikes unexpected things, and it seems like if he encounters a surprise bunny in the yard, he should slink rapidly in the opposite direction.

Now spring is upon us, and I just hope Mama Bunny has decided to find another spot to raise this year’s babies. While the enclosed deck is definitely secure, at least now that Oliver can no longer squeeze under it, it is still in a fenced yard inhabited by two canines, and the rabbits have to come out sometime.

How do your dogs deal with wildlife in their yard? What’s the most disturbing or surprising thing they’ve caught?

Classic: Bunnies Should Be More Durable

Flashback to 2010 and recall the lovely, gentle, wonderful, gentle-giant, puppy-and-kitty-loving Ozark, a Great Pyrenees/Lab mix, and his unfortunate interactions with bunnies. In his defense, he probably just wanted to play. But since this was not the first time such a thing occurred, maybe he should’ve figured it out by now.

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Seriously, does this look like a bunny-mauler to you? Either of them, but particularly the one on the right.


Maybe my days off aren’t quite as boring as I think. You can decide.

I woke up at around 7:15 a.m. and wandered out to the kitchen for the customary and metabolically necessary first cup of coffee. The first thing I saw was a note by the coffee pot. Aw, how sweet! My honey-bunny left me a note! I wondered if it would be of the romantic or naughty variety. Or both.

None of the above. This is what it said:

“There is a wounded rabbit out there somewhere. After Ozark dropped it on the deck and I got him in, it was still there for a few minutes, then gone. But I think it was “damaged.” You probably want to go out with them and be prepared.”

See? Neither romantic nor naughty. Upsetting and anxiety-inducing. I had to ingest enough coffee to feel functional, then go search for a damaged-and-probably-dead bunny. Bunnies are not very durable.

Actually, dead is sad, but I was more worried about finding him not-quite-dead, because then I would have to figure out what to do about it. My options were:

a) rush to work and let them try to save it (which never works; see above mention regarding bunnies’ lack of durability)

b) let it suffer and hope it dies soon

c) whack it with a shovel

I do not like any of those options.

While I was in emergency caffeine consumption mode, Ozark came over for his morning stopsignskritch-fest. Lovely, except I quickly discovered his entire head was crawling with fleas.

Apparently, a whole bunny-load of fleas realized their meal ticket was about to be punched, and migrated onto the huge, fluffy, delicious (if spleenless) creature that was currently attached to the bunny. By his teeth.

I also must assume that if the other dogs aren’t infested yet, they will be within about 37 seconds. Awesome.

I found two doses of Frontline Plus for 45-88 pound dogs. I put 1.5 doses of it on Ozark, and put a few drops on the other two, hoping to stem the tide of infestation until I can get more Frontline at work tomorrow.

I also realized I can’t take Ozark to work tomorrow while he’s a walking flea-circus. The owner of Ozark’s puppy, Murphy, would go batshit insane. For a veterinarian, she’s unusually upset by fleas.


Scene we will not witness tomorrow. Sorry, boys!

I went outside and quickly discovered the deceased bunny between the deck and the steps. He was missing large portions of fur. And skin. His eyes looked sad. I watched to make sure there was no blinking.

There was not.

He’s not only merely dead, he’s really most sincerely dead. (Read that part using your Singing Munchkin voice.)

I got a shovel and transported Poor Dead Bunny, who was in full rigor mortis, to his not-quite-final resting place. I am glad tomorrow is trash day.

OzarkFace

Ozark, deceptively innocent-looking bunny-muncher

Ozark has spent an unusual (for him) amount of time out in the yard today, lying in wait. He is hopeful that a search party consisting of the Poor Dead Bunny’s friends and family will show up. He is anticipating another velveteen chew toy.

Given the flea situation, I’m content to let him stay out there a while.