Patti Soldavini

Archive for March 10th, 2012|Daily archive page

The Weimaraner Chicken Thief Adventure

In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 03/10/2012 at 11:20 am

"Yes Master, it was a biological imperative."

I deserved this one. The other night, I placed a freshly roasted chicken on top of the counter while I left Olive in the kitchen unattended, eating her dinner. Meanwhile I sat in the dining room less than six feet from her as she hungrily munched away. It seemed like just seconds later I hear a “PLOP.” Instantly, I know what’s happened. It definitely sounded like the chicken taking a swan dive off the counter. I race into the kitchen just in time to see the still warm bird splattered across the floor; its carcass in pieces; the flesh angrily dislodged from its bones. “FOR GOD’S SAKE OLIVE, WAS THIS REALLY NECESSARY? YOU JUST HAD SOME FOR DINNER.” I try to keep her at bay while I scoop up the carcass, quickly snatch a solitary bone and toss it all into the trash. Now I’m on all fours myself, with my ass facing Jupiter, wiping the aromatic grease spill off the floor while Olive stands nearby quietly idling like an electric car, clearly aware that she should stay out of the way but biologically incapable of doing so. She starts licking the tile floor at the perimeter of the epicenter of the disaster. It was my own damn fault. Anyone who owns a weimaraner knows that the kitchen counters belong to them. Maybe I need to sprinkle a little cayenne pepper on the countertops to take back ownership. Maybe my little chicken thief will think twice the next time she observes food lounging on the counter.

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Discovering Olive’s Paw Preference

In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 03/10/2012 at 10:37 am

"Is she KIDDING me?"

I have come to the conclusion that Olive is right-pawed. As opposed to left-pawed or the even rarer, “quad-pawed,” which would make her doubly ambidextrous. How do I know this? Not from watching her try to pick things up with her paws, although she tries valiantly. Sometimes I can sense her utter frustration at not having thumbs. Like when she tries to pick up a ball when the Frisbee is already clenched between her teeth. I swear I can hear her yell, “WHY THE HELL DON’T I HAVE THUMBS!!!” She reluctantly drops the Frisbee, snatches the ball and then tries to jam the Frisbee into her mouth at the same time. Then she drops the ball, retrieves the Frisbee and the circus starts all over again. It is comical. No, I discovered Olive’s paw preference much more organically. When she comes inside after having been out in her pen digging for buried treasure, I march her straight into the downstairs bathroom, prod her into the shower stall and rinse off her perfect little feet. “GIVE ME THIS PAW OLIVE. NOW THAT ONE. LIFT UP THIS ONE. ONE MORE PAW AND WE’RE DONE.” More times than not I noticed, three of the paws are moderately dirty. But the fourth paw? The right front one? Filthy. I can spray it for days and there are colonies of dirt still present. So I conclude, that must be the paw that she prefers to use to do all the excavating. Now that I know this, I am going to find ways to validate her paw preference. Maybe I’ll ask her to say the pledge of allegiance, which of course requires her to put her right paw over her heart. Or perhaps, I’ll ask her to swear on a bible to “tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth,” while raising her right paw. “OLIVE. WOULD YOU PLEASE OPEN UP THIS BOTTLE OF DIET STEWART’S ROOT BEER FOR ME?”

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