Patti Soldavini

Archive for October 10th, 2012|Daily archive page

To Kill. A Mocking. Bird.

In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 10/10/2012 at 7:31 pm

“Are you licking your lips TOO?”

That’s right. The punctuation is as I intended. A Mocking bird. As in a black bird that’s mocking my dog. Literally. Well, sort of. Why have I not learned yet? I go into the basement to get something and I see Olive not just wordlessly, but soundlessly laying in front of the sliding glass door. Not moving a muscle. Not even a fraction of an inch. Like a deer, trapped in the blinding glare of the headlights of mechanized monsters. Olive isn’t even paying attention to me as I walk by. That should have clued me in. Should have been a red flag the size of the Washington Monument. But no, I just open the sliding glass door and let her out into her very spacious fenced-in pen. You know the guns that go off at track meets? You would have thought that I pulled the trigger right next to her ear. There she goes faster than the speed of sound. She makes Olympian track stars look like spazzes. And then I see it. Something black flapping around at the far end of the pen. “Holy Shit,” I think. I immediately tear ass after Olive and reach her just as she keeps mouthing a black bird with a shiny blue-black head as it tries to jump up then stumbles back to the ground. It’s an adult and it’s obviously injured. But I don’t know whether its leg or wing is injured or perhaps it has something like West Nile Virus. “OLIVE! LEAVE IT,” I shriek. The last thing I need is Olive becoming infected with West Nile Virus from some stinking bird. I drag Olive, very unwillingly, back into the house. I go back out, pick up my tiny gardening shovel which does primary duty as a stupendous turd-flinger and I try to gently scoop up the bird so I can get it out of Olive’s pen. The first few attempts prove difficult as the damn bird keeps jumping off the shovel spade as soon as I get it on there. By the third or fourth time, I figure I have to be gentle but very, very quick. So, I place the spade under the bird and in one motion fling it outside of Olive’s pen. Let it live or die on its own like nature intended. I go back inside, shut the sliding glass door behind me and Olive remains stationed behind the glass like an Eqyptian Sphinx, unconvinced that her prey is gone. I drag her into the bathroom and wipe down her muzzle and nose like I’m a towel boy at the car wash. “CHRIST OLIVE. HAVEN’T YOU HAD ENOUGH COOTIES LATELY?”

The Drama Queen

In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 10/10/2012 at 6:36 pm

“ME? A Drama Queen?”

Don’t let my little Mensa-qualified pooch fool you. Olive feels much better than she looks. Now she is as miserable as only a weimaraner can be miserable because she has been on cootie-lockdown for the past two-and-a-half weeks. If you haven’t had a weimaraner, you can’t quite imagine how not getting enough exercise on a daily basis affects them. Olive almost loses her mind trying to burn off energy inside the house; racing through 2,500 square feet as though she’s being chased by wolves. Executing dozens of circles around her bed until she gets so frustrated, she starts frantically digging at the bed while emitting a high pitched whine like a turbine engine that just won’t turn over. Or, if you play tug of war with her using an old towel, she yanks the towel that’s clenched between her teeth back and forth so rapidly, I’m afraid she’s going to give herself whiplash. Observing all of this is actually not the least bit funny. Her frustration is so deep that it actually feels like it’s painful to her. By the way, this is also the face she wears when she tries to telepathically send the same message over and over and over. And that message is always this: “FOOD. FOOD. FOOD. FOOD. FOOD. FOOD. FOOD.” Thank God, her recent insatiable lust for food has diminished substantially now that she’s off her cootie meds. Of course, that still doesn’t stop Olive from trying to steal my Moo Shu Pork dinner right of my plate. “RIGHT OLIVE. HAVE YOU ANY IDEA HOW YOU’D FEEL AFTER EATING THIS? YOUR DIGESTIVE SYSTEM WOULD BE DOING SOMERSAULTS AND YOUR POOP CHUTE WOULD FEEL LIKE A SPACE SHUTTLE AFTERBURNER. NO WAY. GO STARE AT THE BIRDS OUTSIDE.” She stares at me with her beautiful amber eyes and jumbo pupils and I just melt. I am so happy she’s feeling better.

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