“QUICK. Get me a napkin!”
Twice in one week. I can’t believe it. Olive captured in mid-lick AGAIN! She looks a little looney in this picture doesn’t she? How can anyone not laugh seeing that bright pink tongue peeking out from below her dark brown nose? I can’t decide if it looks like Nicki Minaj’s lips or a mustache made out of bubblegum.
SLURP!
If I were a professional photographer, I know exactly what type of photos I’d make my signature style. Dogs caught in mid-lick. That’s right. Just like Olive in this picture. I don’t know why I find “mid-lick” photos so hysterically funny, but I do. When I accidently catch one, I feel like I just found the prize at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box.
“Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz”
Today was a doubleheader for Olive. We went to the dog park and the human park. It was overcast with sunshine peeking through every now and then and pretty chilly, but at least it was dry. Some days after a lot of snow melts or it’s rained quite a bit, the dog park resembles a mud wrestling pit. On those days, after Olive races from one end of the park to the other, her undercarriage is splattered with mud, requiring a bidet-like cleansing when we get home. Which she detests. Alone at the dog park, I alternately toss her canvas Frisbee as far as I can and she chases it ardently, often snatching it right out of the air. And because I detest picking up the filthy bacteria-laced tennis balls, which are now the color of dark brown moss, I pull my leg back, bring it forward and kick the tennis ball to the moon. I have inadvertently trained Olive to chase “grounders.” Most of the time, after she catches one she nonchalantly drops it right where she’s standing as if to say. “WELL? WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT ME TO DO WITH IT?” And although watching her legs kick up dirt while she pivots clockwise and counter-clockwise keeping up with the ball while it changes its trajectory erratically, bouncing above and over her head and then jettisioning off the curve of a half-dug hole or a small sharp-edged stone, it’s way more fun watching her chase down the Frisbee. Just pull your arm back and she’s already off and running, scanning the sky for it, often twirling in circles and stopping to face me just as it sails past her. She falls for it every time. She gets even with me though. Sometimes I’ll throw it and she doesn’t move. She casually watches its turbulent flight until it crash lands and then looks at me as if to say, “NOPE. NOT INTERESTED.” After about 40 minutes at the dog park, Olive is bored with the ball, the Frisbee and ostensibly me, so she begins to engage in one of her favorite past times. Eating dirt. Tunneling her nose through pasty clumps of mud to get at who knows what. “THAT’S IT OLIVE. C’MON, WE’RE GOING.” She looks at me, and begins to trot over after I offer her some water to cleanse her palate. We get in the car and make our way to the human park not far down the road. Now on her flexi-leash, we head toward the lake. Olive is busily inhaling the 4,567 scents I don’t smell. Thank God for small favors. I can’t imagine living in a world where I experienced every scent at 1,000 times its potency. The flowers must smell great. All the animal shit, not so great. There is a small man-made beach hugging one side of the lake. Olive gallops across the beach in a manner that makes me think she likes the way the sand feels between her toes. We walk one of the trails and I stop to sit on a worn wooden bench for a few minutes. The wind is a little brisk; it comes and goes, sometimes quietly, sometimes not. I look around and absorb all around me, always overwhelmed by nature’s beauty and grace. It’s just breathtaking. Even when it’s cold, the trees are leafless, and the grass an anemic yellow-brown. Olive and I return home. Within minutes, she’s asleep on the bed snoring. She’s so worn out she doesn’t even open her eyes when I reach out to pet her. I notice I feel refreshed but tired too. Must have been the wind. Another awesome day with my dog.
“There’s a pea under the mattress.”
How much is that doggie in the window? Laying across the microfiber throne? Not for sale. I paid $1,800 for the privilege of calling her my own and $5,400 in veterinary care over the last three years. For that much Olive, you should be laying golden eggs. Jumbo size.
Burrrrrrrrrppp
Olive caught napping and burping after the St. Olive’s Day party. Oh look! A poof of white smoke erupts with Vesuvian force from under the canopy of her tail. RUN EVERYONE! RUN AS FAST AS YOU CAN!
“You may kiss my bowtie.”
I tried telling Olive that it was St. Patrick’s Day and not St. Olive’s Day but she turned a deaf ear towards me. Remember, this is the world according to the weimaraner.
(Dreaming of Fat Birds)
This is the picture of a dog sleeping peacefully with the knowledge that should anything happen to me, she is the first one to get her paws on my estate and the person named to legally care for her gets the icing on the estate cake to care for Olive for as long as she lives. This is New Jersey. You have to make everything legal.
“LOOK into my eyes.”
So much for an open mind. The Animal Communicator pulls back the curtain to allow Olive and I to enter the tiny makeshift “reading room.” A small round table draped with fabric of some kind, upon which sits a large white crystal with pink highlights and a large round candle. As Olive frantically checks out every square inch of the room (normally serving as storage space) with her nose, the Animal Communicator (hereafter known simply as “The AC”) says “I’m getting hunting. Does this dog hunt?” I swear I can hear Olive guffaw. “Well, the breed is a hunting breed,” I say, “But I don’t take her hunting for prey.” Strike One I think to myself. She obviously knows about the breed. “Olive tells me she likes to play with you when you come home from work,” says The AC. “I actually work from home,” I reply “and am with her almost 24 hours a day.” Strike two. Now I’m wondering what else I might have spent my $29 on. “I’m seeing Olive in a jeep, like she may have served in the military in a previous life.” Did Olive just snort with derision? I almost hear the words “Why, because she is German?” rat-tat-tat out of my mouth. Now I feel like the world’s biggest sucker and wonder if I can get through the rest of this session without laughing out loud. “She says she’s very happy and wants to thank you for taking such good care of her.” Ok, I’ll take that. “And she loves going to the dog park. She feels very free there.” Strike three. I ask The AC if Olive knows about Idgy, my previous dog. “No, I’m not getting anything. But Idgy wants you to know that she has not left this world; she has stayed behind to be your Guardian. And she wants you to know that she thanks you for taking such good care of her, better care than anyone else would have given her.” And I swear The AC has tears in her eyes. Now this takes me off guard. Because as Idgy began to deteriorate near the end of her life, losing control of her bladder and bowels, losing her senses one by one, and wasting away from 70 to 35 pounds, I did everything I could to make her comfortable, never for one moment resenting the Herculean effort it took. And when she clamped her mouth shut one morning refusing to eat, I knew it was her way of saying she’d had enough. And I was there beside her when her soul left this world. It would be no other way. She deserved that. So, that got to me. And when The AC emphatically stated “And you two, (meaning Olive and me) are joined at the hip.” She said this with complete certainty as though a giant, bright, shining physical manifestation of our bond had just appeared before her. I thought, “Well, she got that right too.” Our session is over. I pay at the register, while Olive obsesses herself with the next dog and owner waiting to be fleeced. “I hope you said whatever you wanted to say to me Olive because this little bonding experience cost us about six bully sticks.”
“We’re doing WHAT tomorrow?
Tomorrow, Olive and I have an appointment with a local Animal Communicator. This should be fun. When I first opened the email from the local pet store, I thought “What a crock of shit.” But by the end of the day, I had completely changed my opinion and thought “Why not? What a delightful way to waste $29.” Perhaps Olive was already communicating telepathically to me. I’ve since been very excited about this opportunity and have decided to view this 20 minute session as just another bonding experience between Olive and myself. For those of you who may be unfamiliar with Animal Communication, here’s a description from She Knows Pets & Animals: Put simply, animal communication is a silent, telepathic language that functions via deepened intuition. Animal communicators are very much in tune with this ability and use it to have a dialogue with an animal. Animal communication is not about deciphering an animal’s body language or behavior, though. It’s an actual exchange of information between the communicator and animal in the form of words, mental images, feelings and more. Horse. Dog. Cat. Rabbit. Skunk. Bison. Whatever. The invitation promised “Learn what your pet wants you to know.” Well this will be interesting. If I had to guess what Olive wants me to know, I’d say it would have something to do with either food or exercise. I read some tips on how to work with an Animal Communicator so we’re good to go. Now I just have to come up with two questions – what do I want to learn from Olive and what do I want Olive to learn from me? You could say that believing in things like animal communicators and animal communication is like believing in Santa Claus and I choose to believe, but I’m also a huge believer in the power of intuition. I live my life intuitively. I may gather information about a topic, but my intuition always makes the decision, not my head. And since Olive cannot speak (yet), I have to believe that she does communicate telepathically. I just don’t always hear it. “Olive can you hear me?”
“My GOD, I’m cute!”
I monkeyed (obviously) with this grainy photo to bring you Olive caught in the act of staring at the 20×24 framed photo of herself on the wall. Yes, weimaraners are narcissists. It’s part of their charm.
“What the HELL is going on?”
Yup, that’s my dog. Peeping out the bedroom window seeking to identify some activity that only her bionic ears have detected. It was probably a bird fart. I only wish I were outside my house observing Olive in the window like this. I’m sure it’s worth a chuckle.
Olive’s Bohemian Rhapsody
There I am this November-like morning sitting in the waiting room of a Doctor’s office, laughing out loud, even snorting, as I watch a video of Olive “playing” the keyboard. I watch it on my iphone. Again. And again. And again. Each time I titter more and more. I was motivated to sprinkle some Old Mother Hubbard Bitz across the keyboard more in an effort to amuse myself while occupying Olive’s active mind the other day. Between the bone-cold raw days, rain and all the extra hours I’ve been working the past 9 months, Olive has been feeling a little neglected. Which if you know me or Olive personally, is sort of ridiculous because she spends the entire day with me. But, like a three year old human child, wants my active attention more than I can give it some days. It reminds me of when kids yell in an adult’s direction, “HEY. LOOK. WATCH ME. WATCH ME DO THIS. WATCH. ME.” I believe Olive tries to retaliate by barking indignantly as though she needs to drop a lawn cigar whenever A) I begin talking on the phone and B) The minute my rear end grazes the chair cushion to eat a meal. “BARK. MOM. I NEED TO GO OUT. BARK, NOW. BARK, BARK.” Inevitably, I get up to let her out and then she either races toward my plate or runs into another room. Anyway, as she gobbled up the Bitz while making her way across the keyboard, there were a few spots where it actually started to sound composed. And at the end, after the last morsel has been hoovered up, she walks away, turns around quickly and comes back to check for more, punctuating her little concerto with a deliberately powerful sting. At this point, I’m crying with laughter.
Life With Olive 