Posts Tagged ‘humor’
anatomy, chewing, dogs, humor, weimaraners
In weimaraners on 03/14/2011 at 8:09 pm
Yes, I’m talking about you Olive. I am about to blow your little secret wide open. My beloved pooch has a corner fetish. (Olive is hiding behind the chair right now, blushing.) She is a Herculean “Corner Chewer.” She puts backhoes to shame. She finds anything that comes to a right angle—a point—impossibly irresistible.
What do I mean by corners? I’m talking the beveled glass desktop in my office. The microfiber-upholstered arm of the couch. ANY cardboard box, whether it housed tampax or a refrigerator. ESPECIALLY if it came from amazon.com. Dog toys made of particleboard. The seat of the copper-colored wicker kitchen chairs. Any object that comes to a sharp, unfriendly, threatening, point, you name it. Olive seems to live by the code of “IF IT STICKS OUT IT MUST BE GROUND DOWN.” Isn’t this an old Chinese proverb? Wow. Olive may actually be smarter than me.
I give her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps she’s trying to make the world a safer place and envisions a world full of circles, dots and holistic, friendly, non-threatening curved lines. (Or maybe I’ve just accidently swallowed an LSD tab.) Maybe she feels she’s being threatened by these seemingly inanimate protusions and must demonstrate a Mike Tyson-like show of force to achieve dominance. Better she uses her canine teeth (Isn’t the word “canine” a bit redundant when discussing a dog’s oral anatomy?) to tear corners off things instead of ears off people.
More likely, she is just sharpening the rows of chiclet-white blades inside her mouth. Although I get the feeling that Olive will still be teething when she is 102 human years old. But the most practical explanation is that she’s just bored. “REALLY? WELL SO AM I. I’VE BEEN STUCK INSIDE THE HOUSE ALL WINTER TOO BUT YOU DON’T SEE ME PROJECTING ALL MY PENT-UP ENERGY INTO MY TEETH, DO YOU?” This dog is plowing through bully sticks like a buzzsaw or a wood chipper. I should invest in the bull penis market because I spend at least $100/month feeding Olive’s bully stick habit. The irony of all this is that she has much better teeth than I do.
anatomy, barking, dogs, humor, pets, TV, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 03/13/2011 at 11:01 pm
Tonight, Olive is glued to the TV watching Marmaduke on HBO. I think the only thing she finds more interesting than dogs on TV is talking dogs on TV. She is more than engaged in what she’s watching. She is enraptured. Lying on the floor, eyes dilated like flying saucers, Olive is taking in the love story unfolding between the Great Dane and the Collie. Let’s hope there’s no humping scenes.
When the action starts to amp up or the dogs approach the screen as if they are going to jump right through it, Olive races to the TV as if she’s been shot out of a cannon, her nose mere millimeters away from the glistening six-inch nose on screen. She proceeds to bark until her head falls off. When she settles down, she sits about two feet away from the screen…WATCHING. Seated on the couch behind her, I watch her cock her head from left to right mentally processing the images racing toward her. Her ears seem to respond to what her brain is processing, twitching in ways that suggest a natural intellectual choreography. I like to call this Olive phenomenon, “Dance of The Ears.”
I go upstairs for a glass of water and when I reach the dining room I peer over the edge through the oak railing balusters. There’s Olive lying in a sphinx position on the floor, still watching the TV. It’s Olive, but the behavior is so familiar, that what I see is a three-year old child in her pajamas watching Saturday Morning Cartoons. Maybe Underdog. Or Ren and Stimpy. Definitely not Top Cat or Courageous Cat. Nothing else exists in this moment except the fascinating world unspooling before her on the TV screen. The only way it could be any more real is if she were holding a bowl of cereal in her paws.
All is well until the movie cuts to a commercial. And the doorbell rings. On TV. Lately there seems to be a lot of commercials that include ringing doorbells. I want to kill these advertisers. Olive goes batshit and runs to the front door. She will not stop barking until I open the door and show her that there’s nothing there. “IT’S JUST THE DOORBELL GHOST,” I say. “GO BACK TO WATCHING TV. LOOK! YOU JUST MISSED A HANDSOME GERMAN SHORTHAIRED POINTER! HE LOOKS LIKE HE SMELLS GOOD TOO.” Olive looks at me quizzically, her head cocked to the side, with one ear flipped back. She looks at me as if I am a pot roast that has just materialized out of thin air.
dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners
In weimaraners on 03/10/2011 at 8:55 pm
"Is that a DINGO?"
dogs, eyes, humor, pets, weimaraners
In weimaraners on 03/07/2011 at 5:47 pm
Do you have any idea how difficult it is to render routine personal care to an 11-month old Weimaraner by yourself? Once again, I had to wrestle Olive to the ground pinning her like a State Wrestling Champion just to squeeze two lousy drops of medicine into her left eye because she has conjunctivitis. The treatment started out fine. I guess the first time she didn’t know what was coming so she stared at me doe-eyed like Bambi which allowed me to perform this minor medical procedure with ease. The second time, she tolerated it. The third time, she gave me the paw. Ever since then, I have to chase her around the house like I’m chasing a greased piglet. I catch her and she starts squirming like she’s boneless, eventually escaping my grip with Houdini-like flair. For every drop that manages to land in her eye, three run down her muzzle. Thank God the 7-10 day course of treatment is almost over. I’ve tried being calm and soothing when I first approach her but she’s not stupid. She knows what’s coming. And she’d simply… rather not, thank you. I guess it just takes practice. I finally figured out how to clean her ears without as much fuss. The secret? Soak the cotton ball in witch hazel and put it into her ear further than you wanted your finger to go and do it with confidence. Hesitate for a nanosecond, and Olive will know she’s being violated by an amateur. Then, it’s over. (And if you have a Weim, don’t let them see the bottle of witch hazel because they can read. Where did THAT name come from anyway?) I just wish I could remove her nails, clip them and then insert them back into her paws. This would be much easier. Thank God she doesn’t have hemorrhoids.
barking, couch, dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners
In weimaraners on 03/03/2011 at 8:17 am
I’ve decided that every time the school bus stops in front of our house, Olive goes loony because to her it looks like a box of animal crackers. “LOOK AT ALL THOSE CUTE PINK AND BROWN LITTLE CANDIES INSIDE THAT YELLOW BOX.” She jams her head through the cranberry red fabric blinds and barks as though she’s just discovered the bones of a Pterodactyl in the front yard. ‘LOOK! LOOK! LOOK AT THE GIANT BIRD BONES!” I haven’t looked closely yet, but I’m sure there’s dog spittle all over the blinds.
She eyeballs the parade of children marching into the big yellow box one by one until the last one, no doubt a passive-aggressive adult-in-training, gets swallowed up into the mouth of the metallic carton. Olive’s head pivots repeatedly as she tracks the coordinates of each little jujube. I can see her mentally counting them like a flight attendant confirming passengers before takeoff. “PIG PEN… AIR BISCUIT… BOOGER… PRINCESS… PROSTITOT… FRECKLES…”
This scenario replays itself later in the afternoon when the big yellow carton pulls up in front of our window to empty itself. Olive mounts the love seat as though she is waiting to greet Moses on Mt. Sinai and between “code red” barks begins re-counting… “PIG PEN… AIR BISCUIT… BOOGER… PRINCESS… PROSTITOT… WAIT A MINUTE. I DON’T SEE THE FAT FRECKLED KID. WHERE IS HE?”
Olive’s bark is much worse than her bite. It’s loud and hearty and full-bodied. It has “cojones.” It declares in no uncertain terms, “DO NOT SCREW WITH ME. I WILL TEAR YOU LIMB FROM LIMB IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE. TRY ME.” It is comforting. I know whenever Fed X or UPS has arrived before they even pull into the driveway. I know when my neighbors are outside or pulling into or out of their driveways. I know when a jogger or cyclist passes by. I know when the trash is picked up and when the mail arrives. All without even looking out the window. Anyone approaching the property lines gets the weimaraner inquisition.
Of course, if they ever came inside the house, that would be a different story. My 10-month old trusting pooch would greet them as if she were coming face to face with Santa Claus for the first time.
dog park, dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 03/01/2011 at 8:59 pm
Each weekend, I make it a point to take Olive to one of the local dog parks. We have our choice of a few. The smaller park in the wealthier zip code, the larger park in the less desirable zip code or the one so far North in New Jersey, it might as well be at the North Pole. The smaller park is nice because there’s never more than five or six dogs there at a time. The downside is the dirt walkway into the park that sits on a 45-degree incline uphill. Oh, and the turds that line the walkway like bread crumbs in a demented fairy tale. When I see this, I think, “Christ, I wonder what the owner’s homes look like. Maybe they crap in their kitchen.” The larger park sits on top of a mountain and it feels completely wide open like you’re in the wilds of what I imagine Montana or North Dakota might feel like. The disadvantages of this park are 1) it attracts a rough trade, both canine and human, 2) go after 11am and you walk into a mob scene of about 30 dogs and their people, making it feel like a canine version of the old Marlon Brando flick, “On The Waterfont,” and 3) when the snow melts, half the park becomes a frightening petri dish of squirming parasites burrowing through the mud. Olive cares about none of this. She greets all dogs, large, small, attractive, homely, young, old, unemployed, and neurotic with the same gregarious optimism. Tail at full mast, frantically waving back and forth, while she explores the other dog’s biology, physiology, chemistry, psychology, nutritional profile and personal hygiene all with a few tentative sniffs. In dog time, one quick greeting is equivalent to three months of dating. Very efficient. I wonder what goes through Olive’s mind during this ritual and whether dogs are as judgmental of their own species as humans are of theirs. “MY GOD. THE TERRIER SMELLS LIKE A SWEATY JOCKSTRAP. HE ALSO PICKS HIS NOSE WHEN NO ONE IS LOOKING. AND HE IS A SUBMISSIVE URINATOR. WHAT A TURN OFF.” Laugh, but if there’s another weimaraner at the park, Olive picks out her doppleganger immediately as if she were picking a long lost relative out of a police line-up. Clearly, she recognizes her own breed. (Probably from staring at herself in the mirror so much) She is however, without prejudice. She will run at lightning fast speed from any other dog silly enough to chase her. The combination of her speed, grace and stamina never fails to call attention to her. I can actually see Olive’s head ballooning as she hears the “oohs” and “ahs” of the crowd as she races by them once, twice, again and again and again…Finally, she zooms past me like a five year-old pleading “LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME!” She actually sprayed me with mud around lap #10. As my boots squish in the filthy pudding beneath my feet, sinking deeper and deeper into the earth, I notice one of the other dogs starting to get a bit testy, and I say to Olive, “C’mon, let’s get out of here before you need to be vaccinated for syphilis.”
couch, dogs, humor, Nobility, weimaraners
In weimaraners on 02/26/2011 at 8:17 am
Respect their intelligence and nobility. I don’t crudely state, “Olive, here’s some fresh water.” I present her with her paw printed ceramic bowl and announce with an air of royal snottiness, “Olive, here’s some french water.” In one of the weim’s few undignified behaviors, Olive laps up the water, and walks away, dripping goblets of RH2O across the length of the kitchen. What does she care? She has her loyal subject to mop up after her. However, I do speak to her throughout the day as an intellectual peer. She may consider me her inferior… until I give her a command. I speak to her as though I am channeling William The Conquerer or General Patton. Or a very irritated, premenstrual Helen Keller. “OLIVE. OFF. COUCH. NOW!” I hear my own voice and am intimidated by its volume. Christ, I sound like an anthropomorphic bullhorn. I watch Olive’s pupils shrink to the size of a pinhead a nanosecond before she takes flight and zooms away. This is in sharp contrast to the voice I use when, awakening to a brand new day, I give Queen Olive a full body massage as she lies in her crate, unwilling to emerge until this splendor-filled ritual has been sufficiently executed and completed. In a much softer voice, I tell her how beautiful she is and how much I love her. (Wow. I just realized that Olive is an anagram of “i love.”) She must think, “YEAH, NICE HOUSE I LIVE IN, BUT I’VE GOT SYBIL AS MY LANDLORD. KEEP PETTING.”
dogs, humor, lawn cigars, pets, weimaraners
In weimaraners on 02/23/2011 at 7:07 pm
I told this story to friends over the Summer and I’m not sure how I neglected to re-tell it here, but it bears repeating. This is actually a postscript of sorts to my “Kryptonite” post. Once a week, I’d take an environmentally unfriendly plastic grocery bag and march out into the backyard with a scowl on my face and a garden shovel in my hand. Time to scoop up and dispose of the fecal land mines all over the yard. By the time I’m done, the bag feels as heavy as if there’s a bowling ball the size of Minnesota in it. Mind you, I perform this unsightly chore in full view of all the cars that pass by on this busy county road. I know if I drove by and saw someone doing this, I’d laugh my ass off. And then I’d probably lean out the window and yell something like “HEY, DON’T FORGET TO PICK UP YOUR OWN WHEN YOU’RE DONE PICKING UP THE DOG’S!” Olive waits inside the kitchen, quietly tearing everything off the refrigerator door, even messily devouring the cute miniature paper doll chain that my friend’s 6-year old made for me. I think I’m done. Usually, I walk three-quarters of the way around the property to dispose of this transitory septic farm in the trash can. Today however, I’m lazy. I’ll just go to the back of the house, tie up the bag and heave it down below near the garbage can. Then, when I go out later, I’ll pick it up and dispose of it properly. I walk over to the top of the rotting railroad tie retaining wall (which to replace is going to cost me what it would cost to purchase a small country), tie a knot in the bag, swing it backward, then forward, releasing it as though I were in the national finals of a slow pitch softball tournament. Wow. It feels great as it leaves my hand. This baby is going up, and up and up…OH SHIT. IT’S GOING TO LAND ON THE ROOF. Yes, the bag of Olive’s lawn cigars and moon pies (complete with intestinal parasites) lands on the corner of the roof. The only saving grace is that it barely misses landing on the vent pipe that prevents radon fumes from building up in the house (a common geologic occurrence in New Jersey.) WELL, THIS IS GREAT. IT’S ONLY JULY AND I DON’T NORMALLY CALL THE GUTTER GUY UNTIL THE FALL. For a brief second, I think of getting the ladder out to retrieve it. I quickly realize the ladder will fall short by about 15 feet. Then a newspaper headline flashes before my eyes: LOCAL WOMAN KILLED IN FALL FROM LADDER. BAG OF DOGSHIT FOUND AT SCENE. I shake my head and walk away. Maybe it will decompose and blow away before then. As annoyed as I am with my laziness, I am even more annoyed by my “shitty pitch.” But by the time I walk inside the kitchen, even I’m laughing. It’s a great story. I look at Olive and with a straight face and ask her, “OLIVE DID YOU SHIT ON THE ROOF?” She just looks at me all happy, with her tail wagging furiously. Without Olive, it would be just another boring day.
barking, dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners
In weimaraners on 02/18/2011 at 6:06 pm
You should see Olive when the garbage truck stops by to “steal our trash.” She races into the living room, flies up on the love seat like she’s an Olympic pole vaulter and barks her head off. “GET YOUR FILTHY PAWS OFF OUR TRASH,” she seems to be saying. “I GET FIRST DIBS. OH MY GOD, THERE GOES THE ROAST CHICKEN CARCASS.” I’m sure that if she could see the bully stick remnants I tossed out, she’d absolutely shriek in horror.
Thank God, she hasn’t seen one of her headless plush animals tumble out yet. She waits until the local Sanitation Engineers return our trash can to the bottom of the driveway, finally turning away from the window after the truck starts to pull away. Time to turn her attention to something else. I look up from my laptop to see Olive frenetically rubbing herself on the living room carpet, contorting her body like a circus freak and then it dawns on me. She’s found a stinkbug. ‘NO, NO NO. STOP RUBBING YOURSELF ON THE STINKBUG OLIVE!!!” “NOT GOOD, NOT GOOD.” Christ, now she smells like this repulsive insect. To her, it’s eau de pafum. To me, it’s a reason to puke. Thanks, Asia.
As I pick up the squashed, fetid bug, Olive races out of the room as if her short fuse of a tail is on fire. Where is she, I wonder? Apparently she’s made a pit stop at the local watering hole. I hear her greedily slurping water out of the toilet bowl as though she just emerged from the Mojave desert. I yell “OLIVE, NO,” as I rush up the stairs toward the bathroom. Hearing the commanding tone in my voice, Olive again races away. I wipe the toilet seat clean of scattered water droplets and tiny brown dog hairs and put the lid down. I look into the living room just in time to see my parched pooch standing on the sofa with her elegantly long front paws planted on the coffee table slurping the milk out of my glass. I call this Kanine Keystone Kops. It all happens within the space of minutes. Welcome to Weimaraner World.
bed, dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 02/17/2011 at 7:48 pm
Last night it rained goose in the master bedroom. It all began with Olive standing in the middle of my bed inquisitively admiring her image in the dresser mirror. Ever so slightly cocking her aristocratic flannel grey head slightly to the left, then right, characterized by a subtle look of bemusement, adoration and surprise on her expressive face. Truly checking herself out as if she were a narcissistic Supermodel primping before making her entrance onto the (ugh) CATwalk. It was all very entertaining in its childlike innocence and simplicity. And then with the swiftness of a crazed cheetah and the skill of a seasoned neurologist, she drops her head and tears a hole in my massively stuffed burnt orange Siberian goose down comforter. The hole is fairly small, about 18-point and in the shape of an “L.” Almost unnoticeable. Until Olive drops down onto the bed like a house dropping onto a village of munchkins. Hundreds of white goose down feathers erupt from the comforter as though a sleeping Mount Vesuvius had been awakened. “SHIT,” I scream. “YOU CRAZY NUTHATCH! STOP MOVING! NOW!” Olive is now wearing tufts of feathers on her muzzle which make her look like a grizzled old geezer with a spotty beard. She does not hear me yelling because 1000% of her dog brain is focused on trying to eat all the feathers orbiting her. She misses more times than she gets one so all you hear is rapid fire “air snapping.” Her mouth opening and clamping shut repeatedly, stopping only to gag on a feather once in awhile. To complete this mental image, picture Olive racing around in all directions on the bed, frantically trying to catch all the feathers. I guess for her, this is the next best thing to getting the goose. Getting the goose down feathers. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find thread in burnt orange? Still, it was funny. I love my exuberant pooch.
cabin fever, dogs, humor, pets, TV, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 02/15/2011 at 6:34 pm
Boy, if this winter lasts much longer I think I might go batshit. Wait, can dogs go batshit? Then do bats go dogshit? Why is the sky blue? I love birds. Especially the dumb ones. And the ones who are too fat to fly. Boy there’s lots of geese here. Am I drooling? I thought they were Canadian. Do geese have passports? Where’s my bully stick? HOLY CRAP, WHO TOUCHED MY BED? I HAD IT ALL NICELY DISASSEMBLED WITH THE BOTTOM CUSHION HANGING FROM THE TOP OF MY CRATE. I know who did it. You do too. Patti. She’s always picking up after me. SO WHAT IF THE HOUSE LOOKS LIKE A SCENE OUT OF “REVENGE OF THE TOYS.” Wait a second, I need to groom my giant barrel chest. (Lick, lick, lick, lick, lick) I watched the Westminster Kennel Club dog show last night. Yes, really. What’s the deal with the word kennel? Time to retire that. Anyway, tonight my breed is on. I wonder if any of my relatives will be showing. I should be there. They still call us “bitches,” you know. I thought we had evolved beyond such stereotypes. WAIT A MINUTE, ARE RAP SONGS ABOUT US? My paws itch tonight. They stink a little bit too. But they taste good. Uh-oh, my stomach doesn’t feel so good right now. Do I have groundhog breath?
dogs, humor, pets, walks, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 02/13/2011 at 6:49 pm
Yesterday morning on our daily walk through town past the local college, a sustained gust of wind propelled an empty cardboard box toward Olive and I as if it were a tumbleweed. Olive, alerted to the approaching intruder assumes a hair trigger fight or flight stance. She reminds me of a track and field athlete in starting position awaiting the sound of the gun to release her. Leave it to Olive to vogueishly “strike a pose” in response to a cardboard monster. This is going to be good, I think. If it heads straight for us, my dog is going to put on a display worthy of a Cirque du Soleil performance. I stand alongside Olive waiting to see what comes next. The box continues to tumble toward us, end over end, side over side. It reminds me of the feather in the movie Forest Gump and the plastic bag in the movie “American Beauty.” Olive doesn’t move a muscle. To my dismay, the box tumbles to the left and past us, but not before Olive executes a spasmodic little jig never taking her eyes off Boxzilla. Thanks for another chuckle today Olive. It was almost as funny as watching you try to take a poop later that day and finding it difficult to get traction on the ice. You looked a little like a constipated Kristi Yamaguchi spinning out of control.
dogs, humor, pets, toys, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 02/12/2011 at 9:15 am
The bodies are piling up. Dozens and dozens of Olive’s plush toys, some dismembered, others disemboweled, all cheerfully transformed by Olive’s hydraulic jaw. I have tried numerous brands, countless textures and sizes ranging up to that of a petite bison. Olive laughs out loud at the packaging that screams “for tough chewers.” It doesn’t seem to matter. She uses her teeth to create a small puncture wound to gain entry. Then she starts to fillet the toy until puffy miniature clouds of stuffing begin to erupt from it. At this point, I have to take it away from Olive or she will gorge herself on the stuffing as if she’s Henry the VIII.
After much trial and error, here’s what I’ve learned about dog toys and Weims. The only fabric which remains fairly indestructible to Olive’s surgical talents is canvas. Fleece? To her, that’s a nice bowl of oatmeal. All labels must be removed prior to giving the toy to Olive or it’s the first thing she will remove…and eat. And what’s the deal with the little “fruit loops” on the toys? Is this so you can hang them on the Christmas tree? WTF? I must carefully prune the toy of these loops as well, otherwise I might as well just give Olive a can opener to penetrate the toy. No small appendages. That’s right, if there is a tiny arm, leg, fin or raised eye, I must amputate it. Otherwise, Olive will. Because I use a scissor, my cuts are much cleaner, sparing the plush squirrel, armadillo, bat or fox the pain that comes with the ragged edges that Olive’s teeth leave.
Let’s not forget the stitching on the toy either. Stitching must be so small and tight that it can only be seen at the cellular level. It must also use military strength thread. Oh, you think I should try using industrial strength rubber Kong-type toys? Well, unfortunately, Olive does not seem to like the smell or taste of vulcanized rubber. She won’t touch any of these type of toys. No matter what shape they come in. Bone, cat, chipmunk, bird. Nothing. Even if I stuff a treat inside one, she will endure it just long enough to extricate the treat. Then, she tosses it aside as if I’ve given her another dog’s dirty underwear to put on. As I stuff another dead toy into the trash can, which I seem to do every other day, I wonder what the local sanitation engineers must think when they see all the headless plush animals tumble out.
barking, dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 02/09/2011 at 7:37 pm
Olive spent the day today recuperating from her four-day stay at Camp Clawson. Based on the report I received from the humans caring for her, they probably also spent the day recuperating. Yes, when you have a Weim, especially under a year old, it is especially important to find patient, caring, dog-savvy humans to take care of your pooch when you go out of town. Because it’s like leaving a perpetually semi-automatic IED in their home.
Luckily for both Olive and me, Olive’s trainer agreed to care for her in her home. I was grateful that Olive would be staying with the local ”Dog Whisperer.” If anyone could handle Olive, Shelley could. By the time Shelley picked up Olive at 8am on Sunday, Olive had just finished consuming some q-tips and a sheet of paper I had balled up and tossed into the waste basket in the bathroom.
Seeing one end of the q-tip protruding from the side of her mouth like a strange little cigarette, I think: “How ironic Olive. You won’t let me use them on your ears, and yet you don’t mind flossing your teeth with them.” I walk downstairs only to find a splattering of dime-sized pieces of yellow legal pad paper strewn all over the living room carpet like shrapnel. I think, “Christ. I hope I don’t really need whatever was on that paper.” Because now I’ll need tweezers and a CSI technician to piece it back together.
Shelley arrives and places Olive into the crate in the back of her SUV. It’s a bit smaller than Olive is used to so she seems a little cautious, like she’s trying on a dress one size too small. I can’t even watch the car pull out of the driveway or I’ll cry. The dog will be properly cared for; I’ll need a Xanax. It’s the first time I left Olive with anyone since I got her. Two days later, still out of town, I get an email on how Olive is doing. Here are a few excerpts…
“When we arrived home, Olive, knowing she should not jump from the car, refused to get out of the truck. I had to carry her out WHILE STILL IN THE CRATE!” (Not so easy as Olive currently weighs in at about 56 pounds.)
“My daughter loves her. Until the second night that is. Olive decided to cry all night and stopped only as I began writing this email. She sometimes barked but for the most part it sounded like a bird chirping. It would have made me think it was Spring if only she stopped long enough for me to sleep or even think.”
Apparently Olive also ran Shelley’s one-year old Border Collie ragged, which is not easy to do. Yes, Olive has the endurance of a mountain lion. If they had a Tour de France for dogs, Olive would break Lance Armstrong’s record. This dog could run from here to the moon before she tired. I have yet to see another dog not want to lie down, roll over and cry “Uncle,” when being chased by Olive.
My favorite part of the Olive Update was this: “Don’t get me wrong, still love Olive! She is just one of kind, the one and only Olive!” Oh yes, this dog of mine is uniquely in a class by herself. Today, she returns home, walks into the house, tail wagging a mile a minute, jumps on me once then walks past me as though she just passed her favorite fire hydrant. “Oh yeah, this place. I know you. I think I smell a bully stick. Bye.” I take this to mean that Olive is a well-adjusted pooch.
anatomy, dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 02/05/2011 at 11:21 am
Olive seems to be turning into the amazing 50-foot colossal Weim. The kitchen counters no longer interest her. Why bother when you are tall enough to stick your head into the kitchen sink and lick the dirty dishes? Yes, her tongue actually reaches the bottom of the sink. Sitting at the kitchen table, looking at Olive from behind, it appears that there is a very tall brown-grey person (with long ears and very skinny legs) standing at the kitchen sink doing the dishes. I think, “What is Ghandi doing in my kitchen?” The only time Olive’s head pops up as fast as a champagne cork being released is when a) she sees my neighbor’s car going down the driveway or b) she hears a broken record going “NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, OFF, OFF, OFF, OFF!” Sometimes, she gets down a little too casually, like a 5 year-old being told to ‘PUT DOWN THAT LOLLIPOP NOW!” and complying very reluctantly.
This morning, after being reprimanded for “sink licking,” she promptly races into the dining room as if a roasted turkey is calling to her and places her paws strategically on the sofa table so she can admire herself in the oversized gold-framed mirror. I kid you not. She stares at her reflection for about six seconds and then satisfied that the answer to “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest one of all? is…OLIVE, she jumps down. Is this the result of so many people fawning over Olive, telling her she’s so beautiful? Or is it just the Weim’s natural confidence and healthy self-esteem? Or maybe there was a juicy-looking bug resting on the frame of the mirror.
It has become quite clear to me that Olive enters every room looking for opportunities to establish her dominance and be “Queen of The Mountain.” She sizes up her opportunities like a 5-star military strategist, instantly identifying objects she can stand on to become taller than me. It is like an endless game of “King of The Mountain.” I swear I can hear her under he breath saying, “Nah, Nah, Nah, Nah, Nah.” In my office, she stands on top of my old titanium briefcase like Mary Lou Retton balancing herself on a narrow wooden beam, elevating her head about 6 inches above mine. She stares longingly at the lampshade and waits for me to turn my head so she can begin delicately exploring it with her teeth.
It is funny though to walk in to the living room and see my graceful pooch perched on top of her 48-inch crate, looking absolutely non-plussed. “WHAT’S THE PROBLEM?” she seems to be saying? ‘GO FETCH MY BONE. IT’S UNDERNEATH THE COUCH. THEN, MAYBE I’LL GET DOWN OFF MY CRATE.” As directed, I search for Olive’s bone. This necessitates my dropping to all fours (just like her) with my ass pointed to Mars, stretching my arm the depth of the couch like a mechanical claw until my hand reaches the drool-glazed prize.
cabin fever, dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 02/02/2011 at 5:36 pm
Olive and I both have a serious case of cabin fever. We choose to handle it in different ways. I chase my tail in an endless circle until I pass out from the centrifugal force. Olive chats on the phone endlessly with people living in tropical climates. I pick up dozens of plush toys with my mouth, one at a time, frantically shaking them from side to side until exasperated, I fling them across the living room like they’ve been shot out of a cannon. Some actually leave skid marks on the walls. Olive flips through the TV channels constantly, driving me crazy. The remote experiences such friction on a daily basis, that I’m waiting for it to ignite. I run around the house from room to room trying to escape the crushing boredom. Sometimes I even end up in my crate downstairs in the dark…just standing there…waiting…for something…anything to happen. Olive picks up a magazine to read (usually her favorite, BaRK…or Weird New Jersey), but eventually she feels compelled to eat the nice fibrous pages. We stare at each other. Thinking the same thing. Punxsatawny Phil better be right. Or one of us will eat him.
dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners, wildlife
In Uncategorized on 01/31/2011 at 10:17 pm
Tonight, Olive had to get her toenails clipped. She was starting to look like a falcon with giant talons. Or maybe Edward Scissorhands. If they were to get any longer, she probably would have been able to perform open-heart surgery. That, or cut down an entire redwood forest with a few quick swipes of the paw. Speaking of wildlife (again), both Olive and I were awakened very early this morning by the damn howling coyotes; a familiar winter sound in the wilds of New Jersey. (That, and people swearing like drunken sailors while shoveling snow.) It sure is creepy-sounding. My early response system unit — Olive — starts cautiously barking from inside her crate. It’s a low-toned “woof.” She burps it out like she’s not sure if this represents danger, but it’s on her radar. Coyote howls again. Olive’s response is “WOOF.” Definitely LOUDER. Now, I’m awake. A longer howl. Now Olive starts barking with all-consuming purpose. “WOOF. WOOF. WOOF. WOOF. WOOF.” This is code for “DANGER! DANGER! GET THE HELL UP AND INVESTIGATE!” (Hold on, I have to go fetch Olive’s bone from underneath the couch before she disembowels it.) “OLIVE BE QUIET, IT’S JUST A COYOTE NOT THE WOLFMAN.” Earlier today, I caught Olive eating her paw prints in the snow. I guess she was covering her tracks. Not sure what I might find at the end of the trail. I might be surprised. Maybe a dead Wolfman.
anatomy, dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 01/29/2011 at 4:33 pm
If you were to caricature a weimaraner, you’d start with its nose. Definitely exaggerate the nose. Because the only time it’s not plastered to the ground experiencing the world in a way that we humans only dare to imagine, it is joyfully spelunking inside its dinner bowl. Whereas Superman had x-ray vision, dogs have the olfactory equivalent. Olive can sniff out an air biscuit at least a mile and half away. Imagine the potency of sniffing another dog’s poop shute at point blank range. Thank God our olfactory sense is as dull as a two by four compared to a dog’s.
Next, make sure you exaggerate the dog’s fixed gaze; the pinpoint pupils of its amber eyes scaring birds right out of trees, leaving a pointillist scattering of tiny corpses under each tree trunk. Every time I see Olive fix her stare skillfully with laser-like intensity on some unsuspecting bird nearby, it reminds me of the original “Children of the Damned” movie. God forbid they lock eyes, the bird’s a goner.
Don’t forget to portray the Weim as exceptionally intelligent. For example, as I write, Olive is doing an impersonation of a Middle Eastern woman wearing a burqa. She is standing next to the love seat in the living room and has used her snout to flip the yellow fleece throw across her face, leaving only her eyes visible. I’m not sure if she realizes that this act of feigned modesty will not be appreciated by Middle Easteners as she remains completely naked from the face down.
You’ll also want to find an imaginative way to show the dog’s Olympian reservoir of energy. You could introduce a solid rocket booster to the drawing, strapping it onto her back. Or you could add a tornadic element, using a series of lines to suggest the dog’s perpetual motion. Or maybe just tear a hole in the paper as a symbol of the dog’s inability to remain still for more than a micro second.
And finally, draw a heart about 5 sizes too big. Because Weimaraners are exceptionally loving pooches. They love their humans. Even more than birds.
dogs, humor, pets, snow, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 01/27/2011 at 7:50 pm
Last night, in the middle of yet another snowstorm, Olive and I ventured out into the yard and ran around like two idiots in whiteout conditions. Although the wind was brisk and the freezing snow felt like sandpaper grinding against our faces, it was both a joyful and childlike experience. Olive loves galloping through the snow as though she’s a Clydesdale, so she’s hopping in and out of at least 2 feet of accumulated snow like an animated pogo stick. And then she sees it. The tip of a little red flag poking out from under the snow. Yes, the infamous poop flags that I’ve chronicled here. As she goes to yank it out of the ground with her mouth, I recoil the flexi-leash just before she extracts it like a rotten tooth. She is momentarily distracted by some inaudible sound that I cannot hear as she cocks her head to the side and stands still, waiting for confirmation of the alien signal. We literally run around in circles and crazy eights criss-crossing the yard under a bright moon dulled only by the carpeting of cloud cover dropping snow as if a giant ogre had turned an open bag of granulated sugar upside down. Of course, Olive wasn’t the one who had to shovel the snow the next day. Since I didn’t feel like doing it at 7:30 this morning, I waited until lunch time. Big mistake. It was like shoveling a pool full of wet cement. Olive stands in her pen laughing at me. I can see it in her eyes. The only thing she was shoveling was snow into her mouth faster than a diabetic who just found a bag of M&Ms under a couch cushion. I was certain that the minute I turned my back to her, she was going to start mass producing sno-cones in flavors that I’m sure you won’t see at your local Rita’s Ice stands. Boy, this dog is going to miss winter when it’s gone. (Assuming it ever leaves of course.)
dogs, humor, pets, snow, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 01/25/2011 at 9:34 pm
“Snoticles.” That’s what I call the tiny crystallized drops of water that form on Olive’s whiskers and at the portals of her snout. They can also form in the absence of snow, when it’s just so frigid that the breath she exhales creates these infant droplets that condense instantly. Or, it’s simply evidence of what I call “snow nose.” The result of Olive’s “scenthoundia,” which compels her to plow her finely tuned snout into the snow in search of…whatever the hell is squirming in the earth beneath it. Watching her play in the snow with such gleeful abandon is amusing. I think her favorite part is after zooming around her fenced in yard faster than a gazelle on coke, she slams on the brakes and the snow goes flying as though she’s just slid into home plate and been called “safe.” And then, seeking refreshment, she lowers her head and begins eating snow by the fistfuls. I decide to toss a nicely formed snowball at her. She tracks its trajectory as it sails through the air like a fresh golden Twinkie. When it lands in the snow and “disappears,” she executes a series of gymnastic stunts trying to quickly find it. “WHERE THE HELL DID IT GO?” she wonders. As payment for this entertainment, and to not disappoint Olive, I toss her the embryonic twin of the fugitive snowball. She gobbles it to pieces as though I had just fed her a freshly baked parakeet. Goofy dog.
dogs, humor, play, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 01/24/2011 at 8:57 pm
The other morning, Olive followed me into the bathroom as usual, as though she was tracking a large bipedal Canadian goose. Playful as usual, she walked between the translucent shower liner and the decorative fabric liner in front of it. The design of the decorative liner has broad metallic stripes running vertically down the curtain, alternating between a stunning copper, chocolate brown, crimson and a pale taupe. Running through these panels are metallic gold threads. As Olive, my grey ghost, stood there somehow looking simultaneously aristocratic and goofy, “wearing” the shower curtain, it occurred to me that for Halloween, she should be dressed as Queen Nefertiti. The fabric against her shimmering grey coat was simply stunning. So captivating, you could actually picture a complementary ornate head dress resting atop my pooch’s rather prominent occipital bone. Now all I have to do is find a little mini pinscher who won’t mind being strapped to Olive’s back as baby Tut. In a dog’s dreams, I wonder what constitutes a very, very special treat? Squirrel ka-bobs? Chipmunk chips? Catloaf?
dogs, humor, pets, treats, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 01/23/2011 at 11:22 am
If I want to get Olive’s attention without saying a word, I just quietly open a flexible package of Fruitables or any other canine tidbit. It’s like watching Jack London’s “The Call of The Wild” spring to life. Olive’s ears, capable of picking up HDTV signals from outer space, wrinkle in delirious anticipation and within seconds, she has shot through the house like a lunatic pinball. She arrives at my side before I have even finished tearing open the package. She immediately sits with the perfect posture of a member of the royal family and looks up at me longingly. The pupils of her amber eyes dilate to the size of hot-air balloons. She’s trying to telepathically communicate with me now. If I listen very, very closely, this is what I hear: “OH PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE…” I toss her one of the 9-calorie treats and she’s so happy, she almost swallows it whole. Sometimes, when I’m in a rush and don’t have the time to play “tag” with Olive, I just grab a bag, stand quietly and TEAR THE BAG OPEN. Works every time. She’s by my side in an instant. Of course, in order for this bit to keep working, I do have to fork over a tidbit each time. Sometimes it’s pumpkin and banana or blueberry and pumpkin Fruitables, sometimes it’s Wagatha’s organic breakfast blend, which has such an authentic aroma of maple, oatmeal and apples that I feel like eating them. Or, it’s one of many other tantalizing flavor variations. This way, Olive becomes mentally engaged as she has no idea what flavor awaits her. She knows it will be something good, so it’s worth dropping the tasteless cotton candy-like dryer lint or fetid stinkbug she finds momentarily captivating.
dogs, humor, pets, sticks, treats, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 01/21/2011 at 7:02 pm
What? Did someone say “Bully Sticks?” Of course I know what they’re made from, I’m a Weimaraner. I’m keenly intelligent. Highly articulate. And very impatient with dolts of all species. Wait a second, I have to bite my tail…What were we talking about? Right, Bully Sticks. So fragrant. Like Chanel Number K9. If I could roll in its scent I would. I really don’t care if it was made from the privates of a kangaroo. Is there such a thing as Kanga Sticks? I’d like to try them too. You know what? Can you take me to a store where they sell all kinds of Sticks? Like Tiger and Lion Sticks. Elephant and Buffalo Sticks. Oh my God, my stomach is growling and I’m drooling. And I can’t stop fantasizing about ZEBRA STICKS. Hold it. I have to lick myself. Was I talking or were you talking? Did you just see that bird? I’m waiting for the spring when they turn red and ripen. And blue. The blue ones look like they might taste spicy. God, my toenails are long. I almost poked my own eye out before when I went to scratch my cheek. Oh look a mirror. Geez, I AM adorable. Here. I’m done with this Bully Stick, you can have the rest.
chewing, dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 01/20/2011 at 7:57 pm
You have to wonder. How did they get the idea to process bull penis as a dog treat? I mean really, we’re not talking rabbit’s foot or elk antler or even pig’s ear. Whose idea WAS this and how did they even GET this idea? I’m afraid to ask. And why the bull? You know what, I don’t want to know the answer. All I know is that Olive LOVES them and her breath stinks like, well, I’m not sure whether the predominant “aromatic note” is bull or penis, but it is gross. The only thing grosser is when she has chewed the entire 12 inch stick down to about 3 inches and I have to take it away from her so she doesn’t swallow it whole or choke on it. God, why do I feel like I’m writing porn right now? I can’t begin to adequately describe what the “leftovers” are like. Suffice to say, gooey, fleshy and stinky. These things aren’t cheap either. Of course, Olive prefers the Merrick brand which are more expensive (about $5 each) AND much stinkier. Big surprise on both counts. She’s lying in front of the pellet stove chewing her way through one right now. Last night I had to pull the remnant piece out of her mouth and this dog is a very powerful chewer. Three words came to mind as I did this, Lawn mower, mountain goat and beaver. I still have all my fingers. (Probably because they are fingers and not tiny bull penises.) I wonder if she has any idea what exactly it is that she’s chewing on?
dogs, humor, pets, toys, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 01/18/2011 at 9:16 pm
Olive is now 9 months old and has begun toying with me. The other day while I was in the kitchen, I looked into the dining room to see Olive peering through the oak railing into the living room below. I could tell she was perplexed simply by the way her head was cocked and ears slightly elevated as if preparing for lift off. This impressionistic display clearly communicated “Huh, how did that happen?” or the ubiquitous “WTF?” Curious myself to see what she was staring at with such intense focus, I make my way into the dining room. “Olive, what’s going…” and as I peer over the side of the parquet cliff, I see it. The twisted, gnarled plush wreckage. Olive’s mini bear squeak toy, lying lifeless at the foot of the domestic mountain. Trapped between the chestnut-colored leg of the couch, and the base of the pewter floor lamp. Olive looks at me with a mixture of shock, curiosity and helplessness. At least that’s how I interpret it. If you look closely, you can see what I can’t, the cartoon bubble floating over her head. It reads “Watch me get this without moving a muscle.” As if on cue, I proceed down the stairs into the living room to retrieve Olive’s bear from its hellish crash landing. I come back upstairs, toss the bear to Olive and return to the kitchen. Not 30 seconds later, the deafening silence grabs my attention. What do I see? As if I am watching a slow-mo replay of a Superbowl touchdown, Olive, striking an identical pose, peering over the side of the parquet cliff, as if to say, “Oops.” As I make my way back down the stairs to once again rescue the tiny plush beast my goofy pooch has casually tossed away like a rancid fish, it occurs to me that I’ve just been trained how to fetch.
dogs, humor, lawn cigars, pets, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 01/16/2011 at 1:24 pm
If you’ve never heard of Giardia before, think Kryptonite. It is an intestinal parasite common to dogs THAT CAN LIVE IN ENVIRONMENTS FOR TWO TO THREE MONTHS after a dog excretes its cysts. Yes, this would have been a useful piece of information to tell me when I was leaving Olive’s lawn cigars and cow pies scattered about the lawn like Bingo chips this past Summer. Had I known they required delicate hazmat handling, I would have been obsessive about picking them up right away. Because when you have an acre of property, what’s a few brown trout dotting the lawn? The drawback to having an acre of property as a canvas for Olive’s fecal artwork is that contrary to what one might think, it’s actually not so easy to find these deposits. I couldn’t pick them up right away while I had Olive on the leash because she would try to tear the flimsy plastic bag out of my hands as if we were playing tug of war with a delectable rotting fox carcass. So I’d put her back in the kitchen and arm myself with a gardening shovel, plastic bag and…surgical gloves. Just call me “Scatologist.” Then, I’d be faced with trying to recall the coordinates of precisely where the event occurred. Standing in the yard looking hopelessly perplexed as if I were lost, I’d mutter to myself out loud, “I think it was about 10 feet from the 8th pole in the split rail fence opposite the middle hemlock bush.” It was like playing “Battleship.” And rarely, did I sink the battleship. Then, I have a brainstorm. Why not get those tiny red anti-litigation flags that companies plant on lawns to warn people that pesticides have been sprayed? I go to the first place I think might have them. Yes, Amazon.com. They have EVERYTHING. Including 50 miniature red flags attached to the end of foot-long wire poles…for about $5. Now my lawn looks like a miniature golf course in the summer. I’m sure my neighbors think I’m batshit when out there planting little red flags in the lawn while Olive is in the undignified “pooping position.” I don’t care. It’s genius. Except I didn’t anticipate how hard they’d be to jam into the frozen ground in the winter, resulting in bent poles hanging and twirling in the wind like psychotic pinwheels, while leaving my knuckles bloodied. Now, it looks like a miniature golf course at an insane asylum from which a serial killer just escaped. The alternative is feeding Olive sweet potatoes which when consumed, digested and released, resemble orange glow-in-the-dark cylinders. You can see them from space.
dogs, humor, name, pets, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 01/14/2011 at 7:27 pm
When I was first thinking about getting a dog, I was also thinking about what I’d name her. Olive’s predecessor, my surrogate pooch, was named Idgy. What a great name. Even William Wegman whom I met at a book signing in Frenchtown, New Jersey thought so. He signed (prophetically apparently) his book “Chip Wants a Dog,” and he sketched a simple doodle of Idgy and me. When he said “What a great name,” I actually sensed that for a split second, he considered the name for one of his future dogs.
Anyway, after considering many names, I short-listed Luna, Zoe, and Shortbread. I loved Shortbread, but it was just too long. I tried yelling it out loud as though I were calling her and quickly decided I sounded like an idiot. “SHORT BREAD! SHORT B-R-E-A-D. COME HERE SHORT BREAD!” It met the two-syllables criteria, but not without using most of the letters in the alphabet.
Then a friend of mine said “What about Olive?” Not only did it just feel right before I even met Olive, but I loved the idea because it reminded me of one of my favorite “nouveau” children’s books, “Olive The Other Reindeer.” It was also serendipitous that the pooch in the story looked like the late Idgy. So, Olive’s name is also a nod to Idgy, a dog I came to love wholeheartedly for 14 years. It was perfect. Now everyone who hears Olive’s name thinks it’s just perfect for her. They have no idea that her middle name is “Pimento.” This was suggested to me by another friend. It made me laugh. So, that’s how Olive Pimento Soldavini got her name. Ironic, given that I am an Italian who will not let a green, black or purple olive come within 15 feet of my mouth. My poor cousin’s wife always has to make my salad “sans olives,” because I won’t even pick that scat out of my dish.
Now that I know Olive, would I have named her anything else? Not a chance. But…I would have considered the following names: Rocket, Tornado, or Goofy. In fact, one day I called her Goofy when we were walking past the local middle school and I overheard an 8 year old boy say to another in an incredulous tone, “Is that dog’s name GOOFY?” No, but it could have been.
bones, dogs, humor, pets, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 01/13/2011 at 7:27 pm
Ever notice the musicology of squeak toys? They have a limited range of distinct squeaks, but depending on how Olive squeezes them, they take on the quality of the Boston Symphony. The larger squeakers, when compressed slowly like an accordion actually emit a sound that resembles the word “people.” PEE-PULL, PEE-PULL. PEE-PULL. The smaller squeakers, compressed more rapidly sound like BE-BAD, BE-BAD, BE-BAD, BE-BAD, BE-BAD, BE-BAD, BE-BAD.
The sound I make when I’ve heard enough of Canine Concerto Minor? “STOP-IT. STOP-IT. STOP-IT.” I wonder if dogs use squeakers to try to communicate with us, using them as a sort of aural sign language. Really, maybe we’re just too stupid to get it.
Right now, Olive is lying in front of the pellet stove contentedly (and quietly) gnawing on a $27 Elk Antler which is so hard, it feels like the femur bone of a Triceratops. God knows what she’s sharpening her teeth for next…
couch, dogs, humor, TV, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 01/12/2011 at 7:52 pm
As I sit down to write tonight, Olive leaps over me like a champion reindeer to curl up on the couch directly behind me. Just moments after revealing that the missing fleece sock I spent the past few minutes looking for is not in my bedroom where it should be, but laying in a corner in the living room looking “dead” if that is at all possible. (Her head is jammed into my back as I write this). The TV is on and Olive will remain vaguely disinterested in it until she hears or sees a dog on screen. Then, she will leap off the couch with the energy of an errant spring that’s suddenly popped, approach the TV with her metronome tail wagging furiously, waiting for a chance to formally “greet” the pooch on TV. She’ll start to sniff the TV screen in the approximate direction of the dog’s uniquely aromatic rump and I begin praying that she doesn’t decide to jump up and rake her nails across the screen in an alpha attempt to mount the pixilated pooch. Olive is about 55 pounds now and it’s 55 pounds of pure muscle and bone. When she slams into something, it’s like being hit by an NFL-branded sack of wet cement. The only thing funnier than watching this half-reality/half virtual interaction is watching the expressions on her face and her ears when she’s bearing witness to warfare in the animal kingdom. “GRUNT. BARK. (DROOL) SQUEAL. (BITE) YELP. BARK, BARK. GROWL.” As the animals begin tearing into each other, Olive’s bright, captivating amber eyes completely dilate, her lips curls ever so slightly, revealing a few bottom teeth and you can actually watch her emotions cascade across her ears. Their rapid, but subtle micro movements convey a complex mix of curiosity, fear and disgust all once. Meryl Streep would be impressed. I think it’s the equivalent of rubbernecking past an accident on the highway. Olive is repulsed but feels compelled to watch. Besides, she has to be on high alert just in case the animals pounce into our living room. I’m so glad I didn’t let anyone talk me out of getting a Weim. I love Olive’s intelligence, her energy and her goofy sense of humor. “OLIVE, WHERE THE HELL IS MY SWEATSHIRT?”
dogs, humor, lawn cigars, weimaraners
In weimaraners on 01/10/2011 at 9:30 pm
What a “Cat in The Hat” morning I had today. This is how I describe a series of ridiculous events that starts with some innocuous act on my part and quickly accelerates into a Pandorian nightmare. Usually because I’m rushing and not paying close enough attention to something I should. At around 6:30 am this morning, while lugging the 40 pound plastic bag of wood pellets up onto the pellet stove, dumping them into the hopper, the bottom of the bag breaks open and 20 pounds of compressed wood pellets come cascading down the front of the stove onto the living room rug, scattering like tiny shiny turdlettes. Olive is now trying to gobble up these unexpected treats like a Dyson vacuum cleaner. To her, it probably resembles deer or rabbit scat, two of her favorite environmental delicacies. I reach into her mouth with the finesse of a blind plumber, trying to extract these tiny missiles to no avail. They are so small, she can barely chew them; they disappear down her gullet only to tumble onto the pile of other foreign objects she has recently ingested (pencil bits, the eye from a plush lizard, cardboard, discarded Q-tips, etc.) I retract my hand, now dripping in a syrup-like coating of dog saliva. To make matters worse, part of the heavy-duty white plastic bag is now melted onto the front of the black pellet stove. I’m so annoyed with myself I want to slap my own face repeatedly. Olive gets led to her “dungeon” crate downstairs while I clean up and curse at myself. (I call it her dungeon crate only because it is very spartan. It’s where she goes when I have to leave her for awhile and the possibility of a gastrointestinal train wreck is very real. Often she holds on to her lawn cigars for hours, apparently in an attempt to polish them into diamonds.) Soon, she’s barking and I know this time it’s for water. I swear the dog forgets to drink sometimes and when she’s thirsty, she becomes very insistent and the water in Princess Olive’s bowl had better be as pristine as an arctic spring. If it contains microns of stick bits, whisker dust or God forbid, a bloated kibble, she won’t touch it. Any foreign floaters, and she turns her nose up in disgust, waiting for her handmaiden (me) to replenish it. I clean and fill her water bowl, let her out of the crate and scrub my hands. What a great day today! You won’t hear me complain, my dog is a nuthatch and I’m insane!
dogs, humor, training, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 01/07/2011 at 7:47 pm
"What now?"
If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past six months, it’s that most people think their dogs are well-behaved. Even as they jam their snout into your netherbits trying to ferret out a toy. Guess what? You’re not supposed to have to give a dog a command 42 times before it stops trying to mount the defenseless 15-month old teeter-tottering through the kitchen wearing nothing but a soiled diaper and a grin covered in peanut butter. Yes, the baby smells THAT good to the dog. A walking, cooing aphrodisiac.
Anyway, dog training takes an unfathomable level of patience and the ability to endure hours of mindless repetition without wanting to cry. “SIT. GOOD GIRL. OKAY. SIT. GOOD GIRL. OKAY. SIT. GOOD GIRL. OKAY. SIT. GOOD GIRL. OKAY. SIT. GOOD GIRL. OKAY. SIT. GOOD GIRL. OKAY…” Sometimes, waiting for the light bulb to go off in the dog’s head is like waiting for Godot. (Which by odd coincidence includes the word ‘dog.’) This is when the dog recognizes that we humans are woefully inept at communicating…especially in dog. I think they are actually jerking our chains then. Thankfully, Olive’s disposition makes her very eager to please. She will stand on her head and recite Desiderata just to make me happy. Other times, she puts on a William Wegman mask and tells me to stand on a chair.
Anyway, when Olive and I first started obedience school, she wore a regular, run-of-the-mill, overpriced dog collar. Big mistake. As I would soon learn, this was like putting a wet noodle around her neck. She had not one iota of respect for it. My independent spirited, crazed scent hound kept her nose to the mat, mentally categorizing and reclassifying every odor she encountered, occasionally stopping to lick some sort of forensic residue. The only time she wasn’t doing this was when she was distracted by the molecular activity around us. The dog is a biologic motion sensor. If the tiniest thread in the fabric of the universe shifts imperceptibly, Olive goes on high alert.
It was impossible to walk her. The collar was simply an accessory. It was like walking a 40-pound jackrabbit, zigzagging all over the place, leaving scorch marks in the earth she traversed. At this time, it would have been easier to train her to plow crop circles. I quickly developed “Olive Elbow,” from overextending it repeatedly. The leash burn on the underside of my arm was getting worse. My shoulder was dangling out of its socket. Olive was learning many, many foul words during this time. “$%#@!*&^%&*#@$! My God, am I ever going to enjoy walking this dog?”
At my wit’s end, I consulted with Olive’s trainer. “Do you think I’ll ever be able to train Olive without using the prong collar?” If you’re not familiar with the prong collar, it’s the one many dog owners (usually those who own dogs no larger than a Fabergé egg) wince at when they first see it. Actually, I winced too. It resembles a medieval torture device. A series of interlocked angry chrome pincers. I couldn’t imagine stringing this around Olive’s dainty neck. Oddly enough, it reminded me of going to the dentist, where they try to shove equipment the size of a 1962 Buick through your piehole. Nonplussed, the trainer responded: “Yes. But it will take a VERY, VERY, VERY VERY, VERY LONG TIME.” The perfect answer to give an impatient personality like myself.
“Welcome to Frankenprong, Olive.”
The much maligned and misunderstood prong collar should be sold, not as a utilitarian pet product but as a device that balances the relationship between dog and human. It works. Olive respects it’s ability to set limits. And if you wrap it around your arm, you’ll see that it’s no big deal (assuming you bought the quality one with rounded prongs). What I couldn’t get past though was watching Olive shrink 4 sizes before my eyes when the trainer popped the leash connected to Olive’s bright new prong collar. I think my sensitive, short-haired pooch yelped more from surprise (the party’s over) than anything else. Still, I said, “Screw that. I’m not making my dog feel small.” Off came the Frankenprong. For now anyway.
Four weeks later, ready to pull a Sylvia Plath, I attempted to reintroduce Olive to the Frankenprong. I gently placed it around her neck, softly cooing to her like the crap-stained baby from paragraph one. She remained unusually calm while cocking her head every so slightly as if to let me know that I’d been had. I swear, she may have even winked at me.
dogs, food, humor, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 01/05/2011 at 7:34 pm
Okay, so I ate the number two pencil. Maybe it was the way it smelled. I am after all, a scent hound. Which means that I can tell you with 100% certainty that there is a Snickers wrapper with some caramel still stuck to it on the sole of a chubby kid’s shoe in Paramus. Maybe I ate it because it was the prettiest looking stick I ever saw. Almost trophy quality. I liked the point on the end of it. I used it as a toothpick. The best part was the little pink nipple on the other end of it. I had to spit out the small silver collar to get to it, but it was worth it. Maybe I ate it just because it was called “number two.” I didn’t expect that hard black filling though. What was THAT all about? Now every time I sit down and scratch, I Ieave smudge marks on the floor. (Patti’s not going to like THAT.) Hold on I have to scratch myself. Did I just hear a bird? God, I’m so bored right now. That’s because I’m a Weimaraner. Sometimes it’s better to be stupid; there are less obligations in life. Did I just say that? HOLY CRAP, I CAN WRITE!!! Wait a minute, I have to lick myself. Oh look, there’s a stinkbug…
dogs, humor, lawn cigars, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 01/03/2011 at 8:17 pm
Olive just finished devouring the #2 pencil I left on the coffee table unattended for 5 minutes. She’s outside in the backyard now writing the next post.
dogs, dryer sheets, humor, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 01/03/2011 at 2:56 pm
Olive may not have any thumbs, but the dog is exceptionally talented at zeroing in on the olfactory presence of the Bounce dryer sheet nestled inside a tangled pile of freshly dried clothes. Within seconds of identifying this tantalizing specially-formulated commercial odor, she plows her head into the dryer, (bystanders be damned!) dives into the pile of clothes and with the precision of a trained explosives expert extricates the dryer sheet and takes off with it dangling from her mouth like some cheap carnival prize. Getting her to give it up requires the negotiating skills of Henry Kissinger. It is important to her to hang onto it for as long as possible. This means she must fly up and down the three levels of stairs at least three times, run around the whole house like her tail is on fire, occasionally pausing only to gently gnaw on the dryer sheet. The only way I have been able to get her to give it up is by offering something better. If I yell the word “BISCUIT,” drawing it out…“B-I-S-C-U-I-T-T-T…in a voice so high pitched that it makes birds drop out of the sky, she races toward me, sits promptly, and instantly lets the dryer sheet drop as if it’s a dirty diaper.
dogs, humor, walks, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 01/02/2011 at 11:13 am
"Go ahead, try to take a picture of me not moving."
dogs, goliath, humor, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 01/01/2011 at 2:14 am
The dog who would be Goliath. Most people probably don’t know that Weimaraners were originally bred to hunt large game, large as in BEAR and DEER. (Which of course would make New Jersey the perfect home for these dogs.) Then, according to the Weimeraner Club of America, they were “converted to a fur and feathers” dog, as in hunters of picnic basket-sized prey. Make no mistake. Olive is a very confident dog, approaching strangers (with and without candy) and other dogs in full alpha mode with her head proudly held high, chest thrust forward and her cigarillo-like tail wagging so fast it can slice a tomato cleaner than a Ginsu knife. In these moments she reminds me of a 5-year old child who innocently believes that the world is there only to make them happy. However, my sweet-tempered pooch is not what I’d consider brave. Standing in the middle of my rural acre of property late one night, waiting for Olive to deposit some black gold, she goes into red alert and starts to stalk something on the other side of the split rail fence dividing my neighbor’s property from mine. The low growling which had immediately preceded the deliberate and focused stalking now erupts into apocalyptic barking. “HOLY CRAP,” I think as I am on the verge of barely controlled panic. IS IT A BEAR? A COYOTE? A BOBCAT? Yes, these animals are all indigenous to New Jersey. Even mountain lion, which I learned when one was found spitting at cars on Rt. 17 in Mahwah a year or two ago. While I am standing there mentally processing the possibilities, the flexi-leash continues to unwind with such ferocity, I think I actually smell smoke. And then, in what seems like a nanosecond, with the deft coordination of a ballerina, Olive pirouettes and races back toward me at the speed of light…and hides behind me. Like I said, confident, but not brave.
couch, dogs, humor, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 12/31/2010 at 6:51 pm
"Is this not my bed?"
dogs, hoofbeats, humor, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 12/30/2010 at 12:45 pm
Olive has the body type of a Supermodel, unlike most female Weims who look like they were born to be Champion Roller Derby Queens. When meeting Olive for the first time, most people comment on her long, beautiful legs. She puts dancers to shame. And when she stands up, placing her paws on my shoulders or my back, she comes almost face to face with me. She is lean yet muscular and sinewy with an aura of soft elegance about her. When she trots, it is absolutely graceful in its effortlessness. So, it might be hard to imagine her zooming through the house, leaping up and down stairways, sliding across hardwood floors and coming to rest only when she’s slammed into a wall and literally bent the prong in the back of a C02 monitor plugged into an outlet. My sister visited a few weeks ago and I was concerned that Olive might accidently send her flying down the stairs. “When you hear hoofbeats,” I tell my sister, “Get the hell out of the way. Lean against a wall. It’s your best defense.” This is of course, only when Olive’s not devouring a bully stick, gnawing on some piece of cardboard somewhere or licking houseguests down to their DNA.
couch, dogs, humor, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 12/30/2010 at 7:32 am
In just 72 hours, I have created a monster. From the day I brought Olive home, I was as vigilant as a border guard during all aspects of her training to teach her that jumping onto the couches and climbing to their microfiber apex was not permitted. NEIN!
So, on a particularly frigid evening a few nights ago, feeling sorry for Olive as she lay peacefully curled up like a grey-brown fawn on her expensive fire engine red (how appropriate for a Weimaraner) donut bed from Orvis, I allowed my 8-month old mostly-well-trained pooch to join me on the couch.
She quickly made herself very comfortable, first walking around in tiny half moons before settling down at the far end all curled up, with her head propped up on the cheap faux-suede orange pillow from Kohl’s so she could watch TV. I kid you not. I think the TV screen is so big (51”) that she thinks that whatever’s on it represents something actually happening in our living room.
Then, slowly, as if sneaking up on some oblivious, small-brained prey, she oh-so-casually advances, finally sidling up beside me. Of course, she’s taken the inside track, so when she feels she’s gotten close enough—when her head is resting on my neck—she stretches her body out as far as possible, like a canine version of Nadia Comaneci. And sleeps. And snores. Quietly. She sleeps so soundly, so quickly that if I try to gently pry open her eyes, she could care less. They stay sealed as though they have been sewn shut. Since her eyelashes are the same color as her fur, she actually resembles a stuffed animal whose eyes have been stolen by some chew-happy dog.
All is fine until we get up to retire for the evening; me in my bed, her adjacent to my bed in the well-appointed but stinky crate she loves. And then it begins. Barking, kvetching, crying, trilling, even keening like a widow at an Irish wake. This is the first time she’s behaved like this, so I have to assume, that a) she’d prefer to stay on the even softer couch, b) she’d prefer to stay on the couch next to me, or c) she’s just pissed that I awakened her from her couch potato slumber. The barking and trilling goes on for about 10 minutes. Telling her to “be quiet” with calm, assertive energy has zero impact. Impatient, I switch gears and try yelling instead. “BE QUIET, BE QUIET, BE QUIET.” My pleas go ignored. At my wits end, I do the next most human-logical thing; I try to reason with her, “Olive, if you continue to behave this way, you will no longer be allowed to stay on the couch.” And for added emphasis, I pile on the rhetorical, “DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?” Of course, the problem with all these approaches is tri-fold. A) she is not a child, B) she is not human and C) she doesn’t speak English.
Optimist that I am, I delusionally figure that this might be a one-time thing. Three times in a row. Now, during daylight hours, I find her walking across the top of the couch and love seat as if she’s scaling Mount Everest.
dogs, humor, pantene, weimaraners
In Uncategorized on 12/30/2010 at 7:29 am
My dog is stunningly beautiful. Really. As in so, beautiful, she stops traffic. Literally. Every day. Without fail, when Olive and I are out walking, people stop driving and get out of their cars, come out of their homes, stop washing their cars and doing all sorts of things just to greet Olive, typically exclaiming, “She’s so beautiful,” “Stunning,” “Can I pet your dog?” “Is that a…” Weimaraner? Chocolate lab? “Look, Mommy a Greyhound!” But always, “She’s perfect.” Clearly, Olive has a magnetic quality that draws people to her. People also go out of their way to let Olive pass as though she were royalty prancing down the sidewalk. You can actually sense them internally genuflecting. It made me think, “Wow, so this is how the beautiful people go through life.” She continues to parade by passersby with her deep barrel chest proudly thrust forward as if to say, “Yes, look at me, look at me!” At about this time, the old Pantene commercial tagline floats through my head, “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.”
Life With Olive 