Patti Soldavini

Posts Tagged ‘q-tips’

Unspun Q-Tip Head

In dogs, humor, lifestyle, pets, weimaraners, writing on 04/23/2012 at 8:30 pm

"What was THAT all about?"

A few days ago, nearing the end of our morning walk, Olive and I encounter an old, scraggly man wobbling down the street. And when I say scraggly, I mean his snow white hair looks like an unspun Q-tip head. It announces his presence about four blocks before the rest of his body. And it’s quite a contrast to his seal brown leathery skin. I think he may be muttering to himself. His limbs seem to have separate lives of their own, each moving out of synchronization with the other. I tighten my grip on Olive’s leash, unsure of what to expect as we get closer. Suddenly, the geriatric scarecrow sneezes into a handkerchief. In a loud, slobbery sort of way. At least I hope that’s what I saw. Because if it’s not, then the alternative is that he sneezed into his hands and because of what comes next, I choose not to believe that. As Olive and I are about to pass the man, he reaches out while asking in painfully fractured English something like “Is the dog nice?” I am now torn between allowing a harmless old man to pet Olive with his potentially snot-stained hands and exposing her to Christ-knows-what while I silently gag many times over or being sort of rude and pulling Olive away from him. He’s so excited about petting Olive that I can’t bear to deprive him of this interaction. My eyes grow wide as he rubs his hands over the top of her head, her ears, snout and the sides of her mouth. As usual, my dog stands there enjoying the molestation. As he natters on energetically in his non-native language, I can no longer focus on anything but this: MUST GET OLIVE HOME IMMEDIATELY AND WIPE DOWN HER HEAD AND FACE. Yes, like Howie Mandel’s obsessive-compulsive fear of germs, I am now fixated on this thought. I gently start to pull Olive away as a means of signaling the end of the interaction. The cocooned old bean ambles away like a wind-up toy trying to move in at least four different directions at once. I turn to Olive and say, “OLIVE. DO NOT PUT YOUR PAWS ANYWHERE NEAR YOUR FACE UNTIL WE GET HOME.” I race home, wondering exactly how I would explain the need to go 50 miles per hour in a 35 mph zone to a Police Officer. I run into the kitchen, soak a paper towel and wipe down her head and face. I’ve never done this to Olive before so while she’s very obedient and allows me to do this, I can hear what she’s thinking. “IS THIS BECAUSE I LICKED MY ASS?”


The Furious Pooch

In weimaraners on 05/06/2011 at 7:47 pm


If you want to see Olive instantly switch from her sweet tempered disposition to that of Lizzie “Bite My Axe” Borden, just try taking one of her “dead” toys away. A plush squirrel she has filleted open from tail to neck. A giant tennis ball that has been deskinned, its neon yellow fuzz peeled away in asymmetrical patches. It is the only time she becomes absolutely furious with me. “HOW DARE YOU. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HARD IT WAS TO TEAR THAT THING TO PIECES WITH JUST MY TEETH? DROP IT. IT’S MINE.” She trails me to the trash can, almost hyperventilating as she jumps up and down trying to snatch it from my hand like a distraught vulture. If you want to see me become furious with Olive, just watch me become equally unhinged when I catch her in the bathroom using the toilet tissue roll as her own personal Pez dispenser. “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR DOG MIND??? BAD GIRL! BAD GIRL! OUT NOWWWWWWWW!” Some days it’s like living with a rebellious teenager challenging boundaries both great and small. Other days it’s like living with a bipolar Curious George. And then, when I look at her stretched out on the couch (like right now), with her nose tucked into or underneath a pillow or her own leg as though she’s trying to protect it from the light, my heart melts. Especially when she starts snoring very lightly. It sounds so peaceful. And in that moment, I forget about the countless times she’s robbed the waste basket in the bathroom, chewing the Breathe Right strips as if they are sticks of Dentyne, chomping on the Q-Tips as though they were clove cigarettes and flinging her head from side to side to rid herself of the mint-flavored dental floss tangled around her tonsils like an errant strand of hair. I kiss her gently on the top of her head and whisper, “You little ball buster. Good thing you’re so adorable.”

Q-Tip Addict

In weimaraners on 04/02/2011 at 10:29 am

"Who, ME?"

My little Q-Tip addict is now sunning herself on the back of the blanket-covered couch, looking as innocent as a Beatrix Potter bunny. Maybe I’ll nickname her “Princess Ra” when she does this. This is where she fled to after being chased throughout the house with a fan of Q-Tips sticking out of her mouth. She wins because I have to stop to pick up the webs of discarded dental floss that are strewn across the carpeting as if a can of pick-up-stix has exploded. Between the Q-Tips, tree limbs, wood pellets, and cardboard compulsion, I’m wondering if Olive has a fiber deficiency. I could probably feed her a bowl of sawdust, crumpled up cardboard and Q-Tips and she’d be just as happy. Instead, like a moron, I feed her expensive natural and organic dog food. I’m not sure how to keep her from ransacking the bathroom wastebasket like a common junkyard dog. I have to put the lid down on the toilet to keep her from drinking from it as if it’s a slurpee fountain. Now I have to close the bathroom door to keep her from wearing the wastebasket as a silver hat. Maybe I should just seal all the pinholes in the universe to keep her out of trouble. Goofy dog.

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