| 90 lb lunatic |
Samson is as equally smart as he is crazy. It’s a strange phenomena really to have to explain to people who ring my doorbell that the batshit crazy dog whose collar I am struggling to hold onto because he is lunging like a 90 lb lunatic at the prospect of seeing another human is actually a good dog.
The thing is, there are two types of Labs out there. There are the good family oriented English Labs, and then there are the of epic dynamos of endless energy called American Labs. Which basically means we picked the wrong kind. If you have ever read Marley and Me, or saw the movie let me just say that Samson is totally Marley’s long lost American Lab brother. There is just no other explanation for their uncanny and humiliating similarities.
So, Samson is am American Lab and he is three and a half going on three months. He has the potent youthful vitality of a puppy and the majority of his brain is made of rocks with one small part reserved for intelligence. But let’s not confuse dog smarts with wisdom because I’m pretty sure if I asked Samson for advice, every answer would be to eat cheese.
Samson can do the basic dog things like sit, lay down, stand and stay. Except you can't actually speak a command to him because he only obeys sign language. True story. He’s a great running partner who heels right beside you. He can even ring a potty bell to let you know he wants back inside. All this sounds fine and good but then he went and figured out something that makes him too smart for his own good.
People, my dog has gone and figured out how to open a door. Yes that is right, Samson opens doors. Unless it has a door knob because that requires an opposable thumb and I'm still waiting for him to ask for that plastic surgery operation. But yes, he can open doors. All the main floor doors in our house have push levers, so even though he knows how to ring his potty bell to be let in from outside, he does one of two things; he either lets himself in and leaves the door open behind him, or, if the door is locked he gets up on his hind legs and pounds and scratches on the door with his front paws. And when he does that, it sends me fleeing into a fit of rage yelling “NO! Samson NO!” And you see where I’m going with this right? Who has who trained because I’m pretty sure Samson wins on that front for me locking him out in the first place.
One time we tried to teach Samson a trick called “go get me a beer Samson” which was the dumbest thing we could do really because we made it as far as getting him to tug on a towel to open the fridge but then he would head straight for the cheese and that was a very short lived attempt at teaching an old dog new tricks if we wanted to actually use our refrigerator as a place to store food.
Anyway, a few days after we moved in, Mark and I were across the street visiting the neighbours. Mark was outside talking to some people and I was inside sitting at their kitchen table while their preteen made me a pair of earrings and all of a sudden a flash of yellow fur came barreling through their front door. It took me a good five seconds to register the fact that it was Samson! My dog had just decided to let himself out of OUR house, accost and crotch poke the neighbour who lives beside us (we’ve since learned) AND THEN come bolting at the speed of light straight into the house of people whom we’d only known for like half an hour.
I was so mortified and do you think he would let me grab his collar to drag him home? Nope. I had to chase him outside, which made him think we were all having a good old game of chase the dog, so there Mark and I were, the new people in the neighbourhood trying to make a good first impression and all we managed to do was ultimately become a neighbourhood spectable while we chased our dog down the street.
At least Samson has managed to keep one consistent friend in his life.
 Labels: From House to Home, Samson |
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| Slave labour |
Samson told me that if I make him carry one more box up those stairs he is going on strike and renegotiating his contract as the family pet whose been without fair wages since being forced to spoon with random humans all night long against his will.
Apparently we had an agreement that stated he is allowed to sit around and do nothing all day but eat, sleep and poop. And by sleep I mean shovy shover kick you in the head privileges on a king sized bed, and by eat I mean dibs on all Nate’s snack bowls and lizard tongue yoinks of random food bits off counter tops and by poop I mean the uncanny ability to deposit a shit load of crap on the lawn only a cow farmer could be proud of.
 Labels: Samson |
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| Broken |
If
{1 annual dog exam +
14 doses of Otoclean ear cleaning solution for an ear infection +
1 bottle of ear drops for an infected dog ear +
6 month's worth of heartworm medication +
20 pills to tranquilize a 90lb dog that resists all medicine +
1 thermometer up the ass for good measure= $319.76. }
AND
{A drugged Samson can still kick my ass when I try and put medicine in his ear and I need to thank my lucky stars that I have no broken bones and all my teeth still intact and need to purchase 66 more tranquilizer tablets and pay the Vet another $41.06. }
AND
{Emergency visit to the Vet after discovering Samson painfully limping and unable to make it up and down stairs reveals my insane dog broke his toe and needs a giant bottle of pain killers and I need to dish out another $135.49. }
And
{When the grand total in two days = $500
}
Then
{Samson = one lucky mofo of a dog that has not yet been sent to the glue factory in the sky. }
END IF
 Labels: Samson |
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| For Sale |
I only have a moment before I need to run around like a chicken with its head cut off who couldn't tell you its ass from its elbow during such time of life changing stress, but if I don’t get this off my chest I think my just explode, or, like, burst from sheer sadness/excitement.
I AM SELLING MY HOUSE!
This is the MLS description:
Absolutely stunning 3 bedroom home in popular Westney Heights area. Spotless & well kept w/ modern neutral decor. Upgraded bathroom w/ granite vanity counter & soaker tub. Eat in Kitchen walks out to a large deck in a extra deep lot. Front enclosed porch overlooks interlocking landscaped garden w/ oversized single garage. Family friendly neighbourhood close to Hwy 401, schools, parks, Community Centre, library, shopping and public transit. A Must See!
And this is me going holy fuck you have no idea how much effort went into scoring that word "spotless" because life with a sticky-fingered toddler and an oversized yellow dog who sheds like there is no tomorrow and two ornery cats that like to hack up hairballs is not conducive to a life of "spotless."
In any case, please feel free to peruse these pictures of my "spotless" home while I a) try to convince my kid that wearing a spring coat is, yes different than a winter coat, but it is not the end of the world so just PUT IT ON FOR THE LOVE OF PETE BECAUSE I AM IN A HURRY TO LIKE, BUY A NEW GODDAM RAKE, and b) sleep for a thousand years from all of the cleaning I've done.
Um, where was I. Oh! Right! This is my house. My clean, spotless house. At least for like, another 4.2 seconds.
And this? Well, this is exactly what our family looks like right now as we scatter about trying to get our shit together. And by shit together, I mean pick up an entire winter’s worth/truck load of Samson’s shit from the backyard.
 Labels: Moving Up, Samson |
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| Glamorous |
I can’t believe that an entire week has gone by since I last posted. I have so much catching up to do and I barely know where to start. In the past few weeks I have traveled half way across this province and back, completed several really great photo shoots, weathered the fallout of my child’s first official sugar high, and is it just me, or did everyone else’s kid become totally insane and suddenly refuse to eat anything but chocolate bars?
I also won $300 in free gas after winning a contest I barely remember entering. Apparently I submitted a photo and wrote a funny story about our family van. God, I drive a van. Ten years ago I would have laughed at my maternal self trying to picture that one, too.
A photo I took of one of my client's babies won an award, which I'm excited about. That client is now relishing in about a thousand dollars worth of sweet baby swag.
And this month I’m running my first official photography advertising campaign, and I’m literally swamped and drowning in work and enlisted the help of my mother to come and visit for the week.
Also, we have a very sick kid on our hands. Breathing issues. Again. I know!
Where to start? Where to start?
Maybe telling the story of my triumphant return home from my road trip is a good starting point.
Sadly, my trip was cut short. B and I were having a lazy morning catching up and gossiping: her son curled close to her breast, looking angelic under the glow of an above incandescent light while my little whirlwind devil busied himself with emptying every single jar and can from her cupboards when we heard the deep rumble of her husband’s truck pulling in the driveway echoing throughout the house signalling his return home.
“Did you guys hear about the storm on the way?”
“Storm?”
“Yeah, Winter storm.”
“You’re shitting us right?”
“No, seriously. Up to a foot of snow and severe winds are on the way right now.”
B lives in the country on a stunning 50 acres of land. While visiting, I kept glancing out of her giant picturesque window and gazing longingly into the orange and vermillion leaf-filled woods pondering growing up with a forest right outside my doorstep; a childhood filled with exploring under the sun glinted glow of a tree-topped ceiling, piling fallen trees to create secret hide-a-way forts, and when the chill of winter twists through leafless woods, a place to thread new adventures on a blanket of even white snow. Nate is growing up in a tiny fenced yard shared with a giant dog and a neon plastic slide. It’s hard not to notice the difference.
But damn, you know? I hate driving in the snow. Especially the first major snow fall of the season because even though we go through the change of seasons every single year, there are always those people who forget their brains and common sense at home and fail to slow down.
And so, to avoid winter driving conditions, I decided to leave early, and just as we pulled out of the driveway, snow had begun to fall. We arrived home to gorgeous sunny weather, narrowly escaping this scene, which B emailed me the next morning:
What we didn’t escape from, however, was that while we were gone, Samson went and got himself a severe case of separation anxiety diarrhea, and left a giant pile of shit for me in the hallway, a trail of shit in Nate’s bedroom, and another welcoming pile in the office.
And because Samson is half dog and half the size of a cow, he has enormous sized shit. Like, so enormous, I clogged the toilet cleaning up after him and narrowly missed a doggy diarrhea overflow by a fraction of a millimetre. Sighing with relief for avoiding THAT mess, I closed the lid on the toilet seat and went back to cleaning the carpets.
And all of a sudden, over the roar of the steam cleaner, I heard Nate screaming. I ran over to see what was wrong, and even though deep down I knew this was one of those moments that I could so totally tell all of his future girlfriends, I just wanted to die and go to a Heaven that did not include cleaning up shit because Nate had flushed the toilet and was standing in a stream of overflowing doggy diarrhea-filled toilet water.
Reacting, I ran to the linen closet and grabbed an arm load worth of pristine white towels to soak up the mess.
People, I now understand why my mom feels compelled to ask every time she visits why I have all white towels with a kid in the house.Labels: Comic Relief, Friends, Nate, Samson |
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| Pumpkin massacre |
Nate had a mini-meltdown watching me carve his “heaby” pumpkin.
Punkin! Hurt! PUNNNNNNKIN!
And while Mark and I tried to reassure him that his pumpkin was OK, Samson made a mad dash gluttonous nose dive into a massive pile of pumpkin guts, which totally perpetuated Nate’s meltdown over our wholesome family pumpkin massacre.
 Labels: All in the Family, Nate, Samson |
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| S(h)it |
Nate's most favourite thing to do in the whole wide world right now is teach Samson how to shit.
All he wants do all day is feed Samson kibble and tell him to shit. And I can hardly say no. He’s happy. Samson’s happy. They’re both out of my hair. Shitting makes us all happy.
I know Mark hates it, but I like it when Samson shits in bed with us. I could do without the flatulent squawk of his butt trumpet though. I don’t know what’s wrong with that dog’s intestinal organs, but I’m pretty sure the fumes from his dog farts could be bottled and sold as the next generation of tear gas.
When he was a puppy, he used to love shitting in the bathtub, but these days, trying to shove his giant 90 lb dog torso in the tub is a job in and of itself, let alone expecting him to shit in there.
And despite the hairy mess he leaves behind, we do let Samson shit on the furniture.
Oh, and then there’s the van. OMFG! The van! That dog totally LOVES shitting in the van. He didn't have much room to shit when he had to share the back seat of our compact car with Nate's car seat, so he especially loves it now that he has the entire back row all to himself to shit on.
Sometimes Samson shits outside, but only if it's sunny and he can catch a tan, too. He mostly prefers to shit in the house and spend his time outdoors running and playing.
And even though Samson has his moments of riotous disobedience, he's mostly a good dog and shits on command. Especially if the fridge door is opened. You should see what a good shitter he is then. Also, whenever we're out for a run, I make him shit before he crosses the road, too. You know, for safety.
Our dog goes absolutely apeshit crazy when we take him anywhere, so we always have to work very hard at helping Samson to relax and shit at the front door before we ring the doorbell. I know our friends and family appreciate it.
Ysterday, when Mark got home from work, he asked Nate what he and Mom did all day. Nate said shit.
And that is exactly what my life as a Stay-at-Home Mom is like.
I stay home all day and do shit.
 Such a good shitter. Labels: Motherhood, Nate, Samson |
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| Ribbons and puppy dog tails |
Last week, on a spur of the moment decision, Mark and I decided to pack up the family and escape these suburban hollows for a couple of days to a place where one can sit in the sombre-hued shadows of dusk and watch an orange and vermillion sun set over evening-stilled water and wake up to a lively orchestrated symphony of cooing doves.
This is also where both Mark and I grew up, but it's now better known as Grandparent Territory.
Mark and I had plans to let Nate visit both sets of Grandparents while we spent some quality time together embarking on long heart-pounding runs with Samson through heavily wooded trails infused with the scent of lingering woody-amber pine while fluttering folds in the tree-lined ceiling above softly illuminates the deep forest in a romantic glow.
This all would have worked out perfectly had I not forgot my running shoes.
One morning, while Mark was off connecting with his athletic self and the rustle of Nate’s delight-infused giggles were nothing but an distant echo, I decide to spend some time alone and indulged in the soul-soothing amenities of my parent’s backyard, which includes a hot tub, pool, and the expansive reach of impeccably maintained gardens and lush cotton green grass.
And although I would have much preferred to be able to lace up my running shoes and join Mark, I have to admit, this was about as close to bliss-filled outdoor solitude as it gets because I have to share my tiny backyard with a great big giant dog that is half lab and half crazy. And to put it into perspective, the lushness of my yard is directly proportional to number of times a day that Samson a) excavates invisible bones, b) completes an entire marathon worth of lawn demolishing concentric circles of stupidity, c) pisses on the lawn, and d) shits on the lawn.
In a flawless world filled with of ribbons and puppy dog tails, Samson would be the perfect combination of enduring loyalty and enamoured puppy dog love topped with gossamer mousseline folds of yellow fur, but most days he’s just a handful of toddler-shoving, food-snatching and cat-chasing naughtiness a mere whiskers length away from the glue factory.Labels: All in the Family, Samson, Vacation |
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| Faithful Pillow Warmer |
Mark is sick. And by sick, I don’t mean he’s sick as in a totally rad husband kind of sick, even though he is; I mean honest to goodness sick. And this is a man who never gets sick. The whole time I’ve known him, which is over half of my 28 years of existence on this planet, I have never seen him like this. Except maybe for the thousand zillion hangovers we’ve nursed together over the years, but technically those don’t count because they’re self inflicted.
Mark, the hardest working work-life balance man that I know, never takes time off work unless it is for a well planned and executed holiday from the office that will ensure freedom from a perpetually vibrating BlackBerry. But last Thursday night a fever worked its way into his fiendishly fit man body that just kept escalating higher and higher.
Planning to spend a quiet day fighting his fever-induced grogginess in bed, Mark rose early on Friday morning to wrap up some work related business that needed to be handled in his absence. While he was busy in the home office, Nate and I ate breakfast at his pint-sized toddler table, brushed our teeth and then headed to daycare.
Once home, I put on a much needed pot of focus-enhancing coffee and before getting started on a new freelance writing project, I went to check on Mark in bed only to be greeted by our faithful four-legged companion keeping Mark’s pillow warm while he soaked in tepid bath water and tried to lower his soaring temperature.
Shortly after sitting down to write the entire house filled with the disgruntled swearing of an overheated man with only half a voice.
Samson, never wanting to be left out of whatever the humans are doing, had left on Mark's pillow the most giant pile of previously eaten chicken by-product breakfast that I have ever seen. And while we scrambled to clean up the mess, Samson just layed there and gazed at us with his penetrating chocolate brown eyes, as if to say, “Oh hai. I has a sick too. Please to give cuddles now?”
 Labels: Mark, Samson |
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| Quiet |
The house feels eerily quiet this morning. In the background is the gurgle of a brewing pot of coffee and just beyond an open window I can hear the trailing echo of a distant train and a lively orchestrated morning symphony of birds.
The house is quiety today because every Friday Nate goes to daycare, and I'm so happy to say that our new provider, Kristen, has been nothing short of amazing.
I remember how much my heart sank when our first attempt at putting Nate in daycare one day a week ended in an awkward confrontation of me being told that my son was developmentally behind and disruptive to the business. Unlike our last experience however, Kristen is warm and loving and Nate has never come home in an inconsolable state lasting for days. And most importantly, she has never told me not to bring my kid back.
Nate’s been under Kristen’s care since March, and in all this time, she's only mentioned one day where he cried a lot, but that he was easily consoled by plenty of snuggling and his blankie.
Every time I pick Nate up at Kristen's, she excitedly tells me about all the new things he’s learning and how clever he is about interacting with the world around him. Any mention of temper tantrums or periods of fussiness are mentioned more in passing, kind of like ho-hum, normal kid stuff, but here, let me fill you in all of the exciting and new things your ever-evolving child learned today.
Kristen also sends home a report detailing how Nate’s day went, what activities he did, what he ate, when he napped, etc. Totally not something I expect, but a nice touch. And his "report cards" are something that I will treasure forever.
So while I sit here in quiet solitude clutching a mug filled with the wafting aroma of coffee, sounds seem amplified. And without a busy toddler rummaging through a cupboard filled with Tupperware, I swear I can hear the vibrations of nervous energy in my veins, propelling the increasingly loud thump thump thump of my maternal heart at the thought of not seeing my son for nine days while I'm out of the country.
Samson, seemingly sensing my unease, is instincitvely lying at my feet. And I know I should probably say something about what a loyal companion he is, but I just need to stop right here and tell you how comfortable it is to have the entire sofa to myself. Nate is not climbing up and down and down and up and up and down and bouncing and hopping all over the place, and in an unusual fashion, Samson is not trying to mould his great big giant dog body into the last remaining square inch of cushion space.
Samson also loves human contact, which sounds all cute and adorable, except that 90 lbs of dog torso on your lap is so not comfortable. And whenever we have company spend the night, Samson is faced with the difficult challenge of deciding which human to snuggle with. This usually means that he spends the entire night alternating his bedmates between all the human-filled beds in the house, which also means that nobody ever gets any sleep because one minute Samson is all, hi, want to spoon? And just as the seismic afershocks he created from leaping on the bed begins to taper, he’s off again to visit a different human where he's all, it’s been over two minutes since we last spooned together, so let’s take it slow and start with me sticking my cold dog nose in your ear.
I feel sorry for all of the dogs that Samson will be able to run free and play with at the kennel while we’re away because I know he will not sleep for even two seconds if there are other dogs faces to put inside his great big giant dog mouth.
And because he is too shy to do his business in public, I also know that he will not poop the entire time he is there. God help me if have to give that dog an enema when I get home.
 Labels: Nate, Samson, Vacation |
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| 44.5 hours |
I’m not sure how to say this, so I am just going to come right out and say it.
Our first weekend without toddler-centric responsibilities was fabulous.
And for the first time since, oh, I don’t know, our alcohol-fuelled pub frequenting days of the past, Mark and I slept a gloriously uplifting 11 hours Friday night. Without the eager squeals of a raring-to-go toddler in the morning, that’s almost an entire two nights sleep all rolled into one giant slumber fest. And when I rolled out of bed at 9:00 a.m. on Saturday morning, I felt so rejuvenated that I bet I could have survived the day without coffee. But then I thought, "Why risk a perfectly healthy feeling head?" And downed several cups of body-jolting java just to keep the onset of a caffeine deficiency headache at bay.
I also went for a long run Saturday to try and clear away the full body weariness coursing through my bones from this never-ending cold. Not even Samson came along because even though one would think an energetic dog like him would be a great running companion, he has some serious issues with endurance.
His energy seems to come in fits and spurts, which is probably why he seems to enjoy unleashing pent up energy by running in vigorously fast figure eight circles all over the back yard, tearing up the grass under his feet as he goes. This speed-crazed, tongue-dangling sprinting only lasts for about two minutes though before he gets tired, and then he spends the next hour recuperating by drinking all the water from our toilets and chasing the cats.
And then there's keeping pace with a human. Our runs usually start out fine with Samson dutifully heeling at my left side, but after about 20 minutes of pounding the pavement, his giant dog body becomes fatigued, and then I spend the rest of the run tugging a 90 pound yellow anchor home.
To say it was entirely liberating being out on my own without a people-watching toddler being pushed in front of me or a tuckered out dead weight of a dog dragging behind me would be an understatement.
But no matter how rejuvenating it was to hang up my hat of responsibility for exactly 44.5 hours, I missed my boy something fierce. The house felt eerily quiet without the squeals of his contagious laughter and the pitter patter of little scampering feet.
And as much as I’m looking forward to a vacation and spending some electrifying passion-sparked one-on-one time with Mark, I’m already looking forward to coming home and being reunited as a family again.Labels: All in the Family, Motherhood, Samson |
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| Purveyor of Poo |
Last night, on a whim, I decided that it's time to put the house for sale and move to Northern Alaska. I am not ready for the deep winter freeze to come to an end and have decided that the never ending bone-chilling cold is rather refreshing. And besides, the crumbling dampness that hovers in the air from living next to the Great Lakes is nothing that a steaming cup of cocoa can’t alleviate.
I'm learning to adapt to this climate, and have grown rather agile running on uncertain icy footing. And what is not to like about restrictive, heavy clothing and fingers perpetually encased in stiff-gloved leather? I also happen to think it’s rather endearing that my kid looks like an inflated air mattress in his snow suit. It makes me want to poke and coochy coochy coo him.
I don't miss the warm glow of summer’s yellow sun, salmon-pink sunsets or the gilded blush of sun-kissed skin. Oh, and don’t even get me started on how much I do not yearn to open a window and flush away the lingering staleness of months worth of confined and recycled winter air. I especially don't love balmy summer gusts twisting through my hair, or the sleep-enhancing freshness of curtains billowing in a dewy evening breeze, particularly when met with the fragrant smell of ever-blooming flowers.
At least this is what I have been trying to tell myself, because living in an icebox sounds much more enticing than having to deal with the four months worth of thawing dog shit in my backyard.
That’s over one hundred pounds of digested and expelled dog food no longer encapsulated in a hermetically sealed, stench-inhibiting ice tomb that needs to be taken care of. And by taken care of, I mean slapping on a rubber glove, sloshing through the festering meadow muffins, and picking them up, one disgustingly mushy pile at a time.
Welcome to my glamorous life as a Stay at Home Mom, Housewife and Seminal Arbitrator to Samson, the Purveyor of Poo.Labels: Samson, Soapbox |
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| Of High-Fiving and Somersaults |
So, how can you tell if someone was a pet owner before a commander of kids? Easy – they teach both the pint-sized human and the fur-covered mammal the same tricks.
Except maybe for the part where Nate’s doing somersaults. Samson hasn’t quite mastered how to roll over on his head yet, but we’re working on it. He’s just having a hard time on account of his elbows and torso being in all the wrong places.
Also, no need to worry about pointing out what a hot little number my red slippers and pink pants make. I am so in the know on that one. Or not.
Labels: Nate, Samson, Video |
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| Self-adhesive Brilliance |
Thank you so much everyone, for your wicked advice on embracing/enhancing my non-boobs with my deep plunging, backless dress. I was tempted to go braless, I really was, but this is going to be a family event where alcohol will be served, and because I have not been able to drink in what feels like a million zillion years, I have absolutely no faith in my ability to pay attention to things like keeping random body parts from flailing around on the dance floors - boobs and lanky legs included.
I ended up buying a self-adhesive bra, which is sheer brilliance by the way, and while I was trying on my new stick-on boobs, Samson asked what he was going to wear the wedding. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that ebay is flat out of doggy tuxedos, so I dug around in my closet and found this little black number for him.
I think the red necklace sets off the dress rather nicely, no?
 Labels: Boobs, Samson |
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| An Early Christmas for Samson |
Samson just turned two a few weeks ago, and although he has come a long way in terms of obedience, he is still the exact same epic dynamo of endless energy that he was when he was a pup. Only heavier.
Like, if the cat breathes, Samson’s all, “Hey, it’s alive! Me too! Ok, I’m going to run around table six hundred times and let’s see how often you can swat my big giant dog nose.” Or if Nate breathes, Samson’s all, “Here, let me stick my big giant dog nose in your ear. Repeatedly.” And when you have to go to the bathroom, good ol’ faithful Samson tags along, you know, for moral support.
But after hurting his paw the other day, you would think he would slow down for two nanoseconds and relax. But no, this is Samson we’re talking about; the perpetual motion machine that just does not know how to chill.
I’m not exactly sure what happened, but I’m thinking it must have been from him either running through chunks of icy snow, or during one of his temporary lapses of sanity where he believes he is Superman.
We have three steps leading off of our deck onto the ground, but because Samson does not believe in being graceful or dainty, it is very rare that he uses them. Instead, when the door to the outside world opens, he roars out of the house with a force equal that of a herd of stampeding elephants across the plains of Africa, and when he reaches the edge of the deck, he throws his body into the air and soars all the way to Jupiter, where he goes potty, and then comes home.
I noticed his paw was hurt when was waiting at the door to be let in. A pool of blood had collected near his foot and trailing behind him was a line of mudererous red that wrapped all the way around the BBQ. It totally looked like he had slaughtered a giant mammal and then dragged its carcass in concentric circles around the BBQ in a sacrificial offering to the Gods of propane. But really, he was probably pacing because he was in pain.
Because Samson’s status in this family has been officially upgraded to Big Yellow Vacuum of Floor Cheese and Everything Else That Nate Tosses from his Highchair, he’s put on a bit of pudge, and is now pushing 90lbs. So when I brought him inside to try and stop the bleeding and apply a bit of peroxide to the wound, he totally kicked my ass in what could have very well been the wresting match of the century.
To my own defence, Samson cheated and transformed his body into a big giant strand of squirmy spaghetti; which is how I ended up with a bruised eye.
God, I'm such a wimp. This is why I put the cone on his head - to humiliate him and show him who's boss.
But then a few days later, his dewclaw was a still a brilliant shade of red, a bit swollen, and quite obviously, still very sore. Even though Dr. Google assured me that he would not die, I decided to take him to the vet just to make sure.
It turns out that he didn’t actually rip the nail clean off; it was more like it lifted and tore away from the delicate nerve tissue underneath. This makes me little weak in the knees for two reasons, the first being how painful that must be, and the second being the vet bill.
I guess this means that Christmas came early for Samson.
He got antibiotics for an infected dewclaw, antibiotics for an ear infection and because he’s been such a good boy this year, a thermometer shoved up his ass for good measure.
I hope he liked it.Labels: Samson |
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| Cone Head |
If Samson could speak, he would probably say something like, “Human, yeah you over there with the opposable thumb, go and get me a beer.” And then Mark would be all, “And while you’re up, get one for me too.”
And then I would have to grow another set of breasts just to compete with all of the testosterone with vocal cords in this household.
So it’s a good thing he can’t speak, because I think my heart would crack and shatter into a million little pieces if I knew what, exactly, he was trying to communicate with his doggy whimpers after ripping the nail off of his dewclaw yesterday.
 Labels: Samson |
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| Cheesy |
Even though Nate’s actual due date was January 7th, he was born on December 22nd. No matter which way he entered this world - planned or spontaneous labour, or through an opening that was once home to a place where coarse and granular scar tissue did not exist, there was no getting around birthing a baby during the season where homes are ablaze in the luminous glow of holiday shimmer and lights.
Personally, I love when he was born because I love Christmas. But with a Christmas baby comes the old adage that birthdays and Christmas will always end up getting rolled together into one celebration. Which, when you think about it, totally isn’t a fair from a pint-sized human’s point of view who thinks that the world revolves around his shape collection. I mean, let’s face it, I could preach to Nate until I am blue in the face that it’s not all about the presents, but until he is able to understand that it is not an economically wise decision to feed the dog all of his harvarti cheese and that there is more to life than an expansive and endless selection of toys, this will mean absolutely nothing to him.
So, to help ease him through those grubby-fingered years of toddlerhood self-entitlement, we’ve decided to start a tradition of celebrating his birthday on the last Saturday of November. It’s a pretty sweet deal if you ask me, especially the part about getting a pre-birthday cake and a birthday-birthday cake, and the fact that his birthday will always fall on a weekend. He will totally thank us when he comes of age and has the luxury of dealing with those pesky after-party hangovers on a Sunday.
~:~
I took Nate to the doctors yesterday for his monthly check up, and at 11 months, he weighs 17½ pounds. This means that he has put on almost 1½ pounds in a month. I credit this weight gain to lots and lots of yogurt and cheese, but considering the ratio of cheese that actual finds its way into his mouth versus the amount of cheese that finds its way into the mouth of our loyal cheese snatching vacuum cleaner, this also means that Samson must have put on at least 12 pounds this month.
 Samson says,"Do you think all that cheese makes my shouders look fat?" Labels: Baby Nate, Samson |
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