You Can Call Me Merry Molly Menopause
by Karla ° Monday, January 23, 2006
In the past two weeks, since getting a psychotic puppy whose sole purpose in life is to bite my hands off, my husband and I are working through our personal issues, my Grandma died, the plumbing in my house exploded (and despite four holes sawed into my walls, moldy drywall, ruined carpet, demolished wet bar sink, messy kitchen, and the mushy insulation and drywall that now needs upwards of a month to dry before the chaos can be repaired, I’m sending every curse word possible to the dickhead who drilled a nail through the black water pipe behind the dishwasher that was soldered into the wall somehow and almost required a demolition crew to remove it.

Mostly though, I’m thankful I have a Father-in-Law who saved us about a billion dollars in plumbing bills), my car needs $1000 worth of mechanical voodoo performed on a car part that sounds like something out of a weird car fetish porno movie (yeah baby, I’ll mount those rubber struts and keep you in alignment…among other oily things), we murdered a cat at high speed in our car on the way home from visiting my dying Grandma, (at which point I shook and screamed like a baby), my husband and I finally braved the idea of getting a karyotype genetic test done, I’m missing most of the flesh off my knuckles from my pissy puppy who would have been better named “Pooch the Piranha”, and, oh yeah, I had a pap smear and I can still hear the scraping sound deep inside my girl parts right before creepy recollections of a stranger fondling my cervix send me into shuddering fits.

To top everything off, I can’t get any respect around here. While bending over and scolding the damn dog about biting, my husband thought it would be funny to yank my pants down and bite my ass in front of the impressionable little devil. Once Pooch the Piranha has worked my fingers down to gnawable little stumps, his toothy search and destroy mission will shift focus to my ass.

At least I don’t need an ass, like I do my hands, when I finally decide to throw them up in the air and surrender defeat.

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Stinky McFlea Revisited
by Karla ° Sunday, January 15, 2006



I knew there was a reason we nicknamed him Stinky McFlea

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Puppy Top 10
by Karla ° Friday, January 13, 2006

1. He is fascinated by animal sound effects. “Moo”, “Oink Oink” and “woof woof” are among his favorites.

2. On the same note about audio sound effects, farting and burping noises do not phase him in the least. Not entirely shocking considering he is a male. This must be part of his testosterone normalcy.

3. He is the only mammal on the planet who can watch me dance like a fool when vacuuming without the slightest indication of shame or disgrace that I am responsible for his well being.

4. Much like his neurotic mother, he seems to have a fat phobia and limits his treat intake when he does something industrious, like shit outdoors for example. He appears to want nothing more than lavish praise and a drink of water.

5. His innocence of his surroundings is so endearing. He can lay the biggest fart without a blink of an eyelash or a shred of lost decency, and pounce on the hissiest and pissiest of the frosty household cat population without the tiniest shred of understanding that he is hated and unwelcome in their home.

6. He farts; a lot

7. He likes the taste of pant legs. Any material will do, but Hugo Boss appears to be his favorite, much to his father’s dismay.

8. At nighttime, baby monitors work wonders for baby pups undergoing crate training boot camp to communicate with shrieking yelps and whimpers that their hour long bladder holding tank limit is up.

9. Sometimes when the dog is sleeping the cats cautiously peer over him, undoubtedly questioning “Is it dead yet?”

10. I love him to pieces, razor sharp teeth, retardedly expensive vet bills, stinky poo, fleas and all.

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Stinky McFlea
by Karla ° Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Thank you so much for all the dog advice. It was great and definetely helpful learning about all the different experiences you have had with the dogs in your life.

As soon as we bought our home in August of 2004, we knew we would eventually bring a dog home someday. That day was Friday.

We welcomed Stinky McFlea (a.k.a. Samson the Dog) home late Friday night. On a last minute whim, Mark and I hopped in the car and drove and drove until we found ourselves parked at a farm where eight tiny little puppies anxiously ran around, pondering the fate of the rest of their lives and what their new mom and dads would be like, I’m sure. Either that or they were enthusiastically conspiring with each other creative places to relieve themselves.

He’s completely and totally wonderful. Except when biting and peeing on the floor. But he’s a puppy. We can work on those issues.

Full of piss and vinegar, he plays hard, sleeps hard, and poo’s enough to leave me awestruck at how much fits in his tiny little belly. Even more fascinating is the puppy insta-poo syndrome. He eats, then poos. Instantly after his belly his full. After his charmingly stinky insta-poo, he is full of insta-energy. This lasts about five minutes before insta-sleep syndrome kicks in and he crashes hard, no matter where or what he is doing.


We’re still learning about each other. I have much to learn about training a puppy, and he has much to learn about good behavior, toe biting and overnight bladder control. We’re a work in progress, and as he teaches me about patience, the need for lots of positive reinforcement and companionship, I’ll do my best to train and rear him into a well behaved dog who loves walks, running, frisbee, fetch and peeing outside.

Today’s big goal: Trying to beat his all time daily record of two potty accidents in the house in half.


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A plea for advice
by Karla ° Friday, January 6, 2006

Dear Bloggers

I desperately need some feedback. My husband and I have been diligently searching for a puppy to adopt and bring home. I have been monitoring and calling pretty much every humane society and shelter within a three hours driving range to no avail.

Before anyone criticizes me about wanting a puppy and not a dog, please hear me out. My heart just breaks for all those adult dogs in shelters. I’ve wept daily seeing their sad faces staring at me on my screen. I’m the type of person that can’t watch a movie where an animal gets hurts without bawling for a week. Perhaps it’s a bit of selfishness, but we really want to be able to train and rear a puppy to be a part of our family from a young age. As a child, we adopted an adult dog and of course, her personality. We never did fully bond because she was set in her ways of standoffishness that ultimately resulted from a life of neglect and abuse. I know this isn’t always the case, but our mind is made up, we would rather have the opportunity to train and work with a puppy to build a strong bond from as early on in their life as possible.


Furthermore, we really didn’t go into this with any inclination to adopt a purebred. We just really wanted a furry companion who needed a home. The larger the dog the better.

Back to my point. I noticed an add for a Siberian Husky. I also noticed she was far away. Like a five hour drive. (For those map savvy Canadians, Tobermory Ontario is far far away). Anyhow, something prompted me to make the call. I ended up talking with this lovely old man who breeds these dogs with so much love and integrity. He talked my ear for an hour telling me all about the breed, how they are raised, their family bloodline etc. He had an honestly and genuineness about him that made feel instantly connected.

After researching this breed and many others, I have so many reservations now. The Siberian Husky can never be off their lead. Their strong desire to run is far too overpowering. From what I understand, all loyalty gets pushed aside if they escape from their lead, and as a hound dog owner, know the devastation that can result. I lost two hound dogs to car accidents as a child. It broke my heart, but at least the first hound was saved from her abusive owners. Also, huskies like to dig and chase things. My cats aren’t exactly well socialized, and hate everyone but my husband and myself. They need a dog who won't eat them or terrorize every waking moment of their life.

Upon checking out other breed and or breed mixes (we were thinking Labrador Retreiver, Collie, Golden Retriever, German Shepherd, Newfoundland Dog), we came to the quick realization that some of the more typical “All American Family” dogs aren’t so much so anymore. Cross breeding and misbreeding has, from what I understand, changed a lot of their tempermant and the typical summary chart for a breed doesn’t always apply anymore.

Yes, too much information can be a bad thing (I feel like it's working against me with this decision). I realize that at the end of the day, with patience, proper training and lots of love, any breed can fit well into a family, but I want to ensure I am making a well informed decision. My DNA is hardwired with anal tendencies. I cant help it.

My plea to you dear bloggers, is feedback on dog breeds that work well in suburbia, get along with cats, and most importantly, with children. If you can help in any way with personal feedback about your experience with larger dogs, that would be most appreciated.

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Sicky
by Karla ° Wednesday, January 4, 2006
About once a year, our cats manage to catch themselves a wicked case of conjunctivitis. In short, they get pink eye. We’ve theorized that’s how our one eyed wonder lost his eye when he was in the hands of neglectful owners, but since any form of proof (like the missing eyeball) makes confirming that theory impossible, we just go with the flow and accept that our cats get pink eye every now and then.

It’s pitiful really, particularly if our one eyed cat has to surrender his lone eyeball to the infection. The fact that he already manages the occasional straight on head smack into a wall when his one eye is healthy makes me want to perma glue a helmet to his head. Combine his head banging clumsiness with a solitary infected winky window to the world, and your left with a blindingly freaky ability to navigate. It really is sad. Just grips my heart you know.

This time around, it’s my dual eyeball cat that is sick. I know he is sick when he swallows his pride and leaves his Master of the Universe/God complex at the door for unbribed and unforced snuggle time.

After a bazillion dollars spent in vet bills and kitty prescriptions to cure our fur babies ailments, we have become wise and figured out that there is an over the counter human equivalent to the hundreds of dollars vet prescription to remedy these eyeball issues. You think saving a bazillion dollars would fill me with giddy glee, but dispensing the medicine is not pleasant.

To start, I must straddle my cat while he lies mercilessly on his back under the mammoth weight of my large human body while I squash his poor limp cat limbs with my own. The kicker is when I try to pry his little kitty eyelid open to expose a panicky cat eyeball and squirt a quarter inch strip of oily cream in his eye.

To try and offset any trauma or ill feelings I have caused him, I always provide treats a plenty once the meds have been dosed. The thing is, this cat is not stupid. Obese maybe, but not stupid. I’m starting to wonder if he is pretending to be winky and subjecting himself to my tortuous thrice daily administration of medicine for the sole purpose of six delicious treat. That’s double the amount of treatilicious goodness that he usually gets when he is just being an assehole and meowing incessantly for them. He may have found the ultimate loophole to outwitting and outsmarting his human caregiver. I mean, who wouldn’t want to up the treat anti to this sick little cripple?


Ringing in the new year with my sick kitty.
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