wideeyedfunk

Category: Pets

They are all completely unpredictable.

  • Yoha, Friends!

    “YOHA “ I read the bold word on the flag. It flapped cheerfully from the porch of one of the grand old homes on the morning dog walk route.

    “Yoha?” I said to the dogs. I wondered what it meant. The WideEyedHousehold is in a pretty multicultural neighborhood – even a little global what with the proximity of all the colleges and the medical corridor. It could be in any language; it could be English but mean something I am not familiar with.

    “Yoha.” I tried it out again. I said it all cheery and imagined walking past the house flying the YOHA flag and saying it to the people who lived there. “Yoha, neighbors!” They’d probably wave back at me, happy that someone was greeting them in their language.

    The dogs and I turned the corner and I took one last look back at the YOHA flag. The yellow and white sailing boat on the flag above the lettering undulated in the breeze. “Must have something to do with the ocean or water,” I said to the dogs.

    I walked a few more steps. Miss Tibbit paused for a wee. Hamish sniffed a tree. I thought about the flag.

    Unstoppable laughter welled up when I imagined myself yelling “Yoha!” to the unsuspecting owners of the AHOY flag with a sailboat on it. I laughed my way down the street and back home. The dogs wondered what so funny.

    Just because I have a lot of thoughts in my head, doesn’t mean I’m smart.

  • Miss Tibbit, the Useless-Little-Black-Dog, had a bad week.

    Friday: There was a horrendous, apocalyptic thunderstorm and she was forced to go out into the yard for bedtime peeing while the storm still rumbled in the distance. It was scary.

    Saturday. It was still raining, and Miss Tibbit had to go for morning walkies in the rain. Her coat got all wet and her paws splashed through endless puddles. Plus, all the worms were floating and mushy instead of barbequing on the sidewalk the way she likes them. Who wants worm soup?

    Sunday. Even though the sun was shining everyone was too busy scrubbing the traffic soot off of the front porch and making a screen for the front window. No one offered a nice, long park walkie. No one lounged around in the back yard for hours. It was boring.

    Monday. The vet’s office was smelly with other dogs, none of whom were available for playing. Miss Tibbit had lots of treats, but she was stuck by three needles dumping stuff in her, one needle taking stuff out, a nasty nose drip medicine and, AND, some people held her down to clean out her ears. It was awful, so awful that Miss Tibbit could do nothing for the rest of the day except lay on the sofa and sleep away the trauma.

    Tuesday. There was thunder again. The Boss and the Lady shoved a tube full of smelly medicine in her ear and squirted gunk in there. Miss Tibbit had to shake and shake her head all over the house to get that stuff out. Which, if pressed, Miss Tibbit will admit was actually was a little fun, not great, but a little bit fun.

    Wednesday. The temperature dropped to below 70 degrees and Miss Tibbit was cold. She curled herself around her nearly hairless pink belly and shivered on the window seat. She concentrated real hard on making her winter hair grow back. It was uncomfortable.

    Thursday. Today. The Lady stole a flat, maggoty baby bird right out of Miss Tibbit’s throat. Tibbit worked and worked to get it swallowed fast, but she didn’t make it in time and the Lady reached right in and took it. It was unfair.

    Poor, poor Miss Tibbit. Maybe next week will be better.

    Tibbit

  • Hamish the Corgi Achieves Master Craftsdog Status

    Press Release:

    With the intuitive senses of a nascent master of his craft, Hamish eyed the 107th Annual Strawberry festival at the Church of the Good Shepherd at the corner of Jewett and Summit Avenues. A cluster of younger people with their kids and older folks sat in the shade trees sharing strawberry desserts, music, and good fellowship. I could see that he thought it looked promising and he was considering a performance for the Festival attendees.

    He didn’t commit to it and we walked on. How fortuitous that we did so. Although perhaps it wasn’t luck but a deeper sensitivity in Hamish’s newly proved mastery.

    Diagonally across the intersection, the Darwin Martin house was having a red-carpet affair: valet parking, bejeweled and well-dressed middle agers climbing from luxury autos, and hors d’oeuvres and cocktails inside what is itself an architectural master piece.

    Hamish walked to the groomed corner lawn of the Martin House Complex and stopped. He cast his glance uphill to the Strawberry Festival, clearly within sight and scent. His ears swiveled backward, and he turned to eye eyed the glitterati atmosphere of the Martin House event. Two large huskies live in the corner house directly across the street, his nose tilted in their direction. Three small beagles inhabit the yard on the fourth and final corner of intersection of Jewett and Summit and while they gave a final sense of completion to his pending performance, they were clearly supporting, rather than critical elements.

    Positioning carefully, Hamish turned his hind quarters in profile to the Festival and the Red-Carpet Affair, he faced the Husky House and put what is really the least interesting view to the beagles.

    In an act of pure artistry, simple in appearance yet complexly composed and powerfully nuanced, Hamish achieved his Mastery of Display Defecation. Please join us in our congratulations for this new Master Craftsdog.

  • 10 Reasons Miss Tibbit The Useless Little Black Dog May Not Lick My Face

    10. Miss Tibbit is a dog and has aromatic dog mouth.

    9.  She licks the floor.

    8. She licks the sidewalk. Oh, why? Because it has on it flavorful substances like gum, bird crap, spit.

    7. Miss Tibbit bathes herself and her pal Hamish the Corgi with her tongue. I don’t want that on me.

    6. Miss Tibbit enjoys cat litter snackies. She eats the crumbs from the basement floor. You know how it works: the cat jumps out with litter stuck to his feet. The litter scatters. Tibbit cleans that up. Two strikes – basement floor and cat litter.

    5. Two days ago I yanked a rotting baby bird carcass out of her mouth by its little feet. It was mostly down her throat already so I had to have a good, strong grip on those curled up bird toes.

    4. Miss Tibbit has sticky spit.

    3. She sniffs the cat’s butt, and I can’t be sure she does it from a sanitary distance.

    2.  She licks her own wet nose.IMG_1762

    And finally, the hard limit, the final unarguable reason:

    1. I just now saw Miss Tibbit eat cat crap that some city cat left in my garden. Yes, I am glad it is gone. No, I am not happy Miss Tibbit ate it.

    Miss Tibbit is a sweet, lovey useless little black dog who likes nothing better than to greet people with kisses. Just saying, think about it.

  • Woodstock ends his days.

    Woodstock moved in with us Friday.

    This evening he was sleeping on the rug in the front parlor.

    Woodstock

    Tibbit pretended not to notice.

    Tibbit2

    When she believed no one was watching, she sampled a small taste of Woodstock.

    Tibbit1

    Delicious.

    Hamish interrupted the tasting, as he is of the opinion that that Woodstock flavors belong only to the elder dog.

    Both1

    Hamish spent a little time with Woodstock, lulling the little bird into a calm. Hamish says that Woodstock’s succulence is improved when the fear adrenaline no longer courses through Woodstock.

    Hamish4

    Don’t be fooled little Woodstock. Your time is nigh.

    Hamish1

  • Sweet Tibbit’s Very Bad Day

    She thought it was a great idea at the time. A remarkable opportunity even. How often is a dog left alone in the basement after all? As she snacked her way through the tasty cat box bites, Miss Tibbit savored the rewards of her momentary independence. The biggest, best bits gone, Sweet Tibbit thought she would have just one more nibble of the wheat cat litter. Delicious. She paused, licking her chops, and yes, perhaps one more sample. And another. Perhaps a bit more.

    I admit, that part is recreative speculation based on observations taken during subsequent events.

    The first hour after Tibbit was found in and removed from the basement, she couldn’t get comfortable. Her belly was too achingly full to lay down and she sat on the bed next to me awkward and tense, staring intently into the middle distance. I wondered then, did Miss Tibbit regret her feast?

    I left for a couple of hours of work, where concentration was hard won as I imagined the messy horror Sweet Tibbit may have been producing. Returning home finally, I was relieved to see that all was well.

    All wasn’t well. I simply remained ignorant of the coming storm.

    Sweet Tibbit’s belly decided it had enough of the tasty little box treats and it evicted the partially digested material. Voluminously. Twice. On two separate rugs. The aroma was remarkable. It was an aggressively physical miasma that billowed out from the sloshy and disturbingly lumpy source puddles. The WideEyedSpouse retched helplessly as he cleaned the first puddle. Later I came across him retching over the second puddle as he prepared the steam cleaner. Again I wondered, does Miss Tibbit feel regret? Has she learned her lesson?

    Feeling better and prancing around the house, Miss Tibbit decided she would like to spend some time in the yard. I was only too happy to oblige her. It was an elegant justification for removing myself from the event horizon. But then of course, Sweet Tibbit engaged in Stage 2 processes. Not nice. Not nice at all.

    It is now two days later, and Sweet Tibbit apparently is empty. She is getting tired of bland rice for breakfast. Bland rice for dinner. Bland rice for snackies. She licks at the rice and rejects it as inedible. Which, given recent events, I find pretty amazing.

    Did Miss Tibbit learn a lesson from her Very Bad Day?

    Ten minutes ago I caught her doing preliminary investigations of the litter box while I was in the basement. Useless little black dog.

  • No Dogs Allowed? Hamish the Corgi Finds a Way.

    “Where are we going?” Hamish the Corgi asked as he watched me dig the hiking pack out of the coat closet. It wasn’t easy. Five months of hats, scarves, gloves, reusable bags, dog towels, and YakTrax had crammed themselves on top of it.

    HamishSteps5I looked over my shoulder and up the steps to look at Hamish. He stood in the hall, big ears perked wide and high. He was smiling. “Tifft Nature Preserve over by the lakeshore,” I told him. “Awesome,” he said, “that’s not mine yet.” He disappeared into the kitchen and I heard rummaging in the dog cupboard.

    I yanked the day pack strap and slammed the closet door before all the other stuff escaped. I went up to the kitchen to fill my water bladder. Hamish was waiting by the sink with the dog hiking water bowl and dog water bottle. He looked from me to the treat bin on the counter, me to treat bin, me to treat bin. “Don’t forget to pack the go-go crunchies,” he reminded me, nudging my ankle with his nose.

    “Oh no Hamish,” I looked down at him, “Tifft doesn’t allow dogs.”

    “What?” he was outraged. “No dogs?” he couldn’t believe it.

    “Nope. Sorry Little Man,” I screwed the lid on my water bladder and eased it into my pack. Hamish stared at me for a while longer, tilting his head left and right. His ears shot straight up and he trotted out of the room on his stubby Corgi legs. Clearly he had an Idea.

    I was in the dining room fussing with the camera when Hamish bustled back 10 minutes later. He was carrying something Very Carefully in his mouth. He set it down next to my foot. “Whatcha got there Hamish?” I asked him absently, there was a smear on the lens that just wouldn’t give up.

    “Will you please take this with you and squeeze out a few drops every couple of feet?” He asked. “Trees are best, but a good clump of grass is ok too.”

    “What?” I peered down at the vessel bumping my foot. It was a translucent squeezey ketchup bottle, the kind you see in diners, and it was half full of a pale yellow fluid. I blinked at it. I wrinkled my brow. “Hamish, is that? Wait, what it that?” I asked as I leaned down to feel the temperature, yep, warm.

    Hamish gave me his soft warm Corgi look. “Tifft can still be mine, even if I can’t go,” he explained. I shook my head. “Ok,” I said, sort of doubtful. “But I don’t know if it’ll work.” Hamish bounced out of the room to tell Miss Tibbit the Useless Little Black Dog.

    It wasn’t until a few hours later that I wondered, as I dutifully dribbled the base of a nice big tree, how did Hamish with his stubby little legs fill that tall bottle? I shrugged to myself. Better to not think about it.

  • Love is…a gentle evisceration.

    The lovey hippo receives affection.
    The lovey Hippo receives affection.
    Miss Tibbit savours the delicious lovey Hippo belly contents.
    Miss Tibbit savours lovey Hippo belly contents.
    Hamish administers love to the thinner lovey Hippo.
    Hamish administers love to the thinner lovey HIppo.

    We all celebrate Valentine’s love in our way.

    I prefer mine with less evisceration.

  • Snowfall and sunshine, with tubercular hacking.

    The sunlight glowed through yesterday morning’s snowfall so that the dogs and I were surrounded by whirling and sparkling crystals on morning walkies. Miss Tibbit, the useless little black dog, pranced down the side walk in her bouncing happy stride. Hamish the Corgi sniffed, raced to the next interesting spot, and sniffed again. The world was bright and full of opportunities – a snow storm in the sunshine? Anything seemed possible.

    Across the street a car door creaked open and the dogs and I listened to a tubercular hacking emerging from the ancient sedan. Miss Tibbit stopped to look and Hamish glanced over from his position against some unfortunate shrubbery.

    The hacking head leaned out of the car and drooled a liquidy mess onto the street. Awesome, I said to the dogs. Miss Tibbit strained against the leash, deeply interested. Let’s go check it out, she said to Hamish who walked up next to her. Ok, Hamish said as he stepped off the curb.

    In the brilliant shine of a sunlit snowfall I fought the dogs down the block away from this fresh excitement. Their noses pointed high to cop sniffs and their little feet struggled in the snow and ice against my pull on their leashes. The possibilities of yesterday’s sparkling morning were broader, and a little less cheery than I hoped. I looked up and sighed into the snowing falling from the blue sky while the dogs breathed deeply of another interesting spot.

  • Now that’s a man-sized Croc.

    Croc2And it is no wonder really that Wiggins the Cat was poking his head in there. To a cat, a Croc that size might be something to crawl into. Hang out in. Attack people from the comfort of.

    The question as I see it is more along the lines of, what happened that caused the cat to puke inside the Croc? As I think about the mechanics of it, having watched Wiggins the Cat puke more than once in his 14 years, I try to imagine his posture. Was his head inside the Croc or did he projectile? If he projectiled, why into the Croc?

    The Spouse assures me that he also calmly thought through the scenario as he slid his foot into the Croc at 6:10am this morning for running the dogs in the yard. He thought, why is my foot wet? Did I get snow in my shoe during the bedtime dog trip to the yard? No, he concluded, there’s no snow on the ground right now. Did the cat pee in my shoe? He started feeling angry during that thought he tells me. But no. Not pee. He learned it was puke when he inspected the bubbled, white, foamy mess on his foot. Or when he sniffed the Croc, his story isn’t clear on this detail.

    We should, as a group, be asking ourselves was it coincidence that the cat’s head was in the Spouse’s Croc when the unstoppable need to vomit coalesced? Should we all, or perhaps one sacrificial member of the crew, sniff the Croc? Please, feel free to volunteer.

    Just a little sniff?
    Just a little sniff?