Poor Little Boy

It's a very bleak day here in our little household, fellow Dogsters. Finlay, ever partaking in attempts at general destruction, has unfortunately landed himself in the hospital. Even I, generally lacking all capacity for empathy, am subdued and depressed this evening. I didn't even ask for a Greenie. I don't feel like eating. Apparently he spent the day yesterday, while supposedly being supervised, eating wood, plastic, and Dog knows what other materials at his new daycare center. After Finlay spent the entire morning vomiting and having profuse diarrhea, he was taken to the Emergency Hospital. Much undigestible material was evacuated from the boy's colon and he ended up vomiting a significant quantity of material from his stomach. It was, however, determined that a large sharp object remains in his stomach, unable to pass through to his intestines. If endoscopy can't retrieve it, it's abdominal surgery tonight. Keep your paws crossed, friends. Life just isn't the same without his silly antics. Although I'd never admit it to Finlay, I want him back. In one piece. And I want my mommy and daddy to be happy again.

Dueling Dexters

What can I say. I've been lazy. I've decided to allow Finlay to blab for awhile. It's all part of the master plan. No worries.

Now where was I? Oh yes.

9456, 9457, 9458, 9459...

What more could a girl ask for?

Do YOU have 10,000 tiny bones? No? I didn't think so. I, myself, have 10,000 tiny bones. An Easter treat from my annonymous suitor... I love my annonymous treat slinger. I tell Finlay that it's not our possessions that define us. Having no annonymous benefactor doesn't render him completely worthless. (Finlay has only 300 tiny bones right now. What a LOSER...) When I nosh on my delicacies, I do not share with Finlay. I lift my lip, lower my head and tell him in a low, husky voice that coveting his sister's gifts is small minded. He should be happy with what he has. Having defeated him, physically and mentally, he slinks away to pout in the dark corner. Maybe I'll offer him just one of my tiny bones.... Nah. What was I thinking? I must have a low blood sugar. Better snack some more.

Who are you, who tends to me so?

So trained is he, that I need not even ask to be restocked with tiny bones. Anonymously, he has assured me that I shall have my standard 6000 in a day or so. In the meanwhile, I'll try to conserve my 100 left. That means Finlay comes nowhere near me... It's good to have a sugar daddy.

A peaceful moment to ourselves...

What a relaxing morning mommy's had. She awoke early and decided to catch up on her favorite Dogster diaries she'd been missing lately. Three sentances into one, she sensed wrong doing. Sprang up to find Finlay pulling the stuffing out of an antique chair. What a wack job. Scolded him. Gave him his rawhide and X-treme Chew Man to wrestle with. Sat back down. Read another 3 sentances and was overcome by a feeling of dread. Sprang back up to find Finlay chewing on a poisonous plant. Not super toxic, mind you, but one that causes mouth pain when ingested. Did he care? Not a bit. Scolded Finlay again, cleaned up the plant mess and repeated her ritual of offering him his chew bone and X-treme fella. Sat back down. Didn't even get through 2 sentances. Sprang back up, ran out of the room to find Finlay chewing on one of the couch pillows. THIS time, buying himself a one-way ticket to the inside of his jail cell. And me? I helped myself to mommy's breakfast bread while she was busy with Finlay. What a team we make. Right now mommy's furiously writing something. Over her shoulder I can't make out the entire thing. Something about "free to a good home", which she just edited to "free to a home. Don't care if it's good right now..."

The Rainbow Bandit strikes again.

Three anonymous rainbows. All with the same cryptic message:

"Mmmmm........savory!"

Does he want to eat me now? Finlay thinks he may just be turned on by the red head photo... Perhaps he's right. I have a tendency to make one crazy with desire.

Any clues? Anyone?!

For those of you wondering, mommy's not dead. Just spending all of her time working through this whole Menu Foods fiasco. This is not a fun time to work in veterinary poison control. Not that it's ever fun, mind you... But lately? Considerably less so.

Speaking of poison control, mommy has started publishing weekly warnings regarding common toxins to avoid in Joy's Dogster blog on the home page. There will be a new yucky thing to avoid every Wednesday.

Blah! Leave it!

Recycled salukis.

Seva: "If Helen Mirren were a dog, she'd be a saluki. That's one fabulous old bitch."

Mommy: "Very elegant."

Seva: "Perhaps I am Helen Mirren reincarnated."

Mommy: "She's not dead, Seva."

Seva: "Hmmm... Well then perhaps she is me, reincarnated."

Mommy: "You're not dead either, Seva."

Seva. "Well then that settles it. I am the reincarnation of Cleopatra. There are two humans in the history of this planet, that rival me. Helen Mirren and Cleopatra. And if Helen's not dead, that leaves only Ms. Patra."

Mommy: "I don't doubt it, Seva."

Seva: "She must have done something pretty fabulous to have been granted the honor of returning as me. What an accomplishment. My question is, if Cleopatra was awarded me, who will I return as when I end up playing frisbee toss on the empyrean roof? What if she's not fabulous? And what if Honey returns as someone MORE fabulous than I?! With a bigger bed again!"

Mommy: "With you and Cleopatra at the helm Seva, how could she possibly be anything but the highest level of fabulous. I'm sure you'll always be nothing short of splendid. And your beds will just keep on getting bigger. Like Honey's. "

Seva: "You're right mommy. You're always right. Of course I'll be fabulous. When I move on, I'm going to put in a good word for you. I'm going to strongly suggest that when you die, you'll return as a saluki. And preferably MY saluki. If we keep timing it properly, perhaps we can be together forever!"

Mommy: "What an honor, Seva. I'd gladly be your saluki. You come here so I can give you a kiss on that adorable little silky temple."

Seva: (heavy sigh....) "If you must, mommy. If you must."

Where's a good tatoo artiste when you need one.

As if Mother Nature hasn't challenged me enough in my 14 plus years, along with the creaky joints and fatty lumps I am now fading where I should be black. Did you know that in my prime I was a red head, for instance? It's true. The grey patches on my head used to be flaming orange with jet black low lights. (Where do you think Christina Aguilara got the inspiration for her skanky phase?) I also had bright orange freckles scattered about my frame. Now? Naught but various hues of silver and gray. I remain fabulous, mind you. But still. Less dramatic than what I once was. I've been able to accept these changes gracefully because I've been blessed with Cleopatra onyx eyeliner and a shiny jet black nose. No matter how pale I become, I just get cuter and cuter. (That's what my mommy says. And she knows.) But now my bold eyeliner has patches of missing pigment, looking more like dots and dashes of black and beige. And my nose? A beige stripe, right down the middle. It's a good thing I was bestowed an overabundance of fabulosity, or I might be feeling a little self-conscious right now. Besides, nothing a good tatoo can't cover. The pigment doesn't make the bitch, I keep telling Finlay. I'm all magnificent, all the time. Yep. Scratch the surface, you get magnificence. Behind the curtain? Oh look! It's Magnificence. Even if she's a little rickety, and uses a cane.

You get no gold star.

Did Finlay tell you he flunked out of doggy kindergarten? He did. A few months ago actually. If you ask him, of course, he'll say he decided to forgo any further lessons with this particular class because he was bored by them. They were just a bunch of babies, he said. What a crock of.... Anyways, mommy and daddy allowed him to drop out (flunk.... whatever) and vowed to take on the role of behavior tutors here at home. Three months later, when Finlay surpassed sixty pounds and began leaping with savage delight on any poor unsuspecting fool who happened to grace our doorstep (regardless of whether or not they were nursing a back injury), did they finally decide to get serious and actually attempt to train the fool. Ordered a DVD from Amazon.com and away they went! So far he can do a really crappy "sit"- or a pretty good "down"- depending upon how you look at it, and he can "stay" for 30 seconds. And when they make him do tricks for treats, I do nothing and get the same. (They feel sorry for me because I have creaky joints.) "He has great eye contact!" they try to encourage each other, clinging to the hope that he won't be a complete moron for the rest of his life. The truth is, sighthounds aren't obedient. The very word makes me cringe and Finlay yawn. If it weren't that mommy was maid of honor at my obedience witch's wedding, 13 years ago, I too would have flunked out of kindergarten. As it stands I passed. Which is more than I can say for Finlay. Poor dear.

So long, Winter! It's been SUCH a nice visit. (Not!)

Just when you think you can't bear your boorish visiter any longer, they tell you they're leaving. Suddenly you're full of hospitality again; the very promise of their departure energizing you to the core. "Do you HAVE to go?" you feebly attempt a believable lament.

I find myself at this juncture with the departure of Winter. He's not gone yet, but he's gathering his belongings and tidying up the spare bedroom for the next visitor.

"I'm sure you'll enjoy Spring much more than you've enjoyed me." Winter mumbles, head hunched over a pile of snow, shoveling it into his suitcase. "I'm nobody's favorite. You can admit it."

Feeling a little guilty for wholeheartedly wanting him out, I try to make amends. "Oh no, Winter! Don't say that. We'll really miss you! I'm not sure what we'll do without that feeling of our faces cracking off our skulls when we step outside, nostril walls frozen together, clinging to each other for warmth..." (They don't want to die alone, I ponder to myself.)

"Spring is really overrated." I continue. "I would much prefer darkness for 16 hours a day. Happiness is for weaklings, that's what I always say. And, wow, am I going to miss that flurry of adrenaline while we're pirouetting down the highway at 60 mph after hitting a patch of black ice. And then there's your crazy cousin, Wind Chill, that visits a lot... That nut! I love it that he can take a humdrum temperature of say, zero, and turn it into 50 below! LOVE that guy. His party tricks always entertain."

Winter pauses and reflects. 14 suitcases of ice and snow are neatly packed in the corner of the spare bedroom.

"Maybe I could stay for just a little while longer." His giant icy hand gently pats my head. "I really don't HAVE to be back for another few weeks, after all. I can phone Fall in Australia and tell her I'll be late."

I smile at him and nod my head, knowing the inevitable is coming. He has to go soon. The sun is getting stronger, the days longer.

A rap on the window interrupts our quiet moment. Spring is standing outside wearing a golden tan, a big floppy hat and bermuda shorts. He's got an umbrella drink in one hand and a potted plant in the other. He points the drink at Winter, then mouths the words, "You outta here Old Man?"

Winter roars, "I'm not gone yet, callow hooligan!" He crosses his arms, sits back on his icy bed, and stubbornly commits to stay for as long as he possibly can.

But I'm still smiling. Spring is patient. He's waiting right outside and he's not going anywhere. He winks at me. And for the first time in five months, I ask to go outside and sit on the deck. It's been a long time. I've got some catching up to do. With Spring. And his crazy cousin, Sunshine.