Nicknames: Miss Gussie, Finkie, Stinky Finkie, Finkie Poo, Gus, Gussie Mae, Jussie, Stink Pottle, Pink Throttle, Dink Bottle, Sweetie Pie, You Little #@*&@!
Likes: Chewing, gnawing, munching, crunching, mouthing, nipping, biting (play), masticating, chomping, kissing, running, jumping, shoulder and neck massages, people, children, other dogs, sitting in her mommy's lap, stealing tissue, dryer sheets, socks
Pet-Peeves: Nail clipping, being ignored, sound of the lawnmower, romantic advances from her granny's Wire Fox Terrier Winston
Favorite Toy: Cloth frisbee, any plush toy she can tear up, her granny's Wire Fox Terrier Winston's ears
Favorite Food: Cesar, beef, eggs, asparagus (Yep, it's true -- maybe because it has her name, "Gus," at the end of it?), bacon, Kleenex, toilet paper, poop (whe she was a puppy)
Favorite Walk: Dog park
Best Tricks: Sitting, laying, shaking hands, giving kisses on request, waving, crawling, tippytoeing on hind legs, high fives, bowing, chasing her tail
Arrival Story: A rather promiscuous Yorkshire Terrier that belonged to the mother of a friend of mine mated with the Rat Terrier down the street, and Gussie was born and given to me. Her name comes from the name of a character in the "Jeeves" books by P.G. Wodehouse.
Bio: About Gussie's ears: The picture on her page with one ear up and one folded was taken when she was a puppy. When she first came to live with her permanent mom, both ears folded. Then, for a week or so, one stood up (see cute photo). Now, both big, beautiful ears stand up, as you can see in the other photos. She also sprouted little wisps of hair on her face and neck, and she grew what every little girl needs -- a beard!
Forums Motto: I'm a terrier. What's your excuse??!!!!
Most recent bitch-bark went to: Maggie, the Dachshund puppy from next door. Hey, I'm just trying to teach her her place in the universe (relative to me, of course).
Covert group memberships: Agent #028 in Dogs for the Ethical Treatment of Humans; official role: Newt fancier and personal publicist to the Field Mistress of the elite Sight Hound Corps, Seva
Method of pouting as mom leaves for work: Giving my mommy a pathetic, pitiful, tiny little kiss on her nose when she was about to leave -- normally I give her such a big, slobbery lick that drool drips from her nostrils!
Most recent object stolen: Pony-tail holder. I sat there with it hanging out of my mouth until Mommy noticed. I let her have it without running off, though. Man, I'm mellowing!
A couple of diary entries ago, I told you about my Finknottle women ancestors. My dad's lineage was no less impressive.
One of the earliest records of the Finknottle men was from the early part of the 20th Century, when one of my forefathers became a big-game hunting partner with Theodore Roosevelt. While they were stalking the fabled jaguar of South America, Teddy dropped his glasses in the jungle, and they were immediately swallowed by an anaconda the size of Massachusetts. But that snake made a BIG mistake!
My dad dove down the snake's gullet to retrieve Teddy's specs. Dear readers, did you ever wonder where I got my magnificently muscled thunder thighs? From my pop. And speaking of "pop," all he had to do to escape the belly of the mighty beast was to kick both of his legs with all of his might, and snake busted apart! Fadder stood on his two legs amongst the slime and muck that was the remains of the burst reptile, stretched his paws toward the sky and let out a primal bark/scream to the heavens. (You know that's a really, really dramatic gesture -- falling on his knees (well, his haunches, since dog knees don't work that way) like Willem Dafoe in "Platoon" or Tim Robbins in "The Shawshank Redemption." Only it was way, way, way more dramatic when my fadder did it).
For he knew he was the apex predator of the universe. Yep! It's true!
So a few years later, World War I began, and my fadder decided to enlist and became a war dog. He discovered right away that war is heck. But he saved an entire batalion. Or, I should say, his thighs did. Because when the hithertofore untested modern weapons began firing, his comrades were in trouble. Where could they hide? Well, dear old dad knew what to do. He immediately began digging trenches for the GIs to hide in, and he dug so hard and so fast that dirt flew miles into the sky and hit the Red Baron in the head while he was flying overhead and caused him to crash his plane. So the flying ace was defeated, and the soldiers had trenches to duck into.
Sopwith Camel. (That kind of WWI plane isn't part of this story, but I never miss an opportunity to say "Sopwith Camel" because it's cool. Sopwith Camel!)
Yes, my fadder's bloodline provided a worthy match for my arse-biting ancestresses.
So, back in 2002, they lived on the same street. Their eyes met, sparks flew, planets exploded, pigs flew and camels sopwithed.
And then, bim, bam boom, I was born a few weeks later.
Yes, theirs was a true romance, which was tragically cut short when my fadder's nads were tragically cut off by the tragically evil vet. Such a tragic tragedy! But, then again, maybe the world couldn't deal with more than one Finknottle. The combination of my superb arse-biting skills and the muscular magnificence of my thunder thighs shan't be duplicated!
Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a Sopwith Camel to fly!
You know how I heroically led the mission to kill Osama bin Laden? Well, apparently it irked some of his fellow terrorists. They poisoned and imprisoned me. They got their revenge.
But I got mine, too!
Last Sunday, I woke Finkmom up at 4 a.m. throwing up. I barfed and barfed, then drank water several times, then barfed some more. Then, about 6 a.m., the bloody diarrhea started.
This scared the crap out of Finkmom, who is inexperienced with these sorts of covert international underground wars. What was making me sick? Did I eat something I shouldn't have? Did she give me too much cheese?
Ha! As though a creature as mighty as myself could get sick from cheese? Bah! I knew the terrorists were behind this!
She got really scared and whisked my bucket off to the "emergency vet clinic."
Ha! Some clinic! While my mudder was anxiously waiting for the vet for about three hours, naively thinking she'd taken me to a place where I would be cared for, I KNEW -- yes, KNEW -- that this was really the terrorists own version of Guantanamo Bay. My poor, stupid, uninformed mudder was playing right into the evildoers' hands!
Then, the worst happened. They STOLE me from my Finkmom! The "vets" told her they were taking X-rays (they were radiating me -- nay, microwaving me -- trying to give me a dread disease!), taking blood samples (they tried to suck my precious bodily fluids dry!), and, of course, collecting a STOOL SAMPLE! (arse-violating me!).
And this is the really disturbing part (like the assault on my bucket wasn't disturbing enough!): They persuaded Finkmom to abandon me (sob!!! er ... I mean "GRRR!") The vet gave her some absurd story about how I had hemorragic gastroenteritis and that they didn't know what caused it but that I needed to spend the night and get IV fluids and antibiotics. And then my mudder burst into tears and kept telling the vet how I get cold and need extra blankets (Gah! As if!!! I laugh at the cold! I drop ice cubes down the drawers of frigidity! But I digress ...).
She didn't want to leave me with strangers. I didn't want her to leave me, either, but I knew that the evil trap she unwittingly landed me in was too rough for her to deal with.
This situation, my friends, called for some SERIOUS Finknottling.
And that's when I knew I'd have to fight terrorism with terrierism. So I did!!!
After sticking needles into my arms they hooked me up to their truth serum. They wanted to know where I would next unleash an arse-bite of freedom.
I had to fight back. So I chewed through my IV line. Three times.
Then they put a Medieval torture collar on me -- OK, a Renaissance torture collar on me. And I chewed that up, too!
They sat me on a rubber mat and some piddle pads. And I gnawed on them, too, all in an effort to tunnel my way out of their torture cage!
They wanted to hook me up to some evil electrical device, no doubt to torture me with until I revealed the secrets of my next covert mission.
I chewed through the cable.
By the next day, they gave up and told Finkmom she could have me back. By then, the poison al-Qaida had ingeniously injected into my kibble had worn off.
And as I was making my final escape from my captors into the arms of my mudder, I got my revenge on Finkmom for getting me into this mess.
I messed. On my mudder. I got poop all over her arms and shirt and purse. Haha! She didn't even care! She was so happy to have me back, she didn't mind a bit.
Well, maybe a little bit, but she was glad she hadn't been bit -- in the arse! She really deserved it for taking me there in the first place, but I think I got my point across by crapping on her without shedding her butt blood.
I am all better now, and Finkmom is being very careful about what she feeds me. The vet's office charged her $20 for all the stuff I chewed up. (Plus more than $1,000 more!) Can you believe the nerve? I was shocked. Last time I looked on my way out the door, they were curled up in the floor crying because of how I'd terrierized them the night before.
They won't soon forget Gussie Finknottle. That is for sure!
Today is my birthday. Actually, Finkmom had to estimate the day of my birth because she didn't meet me until I was a few weeks old.
She tells a story of my origins that must be complete fiction. It is too mundane to be about the creation of a Finknottle as mighty and magnificent as me.
Her version of events is as follows: Her friend's mom's yorkie
got knocked up by the rat terrier down the street, and bing, bam, boom, out pops Gussie Finknottle a few weeks later.
O Henry, she ain't.
So let me recount the epic tale of the origins of the Finknottle.
My birf mudder was a beautiful yorkie whose painting hangs in the Louvre two nails down from the Mona Lisa. She was descended from a long line of magnificent English beeyatches who have inspired artistic geniuses through the ages: Mozarf, dog Vinci, Pawcy Sheltie -- they were all spurred to create masterpieces because of ancestors.
But the Finknottle women, though beautiful, also had an innate stealthiness and strength of jaw to bite arses through the ages. Anytime. Anywhere. And, though it's never been acknowledged by hisstorians (I say "hiss"torians because (didn't you know?) CATS wrote the history books in those days, and they hissed with rage at the thought of giving us dogs our due in their tomes. But I digress).
Yes, the Finknottle girls shaped the course of hisstory. A few facts:
1. Napolean did not flee into exile on the island of St. Helena because he was defeated at Waterloo. What really happened? During the battle, the Duke of Wellington released his Yorkie beeyatch, who ran across the battlefield and spooked Napolean's horse. It bucked him, he hit the ground and immediately felt an agonizing pain in his left buttock. My great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandbeeyatch had sunk her teeth into his butt and refused to let go until he left continental Europe, never to return. The mysterious circumstances in which he died? Buttock wound abscess. It happens. Sacre bleu!
2. After terrorizing London's Whitechapel slums for months, Jack the Ripper suddenly stopped killing. Many hisstorians say he ceased his evil activities because he must have died or left the city. The truth is that my great-great-etc.-grandbeeyatch was the first fully-trained ninja dog employed by Scotland Yard. By the time she was finished ripping the arse of The Ripper, he would never be able to sit again. As he was fleeing London, clutching his rump, crying, he lost his way in the fog, accidentally ran into a crumpet factory, slipped on a puddle of Yorkshire pudding, tripped over a box of hobnobs, fell into a vat of clotted cream and was never seen again.
But, tired of the constant hounding from MI6 to perform increasingly dangerous missions that invariably left her silky, gorgeous hair in tangles, my beautiful ancestresses came to America.