la vie d'un chien

Drama and trauma seem to go hand in hand in our household. I know I should be used to it by now, but I swear, it still throws me. Since getting Scout in February, dog drama has taken center stage, and I can't say that I particularly enjoy the show.

There are the usual scenes: her using L as a chew toy in return for him using her as a sparring partner {bringing respective squeals of pain/delight from these "frenemies"--yes, I have two puppies}; the frequent squeals of panic from the dog as she chases the kids around the "track" in our house and can't reach them while she's sliding all over the hardwood floors {and marking them up, I might add}; or my own outbursts of frustration when I find yet again another log or puddle {luckily this hasn't happened for 2 or 3 weeks}.

Then there was that Wednesday night. Now in general, Wednesdays have been turning out to be pretty good nights this fall. Even though J is gone for Mutual, the kids' schedules are pretty clear except for activity days for C every now and then. So there's plenty of time for homework, playing with friends, maybe doing some chores, and relaxing at home as a family (well, except that J isn't here, but that's become so common that it's beginning to seem normal). On evenings like these, I relish putting on one of my darling aprons, preparing dinner at a slow, sweet pace and sitting at the table together.

Well, on that Wednesday in question, my apron was on, the cutting board was out, and I should have known that drama and trauma were on the way. After all, I don't think I'm allowed to have quiet, challenge-free days right now.

Here's the play-by-play. I tell the kids to tie the dog up outside so she can be with them. E, wearing rollerblades, tries to tie her up. She rebels, he loses balance and grip of her collar. Scout runs down the driveway into the street. She "collides" with the back wheel of an SUV that is passing by. Poor Scout whimpers and limps while running back home. E runs into the kitchen, quite desperate, begging me {with tears in his eyes, sweet boy} to come quick because Scout was hit by a car. The dog is nursing a hind leg, shaking like a leaf and is pretty skittish. I decide to take her to the vet--there's no blood, but I have no way of knowing the extent of the injuries. I pick up the dog (but not before removing my apron) and carry her to the car. I pack the kids in the car, including a neighbor kid. I drop off the neighbor kid. I call J on the way to the vet. He says maybe I should hold off and see how things are after she settles down because it doesn't sound like she's too injured. I decide I'd feel best if she got evaluated. The vet checks her out and says everything looks good, but x-rays are needed. The x-rays reveal all bones and structures are sound, but shows there are two round, foreign objects in her stomach that she has ingested. The vet warns me of chance of bowel obstruction. I okay a shot to help her regurgitate the objects. We learn they're marbles because one comes up, but only one. The vet says that the other marble is borderline to pass through her stools because of its size. The vet tells me that I have to search her poop over the next day for the other marble. If I don't find it, the vet says that $1000 surgery may be necessary to remove it from her. I pay my $270 bill which includes pain medicine and antibiotics that she never even takes because she's an even pickier eater than my kids {we tried everything we could think of}. After getting home, the dog pees in the house on the carpet. I lose it. I have to clean the mess, put some kind of food on the table, tend to a dog that won't take her medicine and is now walking and acting fine overall, and begin the bedtime routine. I never put the apron back on. The next morning, first poop out the shoot, the marble appears. I learned I should have listened to my husband: I'd have been $270 richer and without worry over the marbles which would have passed just fine on their own.

Oh, la, la.

sept ans

It's now just a couple days later, but there's a new kid to shoot. Even though C and S are two years and two days apart, when their birthdays roll around each year, they are only two days apart--and it feels like they are only two days apart (more about their parties coming later). So here is SoSo, on his 7th birthday, with a fresh haircut for school (which begins next week!) and his ever sweet face and a dog all over it.

femme fatale

You might not think it from her picture. Scout's fluffy white coat and puppy dog eyes give off a serene, almost pure countenance.

But this dog is lethal. Just ask any doodad (furniture included) that ends up on a floor in our house for too long. She has devoured and damaged and destroyed to her heart's content since joining our home in February. A partial list includes so many items that's it's practically painful to put it in print--the legs of our bar stools, a post of our kitchen island, the bench at our kitchen table, our newly refinished deck, the leather ottoman (this one is not entirely her fault as the kids had already managed to tear it in three places--the stuffing was almost begging to be ripped out), Stinky Pete's gym bag, the case for the portable iPod stereo, multiple pairs of flip flops, multiple pairs of shoes, no less than three of Ethan's books, various items of laundry, too many pens/pencils/crayons to count, a yellow highlighter (ironically this one was a highlight for all of us as she later threw up portions of the plastic in a fluorescent yellow pool of goo), a button on a PS3 controller, a hapless and now footless GI Joe figure (that one was yesterday), a shoe insole (as I write), any stuffed animal that she can get her mouth on, etc., etc., etc. If pressed, I could go on and on and on.

As if the chewing capacity of a puppy wasn't enough work, Scout has certain other tendencies that might make me give her up if Jason wasn't good enough to remind me that I wanted the dog for our kids after seeing Marley and Me. She has marked her territory all over my territory. The house training was (and sometimes is) just that extra amount of aggravation and work to send me over the edge at times. She's done such an excellent job defining her territory that she now feels compelled to defend and protect her turf practically to the death. I have to keep her tied up when outside with us for fear that she'll go after any dog that passes by our house (look closely at the pictures and you'll see her leash tethering her to the banister while I took the above photos). A couple of unfortunate dogs have wandered into our house and felt the fury of our fraidy-cat (the fact that off-leash and ownerless dogs manage to be around our house often enough must be one of Murphy's laws of pet ownership). Behind her sometimes vicious bark, Scout is, yes, a fraidy-cat who used to cower on our walks when we passed a parked pick-up truck/mini-van/water fountain/large object.

I'd like to begin writing about her virtues, but I'm tired of thinking about her just now. She has enough of them, otherwise she wouldn't still be living in my house.