|Willow, the Wonder Dog...the rest of the story
||[Nov. 7th, 2007|08:41 am]
Lest you make the mistake of looking for her angel wings next time you see Willow...|
This will horrify those of you who haven't learned yet how little reverence I have for...well, anything...but I have to admit that the silver lining I found with all of Willow's near-death experiences was: well, at least I can stop buying Nature's Miracle by the case.
(Nature's Miracle is a product that, in theory, removes urine from your carpet. Willow is a canine -urine-delivering machine.)
Sure, the medication made her have to go more frequently, in larger quantity and with an urgency triggered by doorbells, car door slamming and her Mom's deep REM sleep. But before the meds, and now after, she still has a definite time limit. And time limit aside, she also uses the pee spot as her own personal Op-Ed page. "Oh, go to work all day, come home, give me a measly walk and then go out for some fun? Huh. Here's something to mop up. How fun is that?"
So, yeah, there's not really a day when I think "ooooh, new carpet...that would be so cool..." And for those of you who are wondering how I can possibly live with the gross, aged carpet that's in the house now and how I can wake up in the morning and possibly tolerate that gaggable brown Solarium tiles in the upstairs hallway...if you think I'm putting in new stuff while the Princess of Pee is in residence...
Thankfully, as she's aged, she's mellowed -- the bra destruction count rests at 21 -- yes, in her prime, she learned how to pull open drawers and find them. Pull down stacks of clean clothes to get to the bra on top. And if you're thinking "oh, she just loves them because they smell like you" then explain the four bras pulled out of the Hecht's bag and destroyed before they even got a chance to be on my body. And it wasn't just random chewing either -- she'd chew through one arm strap and be done.
Apparently she thinks that a bra to me, must be like a muzzle to her -- since she's also destroyed at least 6 muzzles (that they need to wear when running in a group, to avoid accidents) chewing through the headstall at the back. And swallowing pieces. To this day, occasionally another piece of muzzle headstall works its way out of her system.
And that tends to happen when there's an audience -- say at the kid's bus stop. Although not as often as the passage of the feminine hygiene products she consumes. Those ALWAYS re-appear at the bus stop. And I usually have to....help...because that string...sigh. Although sometimes she likes to wait and throw up undigestable bits at 2am. Which is how I found out where my sunglasses, my headphones and my swim goggles went.
And bread. Go ahead, leave a bag of bread within her reach -- within seconds it's whisked upstairs and shredded with great abandon. Bagels hanging from the ceiling fan. (I said great abandon, and I meant it.) Banana peels plastered 6 feet up a wall -- who knew they were such cool toys?
If it's got feathers, it's done. As anyone in the Hound Tent with a feathered fan has discovered. When being introduced to the Queen at NCRF for the first time, I was horrified to see Willow's head snake out and grab one of the ermine tails on the dress and slowly pull back. The tail on Mad Maggie's dragon is shorter thanks to Willow. She's grabbed dead birds on walks and carried them around until I noticed the feathers sticking out of her mouth. Even a stunned, live mourning dove. And she even opened her mouth and gave it back to me -- and it later flew off.
Eyes must be removed from toys. We have a whole house of Oedipus's. Oedipus the Whale, Oedipus the monkey, Oedipus the rabbit....
You'd never suspect that she was a demon, to see her at meet & greets or Renfaires -- there she borders on anti-social, ignoring the crowds of admirers, making it plain that she's just killing time until she can go home. I wouldn't call her a one-person dog, since she's added a few people to her list of "those she will recognize" but she does treat me specially. When she wants to go out, she nails me with that pin nose -- cleverly designed to go right in my crotch or up my butt at ramming speed. If I don't get the leash on her fast enough to suit her agenda, she'll rear up and punch me in the chest with her front feet. (Oh, I know, poor lame girl. She packs a wallop, lemme tell ya.)
I am at her beck and call -- you think I'm joking? Ask someone who's watched me run through the flavors in a Milk Bone box. Chicken? She baps the biscuit with her nose and looks at me. Bacon? She baps it and looks at me. Finally, vegetable? That she takes, and whirls into the living room to distribute its crumbs all over the place.
I know. Just take the damn biscuit. If you won't want the one I'm giving you, then screw it, you don't get a biscuit. Why the hell am I putting up with all of this?
Ah, but yesterday's post explains it, doesn't it?