The Long Goodbye

The girl dog turns 15 in a couple of months, although the county animal control center thinks it’s 16. Either way, a lot of years to pass under the paws of a mostly black shepherd mix.

Her daily schedule has contracted to something like (1) sleep (2) bark (3) maybe make it to the back door in time (4) look contrite when she doesn’t (5) sleep. She still slides her arthritic joints down to the floor by the window, where she remains vigilant through cloudy eyes against the constant threat of cats, UPS trucks, and pedestrians who have the temerity to walk on the sidewalk past our house.

She’s happy as a clam.

She also has approximately the same visual and auditory acuity as a clam, and only slightly more complex brain activity. But she’s happy. You will have to start weighing quality of life, the vet told me yesterday, and at some point you’ll have to decide where the line is. Indeed. At this point the only quality of life issues are my own, as her transformation into the Wee Hours Adventure Dog (2 a.m.? let’s sprint to the door! oops!) has reverted my sleeping patterns to what they were when I had a newborn (2 a.m.? again? jesus.) and made me consider the potential upside of buying stock in Swiffer, since I’m single-handedly keeping them in business anyway (wet wipes on a stick? thank. you. jesus.).

I grit my teeth and hand over the credit card to buy meds that will keep her hips from aching and let her go for longer walks and maybe have more extended play sessions with the other dog in the house. She struggles to get up sometimes, her shaky back legs not quite cooperating with the rest of her. But then she steals unguarded slips of paper from the coffee table—receipts? goodness, how delicious—and rushes the fence to annoy the chihuahua next door. She hops up and down at dinnertime and sprints down the hall in her half-sideways gait and wags her tail with the big goofy doggy grin that we know isn’t really a smile but know really is at the same time.

Not time to head out the door for the last time yet, although it’s getting closer. We still have a few minutes to spend.

Mildly Interesting. Dullsville, Actually. No, Really.

I am only putting this picture up here because of the dog, and the bee-yoo-ti-ful overflowing bookcases. Honest. Oh, the article's okay too.

Puppy! Puuuuuppppppy!

This Is So Wrong

The trend of using tiny yap dogs as disposable fashion accessories was bad enough (yes, Paris and Britney, I am talking about you). Now we have this:

First came the dogs. Teeny-weeny little things, smaller than a cat or even a rat, so little they could fit in your purse.

Convenient, sort of. But consider the mayhem that a dog, no matter how tiny, can cause inside your pocketbook. It doesn't take a lot of imagination to figure out that you do not want all that mixing it up with your cell phone and lip gloss.

...That brings us to the present and the latest chapter in the annals of hound-hauling... In this contraption the dog actually becomes the purse. The $89.95 Twinkletoes Traveler has adjustable straps to convert your dog from handbag to shoulder bag and back again.

Do I really need to explain how wrong this is? Did the women who will snap up these dog-to-purse conversion kits not get the pre-puppy lecture from mom and dad? You know, the one that goes something like a puppy is a big responsibility and it's a living creature, not a toy? That lecture?


Maybe this is the inevitable offshoot of the stuffed animal backpacks that first made their appearance maybe ten years ago. I'm thinking the ladies who sport Fluffy-as-handbag will pretty quickly have the desire to permanently convert Fluffy to an actual handbag when they realize that no matter how cute it might look to certain twisted people at first, Fluffy is still an actual dog who may not be content to be slung over her owner's shoulder for extended periods of time, who will need drinks of water and bathroom breaks, and who really can't be conveniently set on the table or stashed under a chair during lunch. A dog that might, horror of horrors, act like a real dog and bark or snap or otherwise behave in a non-purselike manner, demonstrating exactly zero understanding or gratefulness at the ninety bucks owner-lady dropped to convert her into a Gucci poochie.

Birthday Girl Shout-Out

Happy birthday to the girl dog! She is 10 today. Way back when, I threw her a party for her 4th birthday. We had 14 dogs wearing party hats in the back yard. This year will be a bit more subdued affair, mainly because I forgot about it until just now. Perhaps she will get some extra chicken with her valley fever meds tonight.

Happy birthday, sweet pup. Here's hoping to at least a couple more.