or A Series of Unfortunate Olfactory Events

I’m a big fan of Daniel Handler/Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events. Let me be clear that I did not like the movie and whoever got Jim Carrey involved should be hurt. Not badly. But a little. Meryl Streep and Billy Connelly were both really funny, but it wasn’t enough. The books and especially the audio version of the books performed by Tim Curry are fantastic. Handler is a good writer besides. I liked The Basic Eight and have not yet taken on Adverbs but will. While what happened at Casa de Scoutsporko wasn’t as bad as what happened at 667 Dark Avenue, but it was still unfortunate.

Let’s review the circumstances.

Event 1: Acquisition of Biscuit

Biscuit D. Dog was acquired about a year ago. It was a serendipitous occasion. I drove down to the pit-bulledest shelter of all the L.A. shelters. The dog I went to look at was a biter. I was standing in the hall feeling sorry for myself and saw this merry little dog walking down the hall. I slunk out to the counter and was asking about another dog. I then asked about ms. merry tail. It turned out she was a dog who had just been brought in. Her owners were moving and wanted to have her put down. The shelter took her from them and I took her in turn. Serendipity. What I knew about Biscuit (who was then called Oreo for some inexplicable reason) was that she was sweet and cute. Both things are true.

Another thing that was true was the murderer former owners had not house-trained her. At all. We found that out very quickly. She was a secretive peer. It took weeks for me to catch her peeing to praise her for doing it outside. She wouldn’t pee on walks. It was a whole thing. We did manage to teach her a “go out” command. She’ll pee when I tell her to. She still doesn’t know how to ask, but usually if she’s agitated, I let her out and she pees.

What can derail all of this? Why the squeaky football can. She loves it so much that she worries about us taking it away from her (a legitimate worry). We usually take it when she goes out. Seems less tragic that way. Last night she had it. She needed to pee. She waited until we were in the other room and couldn’t take the football away and peed.

Here’s Biscuit in pearls. Cutest dog ever. I’m not mad at her, despite her role in the story.

Event 2: Acquisition and use of Kaboom

I like infomercials. I find their hysteria, well, hysterical. I don’t really believe them, despite Honey’s contention that I am a sucker for “new technology.” Which isn’t really new at all. Still, I want one of those automatic shower cleaners. I also allow that some products (not the Table-Mate2) sold on teevee might actually be worth having. OxiClean is a good example. Clothes seem cleaner with OxiClean, at least. The people who brought you OxiClean make a product called Kaboom. Honey saw my interest in Kaboom. Given my propensity to NOT clean, any interest I take in a cleaning product gives Honey a thrill. So she bought me some. She might have even bought me some for Christmas.

Problem is, we ended up with the wrong kind of Kaboom. I don’t know if it’s an alternative version, earlier version, or a rip-off. Instead of the basin, tub, and tile cleaner, we ended up with a fabric and carpet cleaner. Which normally would be fine. But there’s something very wrong with the alternative Kaboom. Very very wrong.

Event 3: The actual pee clean-up attempt

Biscuit’s pee was a huge mess. We started with paper towels. I then usually finish with something like Fantastic Oxy Power or Resolve or 409 Carpet or Simple Solution and the carpet pee scrubber brush. We were out of all of those cleaning products. So Honey handed me the alti-Kaboom. Which said that it was good for “pet stains.” I sprayed and scrubbed.

Even 4: The chemical reaction

I was vigorous in my cleaning approach. The result: some sort of chemical reaction that was toxic. Eyes water toxic. And it got worse as the night went on.

We went to bed to get away from it.

Event 5: Morning comes

I’m a good girl and get up to work out on my Tony Little Gazelle. (I told you I like infomercials. I should note that instead of sending Tony Little my $500, I bought my Gazelle from a guy in Hollywood who listed it on craigslist for $150). I enter the living room. Immediately every vein and artery in my head contracts. I feel nauseated. The chemical reaction has gotten worse overnight. I get some odor neutralizer. It doesn’t help. Things devolve. Head hurts. Gastrointestinal distress occurs. I don’t work out.

I’m not a chemically sensitive person. Though certain 98 cent stores will leave my mouth with a bit of a film. But whatever happened was unfortunate.

It won’t happen again, but I may not be able to live in our house for a few days. Or I’ll have to stay in bed like some Victorian swooning violet.

Kaboom.

or…

It’s hot AND Sporks got the “nice camera” out.

Towit:

I don’t like it when it’s 119 degrees. It’s fucking hot.
That is all that need be said about that.

Now, I have a few thoughts that have nothing to do with the heat. Honey and I did observe that when it’s this hot, it’s hard not to talk about how hot. Like every time you walk outside, you have to exclaim all over again about how hot it is. That’s it, no more hot talk.

As to getting the nice camera out…

Jezebel was over. Biscuit wasn’t sure what she thought.

I am (sure that is). Jezebel is very cute. Hurt your molars cute. Did you know she has her own website? Yeppers.

Another thing that’s cute? Biscuit with her summer haircut. (Notice the random Teva sitting behind her. That’s where those shoes went last night).

Speaking of shoes, I may have purchased my very favoritest pair ever today. Behold:

Dooce and her husband have this big thing going in her blog over his version of the same shoes. As much as I like Dooce’s blog, I’m coming down on the side of righteousness. And that, my friends and neighbors, is the clog side.

Speaking of what’s right and just…I really like how my stuffed rhino looks in my pearls.

Did you know that rhinos are nice and hippos are mean? I always thought the reverse. Hippos are generally thought to be the most dangerous animal in Africa.

And that is why rhinos wear pearls. To show how nice they are. Much nicer than hippos.

She LOVED playing with the football last night and we put up with it for a long time.

Then, she started behaving badly and we had to take it away from her. She whined, tried to climb up the cabinet we had put it on top of, wouldn’t go to sleep and repeated the whole thing this morning.

She can still play with it, but I may have to use Cesar Millan tactics on her. Calm assertive energy. Calm assertive energy.

That’s me in spades. Not.

Biscuit (The picture was shamelessly stolen from Honey’s blog. But then this morning Honey said that I shouldn’t sue her because what’s mine is hers and vice versa. I’m not sure she wants to take credit for some of my brighter shirts, but whatever. Anyway, Biscuit…):

went with us to Honey’s parents’ place this weekend. Biscuit LOVES Honey’s parents’ place. We call it the Ranchito and it’s 90 miles east of us in the “high desert.” Biscuit thinks it’s great for a number of reasons. First, there are the really big hooved dogs she likes to sniff. Second, there are gophers. Third, there are no leashes. Fourth, there’s the golden retriever to dominate. Lately her primary love at the ranchito has been aforementioned golden retreiver’s squeaky toys. I gave Biscuit one of the late great Red’s sheepskin squeaky toys. She immediately started to try to disembowel it. I took it back from her, informed her that it was Red’s and that even though he was dead, she couldn’t just destroy it. I may have cried a little. Red’s passing still makes me really sad.

Anyway, Biscuit thinks the rubber squeaky toys at the ranchito are beyond fab. She squeaks them and squeaks them.

I bought her one. This one:

She heard it when I had an accidental squeak bringing it inside. I gave it to her and she really went to town on it. I made it longer than my mother would have, but finally had to put it up high on a shelf. She sat there looking at it. When I went in the other room, she came in, looked at me and then went back in to stare at it. Then she came back in to look at me, then went back in to stare at it. When Honey shut the door to the room with me and the toy in it, she whined and whined. When honey opened the door and I came out, she went in to stare at the toy some more. She had separation anxiety from a rubber football.

And I, I am mean. I bought it and now dole it out. Still, I like that when I get home tonight, I can give it to her and produce the kind of joy only dogs have. And then I can take away the joy and feel bad. Which is so human. The good news is that I can then give her the joy back. And then take it away again. They say baseball is designed to break your heart (and it does). Spaniel mixes are pretty good at it too.

Still, she’s a pretty fantastic creature. Once more for the awww factor:

I have been thinking about the upcoming movie Snakes on a Plane since I heard about it. I also like that the phrase has entered the lexicon as a sort of “can’t do anything about this shit” stand-in. I don’t even know if I’ll see the movie, but I like the idea.

Anyway, I was at the vet’s office yesterday with Biscuit the wonder dog. She has an ear infection. She won’t let me clean her ears. See previous post. She wouldn’t let the vet clean her ears either. Four people tried and as the vet said, “she wasn’t mean or anything, but she was pretty clear that she wasn’t going to let us do it.” Honey and I are now giving her ear medicine. We’ve found that if we put her in the sink and make it quick, she’s only a little freaked out. It does take both of us and the sink.

By the by, I was really pleased with myself for knowing how much Biscuit weighed. I kept telling people she weighed 35 pounds, but she hadn’t been weighed before. She stepped onto the vet scale, hunkered down like it hurt and the display flashed 34.5 pounds. Let me know if you’d like me to come by and guess your dog’s weight. I can’t do people or any other animal, so it’s only your dog who will be embarrassed. Maybe I should get a booth.

So, Biscuit and I are waiting in the lobby for her medicines and she’s being Biscuity. She keeps approaching people for pets, except for this one guy she decides is a threat. She keep barking at him. People are freaky about their dogs at the vet. Several haul their dogs away from greeting Biscuit. Including one guy with a border collie puppy. There’s no way that puppy and Biscuit were going to get into it. Whatever.

Then this dude (and that’s the only way to describe him) comes in with a BIG snake wrapped around his neck and shoulders. His pants are hanging down and he’s grungy. And he talks like a dude. He’s in a total panic. At first I think he’s being strangled by the snake. He’s not. Which is good.

Biscuit doesn’t react to the snake at all. The guy with the really sick bassett hound is a threat. The giant snake is not.

Dude says in a panicky high voice, “Um,can someone help me?”

Vet receptionist, “Oh, I’m sorry, we don’t deal with snakes.”

Dude (almost crying), “Is there someone who could just answer some questions for me?”

Bottom lime seemed to be that Dud went out of town and his snake sitter (there’s a job I don’t want) fed his snake a frozen mouse. She was in distress about it, drinking lots of water and blowing bubbles into her water in an attempt to digest the frozen mouse. Dude also didn’t have any money and couldn’t pay anybody, so when they tried to refer him to another vet he started crying. I could go into the Animal Precinct rap about how you shouldn’t have a pet if you can’t pay, but Dude loved that snake. And I got a dog when I was young and couldn’t pay.

Now bassett guy (the big threat in Biscuit’s eyes) was looking at $1500. He seemed sanguine about it though.

One of the vet techs who had worked at a vet’s office that dealt with “exotics” came out and talked to Dude and seemed to think the snake was going to be fine.

It was sweet. I hadn’t been to that vet before. I’ll go back. Even if they can’t find four people to hold down my 34.5 pound dog. They helped snake dude. They gave me medicine and no unnecessary tests. And if we’re all lucky, bassett guy will not cross Biscuit’s path again.

Biscuit, the dog from hell, is a spaniel mix. So she has girly spaniel ears. Girly spaniel ears get dirty and grossy. So I have to clean them. My old dog Red didn’t mind at all having his ears cleaned or having his ears called girly. The former made him groan in pleasure, the latter he ignored. Biscuit does not feel the same way Red did.

Here’s how it goes. First, you find Biscuit:

Then you grab her ear:

Then she falls over and bites you:

Then you try to get your hand our her mouth. Don’t trust black tongued dogs!

Then she calms down for a second:

Thinking you have your moment, you try to clean her ears. She has fooled you and writhes with such ferocity that you can’t hold on to her./ Your arms are scratched, the camera is on the ground. All the while, the cats watched from a safe place…

So, you think I have to try again. So you find Biscuit…

The big problem with owning cats and dogs…

Cats eat stuff they shouldn’t (their hair, birthday ribbon, balloon strings, bugs, spiders).

Then they throw up what they shouldn’t have eaten.

Then the dogs find the throw-up.

And eat it.

I mean, what worse than dog vomit that is indigestible cat vomit?

I don’t want to know what’s worse, never mind.

When I get home every night before my honey, Biscuit celebrates by running around the yard. I call it her “dogabration” and sing a version of Celebration (yes, by Kool and the Gang). They’re not very clever alternative lyrics, but she takes such joy in my coming home that it seems worthy of a song.

The problem with Biscuit, of course, is that those moments of joy are so fundamentally brief relative to the moments where she really can’t contain her base-self. Honey calls her “all id,” which is right. See cat, chase cat. Want cat poop, eat cat poop. See sock, eat sock. She’s not stupid–she just has no filter.

Which can be my problem too, though in a very different way.

Since I’ve not been able to correct the no-filter problem in my life, I sometimes despair of doing it in Biscuit’s life.

In the meantime, at least there’s the dogabaration in which we “dogabrate and have a good time. So bring your Biscuits and your Halos too, we’re going to dogabrate and party with you.” Join us sometime.

Biscuit and I are on our second go-round with Puppy School. Our first attempt was in West L.A. on Saturday mornings. The trainer taught with a large hat and sunglasses on. I have NO IDEA what she looked like. Puppy school seems to fall into one of several broad approaches:

Pet store puppy school. It costs a little more and is marked by a inevitable certificate.

People based puppy school. My friend Naomi did this one. Mostly they listened to lectures about dogs and dog behavior.

Obedience based puppy school. These are taught by AKC obedience clubs and are geared toward both good dog behavior and toward getting the smarter, more able purebreds into competition.

Both of my puppy school attempts with Biscuit have been of the obedience school variety. Big hat teacher was ok for a while. Then she had us “groom” our dogs. Since Biscuit thinks having her ears cleaned is tantamount to canicide, I went to get some toilet paper and proceeded to try and clean her ears. She began, as usual to go berserk. (Honey describes the ear cleaning process as like watching me “wrestle a wild mustang.”) After several exhausting minutes wherein Big Hat went around and praised people for having calm dogs, she finally made her way over to me and said, “get her under control.” I asked how to do so. And she said, “just get her on the ground.” I had a couple of more classes coming and even tried to go on thanksgiving Saturday (when no one was there).

Since I live in the Valley, I thought I’d give it another shot with the Valley club. They seemed more flexible and were a lot closer. One of the notable things about the valley version is that one of the trainers was featured on Showdog Moms and Dads on Bravo last year. Sometimes I see her practicing with her dogs. They’re impeccably trained Australian shepherds who walk next to her, off leash, within inches of her leg and stare at her face the whole time.

Biscuit, thanks to these twelve+ weeks of training can sit and lie down. Sometimes she heels. Usually that’s because I have a piece of cheese between her face and mine. Mostly she pulls.

I asked the trainer last week what to do after our appointed six visits were up. Take the class again, he said. And he tried to up the ante on me by having Biscuit sit more. My cheese bills are bound to go up.

As for how well this translates into good home behavior, she’s started eating anything she can dog out of the litter box. She’s actually a clever dog. She grabbed and started shredding a napkin last night. Once I extracted it from her, she shot across the room and licked the pop tart I had been eating. It seemed very calculated, truth be told.

She’s a sweet dog, but I sometimes worry if the puppy school affect (negligible) is at all similar to the affect of my efforts in IHE. At least I never wore a big hat while teaching.

I’ve always maintained that I’m a dog person. Cats never did much for me, but my family had this way of ruining them. I am said to have “killed” the best cat ever, Googe. My mother hired a woman to help care for me after I was born and she believed (as many folks do) that cats suck the life out of babies. This woman insisted that Googe be let outside and Googe was promptly hit and killed by a car. This, without irony, is presented as my fault in family lore.

We had a few cats that flicker through my memory: Blackie, a big tom who I think we just fed. Socks, who disappeared on Halloween. Then, my folks decided to get my brother a cat. My dad went driving around one Christmas Eve and found a cat at a south Atlanta pet store. Miss Pig (who was named Victoria initially), was tough. She’d disembowel things, could catch a butterfly in mid-air, and loved nothing better than wounding a chipmunk for an afternoon of torture.

When it came to people, she drooled and bit (hard on the chin). Now, I will admit that the family dogs weren’t much more appealing. My parents finally got it sort of right with Reddo, the sweet Welsh Springer Spaniel who I was lucky enough to have as my dog the last three years of his life.

Honey is a cat person. She laughs when she sees them. It’s very sweet. She came with a cat named Tuna, who didn’t like me. She has a soul-cat named Calif, who is sweet and needy. Calif is honey’s cat. I love her, but the bond is between them.

Honey and I got a cat that I loved with all my heart. Squeak was everything I wanted in a pet. Funny, cute, soft, easy to deal with. She died of cancer at age three.

I don’t know if Red’s death or Squeak’s affected me more. But, in both cases, I wanted a new presence right away. I picked out Halo and I picked out Biscuit. Halo is five pounds of calico hilarity, Biscuit is 35 pounds of soft puppy mess. They don’t like each other. I want Halo to use her claws when Biscuit corners her. I want Biscuit to stop cornering her. I can’t figure out how to make either thing happen.

Animals can provide such joy in life. I miss Halo. Biscuit is so focused on me that she is often within an arms’ length. I forgot (because Red was old) what it’s like to have a young dog around. I know what it’s like to have Halo around, but she doesn’t come to me as much as she used to.

I know I smell like Biscuit to her, but her absence leaves a small empty place in my center. I never thought a cat could do that to me.

Honey and I have a contest for our cats called “Loaf of the Day.” Cats like to lie with all of their paws tucked underneath them and usually the tail is tucked under as well. Halo is a very good loafist, she wins most days.

I hope she knows (in her little Calico head) that I love her and that I’m glad she wins loaf of the day, and that I’m glad I picked her out of the East Valley shelter. I mostly hope she doesn’t blame me for Biscuit.

I am to blame for Biscuit, of course, but I hope Halo doesn’t know it.

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