FOT Forum
FOT Community => General Discussion => Topic started by: Sarah on April 12, 2007, 11:29:55 AM
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I have just agreed to take care of two four-and-a-half-month-old boxer puppies for three weeks. Introductions have been made to the reigning menagerie, and my two dogs are quite happy about the arrangement. The cats are withholding judgment for the time being, but all should be well on that front, too.
I can't tell you how pleased I am to have this distraction to take my mind off the development wars. And if this little adventure concludes with my getting to keep one of the boxers (I've already fallen somewhat in love with the less rambunctious of the two), all the better!
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how cute are they? can you post a photo?
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And, give us the development wars update!
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They are killingly cute, but I'm afraid I can't post a photo, not having a digital camera. And even if I took a regular photo and got it developed quickly, my scanner would not do justice to it. So a description will have to do: They are both quite small still. Casper is white, the larger of the two, and a big fan of kissing; Copper is brown with white feet, and he's the one I covet. At the moment they have formed a kind of living yin-yang symbol on my bed: they are curled up together face to face on a pillow, snoring away. Their slumber will soon be interrupted, however, as it's just about time for their first meal here. That will be an important event, since I'll find out whether my cats will dare to come in for their suppers.
I will post on the development wars in the official thread when I have the energy.
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They are killingly cute, but I'm afraid I can't post a photo, not having a digital camera. And even if I took a regular photo and got it developed quickly, my scanner would not do justice to it. So a description will have to do: They are both quite small still. Casper is white, the larger of the two, and a big fan of kissing; Copper is brown with white feet, and he's the one I covet. At the moment they have formed a kind of living yin-yang symbol on my bed: they are curled up together face to face on a pillow, snoring away. Their slumber will soon be interrupted, however, as it's just about time for their first meal here. That will be an important event, since I'll find out whether my cats will dare to come in for their suppers.
awww! what a vivid picture. your puppies sound adorable.
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looking up a nytimes article for school, i happened to see this & think of the puppy discussion:
(http://i101.photobucket.com/albums/m47/hippocatgeek/Dog.jpg)
"Molly Shannon stars in "Year of the Dog," Mike White’s film about empathy and grace."
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My boxers are gone. I grieve.
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If it's any comfort, they've gone to a better place.
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So the home of an unstable young woman who has only a half a liver but continues to drink like a fish and is currently affiliated with her ex-husband's best friend, a liaison that, it has been posited, was engineered by said ex in order to nudge her into downright madness so that he can gain custody of their two children is better than my dull little hovel, where the puppies received lavish attention and stable care from me and enjoyed happy relationships with two gentle older dogs, is a better place?
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If you put it like that, no.
Sorry. :'(
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Are they going to Michael Vick's house? Zing!
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Ron Mexico?
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One of the puppies, at least, has been spared a sordid career as a professional fighter in the thrall of a moronic athlete. Earlier this evening--just when my sister showed up with a 1991 Volvo station wagon she needed to test-drive (my two sisters' cars recently died, within a week of one another, so the three of us are planning to buy a single car to share among us [mind you, I don't even drive]; since we'll probably put at most a grand total of a 1,000 miles on the thing in any given year, that this Volvo is so old and already has logged 165,000 miles is not too off-putting--especially for $800 [in case the suspense is killing you, the test was a success, and we're buying it])--the puppies' father called me up to ask if I'd be willing to take the less winsome (but more needy) of the two. With great trepidation, I said I would, on the condition that (a) he pay for Casper (whom I'm thinking of renaming Daniel) to be neutered; (b) he make arrangements for the lad to be trained, especially with regard to cats (about more anon); and (c) he raise the height of my existing dog pen to 8 feet, with cubby holes to allow cat entry and egress.
I am very worried about this decision. I don't want my poor cats to run away from home or for them to stay but live out the rest of their lives (they're both ten-and-a-half, so they have years ahead of them) in terror. But I just knew that if I didn't say yes, Casper was doomed. He'd be passed from person to person, growing ever more neurotic with each transfer, and ultimately get hit by a car or sent to the gas chamber.
I am, of course, a sucker. And I may end up even more of one, because, if Copper proves to be too much for the half-livered gal with whom he's living, I'll take him on as well.
The really stupid thing is, here I am, an old lady of almost fifty, and, aside from the cats, the thing that's worrying me the most is how my parents are going to react.
God, I'm pathetic.
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...I'm pathetic.
Not so.
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...I'm pathetic.
Not so.
Well put!
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Sarah, you should definitely re-name that dog. You don't want a dog named Casper. Just watch that movie "Kids" or "The Devil and Daniel Johnston" and you'll know what I'm talkin' about. You should name it Geddy! or Zachary Brimstead. Or Galifianakiatitus.
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Sarah, you should definitely re-name that dog. You don't want a dog named Casper. Just watch that movie "Kids" or "The Devil and Daniel Johnston" and you'll know what I'm talkin' about. You should name it Geddy! or Zachary Brimstead. Or Galifianakiatitus.
Or Fritos. Or Andopolis. Or Mr. Belvedere.
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I'll watch The Devil and Daniel Johnston today (conveniently, I just recorded it, so it's ready and waiting).
I have to rename him: having a white dog named Casper is just too cutesy. And while I rather like the idea of naming him Zachary Brimstead, I'm thinking I may just switch to "Jasper," since that will mean he'll only have to get used to one consonant change.
Still, I must know: why do you suggest "Geddy!" (I presume the exclamation point is part of the name)?
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He's a big Rush fan, obviously. Geddy Lee 4-eva!
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Now I need to know how John H. knows
Jasper Zachary is a big Rush fan.
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Don't get me wrong--I really like the new puppy. But Jesus F. W. D. Christ I can't step out of the goddamn house without his getting upset. I was out front just now, ineptly trying to dig some new garden beds, and the damn fool went nuts. Finally, he got up on the table beside my computer and knocked a container full of pens etc. on the floor, trying, no doubt, to reach the bottle of Rolaids sitting next to my monitor. (I have such bottles all over my tiny house since I'm prone to heartburn and too lazy to want to have to get up to fetch them whenever I'm stricken. Young Zach developed a taste for the suckers the other day, when he consumed the contents of the almost-full bottle on the table next to my bed. After that, I started putting them out of his reach, but apparently his reach extends farther than I thought.) Now, a knocked-over cup of pens is no big deal, of course, but I quake to imagine what other damage he could have done.
I already knew he goes crazy when I'm away from home for any length of time (I'm talking a half-hour to go to the grocery store here), but this happened while he could see me through the fucking window. Or come out into the pen and look at me through the fence. I mean, hell, it's nice to be liked, but I honestly can't believe I'm so irresistible that not having complete access to me for even one second causes panic.
I'm a hostage. Good thing I'm a shut-in anyway, huh?
Now I have to go make up with him. He's somewhere quivering right now.
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I love this pointless, self-indulgent thread. It gives me somewhere to report that I just spent an hour chopping up beef hearts for the dogs. The other day, I used up a similar amount of time grinding chicken bones, flesh, and organs for the cats. I feel like an ogre. Watch out, "I'll grind your bones to make my bread" given the chance.
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How is this thread and more or less pointless or self indulgent to the rest of the threads?
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Kind of you, Richard.
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Today I feel less like the giant in "Jack and the Beanstalk" and more like the Parsee in "How the Rhinoceros Got His Skin," for the cake I'm baking is about the size of the one below. If Boxer rolls around in the crumbs, he will turn into a shar-pei--or, rather, he would if his coat were held on by three buttons.
(http://www.mainlesson.com/books/kipling/just/zpage033.gif)
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Kind of you, Richard.
Now now, I wasn't bashing you, but the folks being critical of this thread.
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I was absolutely sincere, Richard: it was kind of you. And I believe the only person bashing this thread is me (edit: I'm aware this should be "I," but that just sounds too damn pompous [figured I might as well forestall any nit-picking, though I didn't think to do so until today]).
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Sorry, hard to tell tone online. I was worried I had offended.
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My day began with a rousing dogfight in the kitchen. Both boys are wounded. Duchess is disgusted with them. My right thumb was slightly sprained when I heaved Zach up by his hind legs in an attempt to get him to disengage, and I'm now a little ashamed of myself for being proud that old Bandit came out the winner.
An adrenaline surge is not a nice way to wake up, even if it is much more invigorating than coffee. I suppose I should be glad of the pick-me-up, though, since a drunken Canadian fisherman may be visiting this afternoon, and I'll need all my strength to put up with him. At least he'll have some fishing stories to tell. He already charmed me Thursday with his description of the crew of his boat enjoying a feast of lobster Alfredo that would have cost a fortune in a restaurant.
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A gentle(?)man caller on a Saturday? I smell a love connection.
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Oh, my goodness, how very wrong you are, Josh.
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Does isolation come with spinster status?
Not apropos of Sarah, but let me say:
Spinster by choice = smart. I have no idea why women are attracted to men AT ALL. Men are so aesthetically inferior to women that it's amazing.
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Don't worry Sarah. I won't tell Bobo.
I have no idea why women are attracted to men AT ALL. Men are so aesthetically inferior to women that it's amazing.
Speaking to the choir there buffcoat:
[youtube=425,350]=WAwLYJYsa0A[/youtube]
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Well, men do age better than women. Unfair!
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I disagree, Laurie. I think it's just that standards of female beauty are more rigid and more geared toward youth. It's not that men age better; it's just more acceptable for them to look decrepit.
I also don't agree that "men are . . . aesthetically inferior to women." Apples and oranges.
P.S. The threatened visit did not transpire, for which I was very grateful. And the dogs have made up.
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(This thread comes in so handy for me.)
I just wanted to report that, although the thermometer says it's only 24 degrees outside, the sun is warm and it feels like spring. I have fired up the grill and made myself a rum and coke (a drink I don't particularly like, all the more so today since the only rum I have is 151 proof, so the drink tastes the way fuel oil smells, but what the hell). The sliding door is wide open so the beasts can enter and exit at will. The dishes are done. The show is on tonight.
In other words, at this moment, life isn't too bad.
That is all.
Note bene: I write this after only two sips of my drink; god knows how soppy I'll be by eight o'clock: be warned.
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Does that mean I should start early as well?
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So we know Sarah and Stan aren't the alcoholic who gave it up today.
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Sarah! Call drunk!
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(This thread comes in so handy for me.)
I just wanted to report that, although the thermometer says it's only 24 degrees outside, the sun is warm and it feels like spring. I have fired up the grill and made myself a rum and coke (a drink I don't particularly like, all the more so today since the only rum I have is 151 proof, so the drink tastes the way fuel oil smells, but what the hell). The sliding door is wide open so the beasts can enter and exit at will. The dishes are done. The show is on tonight.
In other words, at this moment, life isn't too bad.
That is all.
Note bene: I write this after only two sips of my drink; god knows how soppy I'll be by eight o'clock: be warned.
If there's anything left by 7:30, do a few shots and try to be the first caller tom puts on the air.
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(This thread comes in so handy for me.)
I just wanted to report that, although the thermometer says it's only 24 degrees outside, the sun is warm and it feels like spring. I have fired up the grill and made myself a rum and coke (a drink I don't particularly like, all the more so today since the only rum I have is 151 proof, so the drink tastes the way fuel oil smells, but what the hell). The sliding door is wide open so the beasts can enter and exit at will. The dishes are done. The show is on tonight.
In other words, at this moment, life isn't too bad.
That is all.
Note bene: I write this after only two sips of my drink; god knows how soppy I'll be by eight o'clock: be warned.
If there's anything left by 7:30, do a few shots and try to be the first caller tom puts on the air.
She'll never beat Spike. He's probably already on hold.
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If there's anything left by 7:30, do a few shots and try to be the first caller tom puts on the air.
Yeah, that's just my style (one drink and one meal later).
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If there's anything left by 7:30, do a few shots and try to be the first caller tom puts on the air.
Yeah, that's just my style (one drink and one meal later).
You should have at least tried!
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Never been much for drunk dialing, Julie. Mildly tipsy dialing, perhaps, and often not even then, as was the case last night.
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This thread reminds me of a happy resolution involving a horribly abused female pit bull that had layed down in an empty lot (soon to be the Campden Crossings area in Pigtown, just across the street from our rowhouse in Baltimore.) It was starting to snow and the dog just look resigned to die. But my wife wouldn't have it. She flagged down a cop and entered through a hole in a fence to fetch her. We brought her home -- much to Hanks chagrin -- and stashed her in the basemement. One phone call to our old land lady in Falls Church, VA was all it took to get her a new home at an abused pitbull farm somewhere in the Virginia countryside. Dog people are something else.