Another Maddie story

Two days ago, I was wearing brown and wanted to wear a particular pair of brown shoes. I found one shoe and spent a good half hour clomping around the house in one shoe and one slipper as I fruitlessly searched for the mate.

As I was searching, I pondered one of life's mysteries: how in the heck can a woman, living alone in a 1700 square foot house MISPLACE A SHOE? I ended up vacuuming as I searched, thinking that doing a chore might hasten the finding, to no avail. The second shoe was nowhere.


Eventually I wore other lesser shoes and went about my day thinking the shoe was with the missing sock someplace in the 5th dimension.

Well, I found my shoe this evening.

Maddie had absconded with my shoe! At least now I know she's a shoe sneak, and it's a way better habit than the one my very first pug had. Beijing stole underpants and stockpiled them under the bed where he would chew on them at his leisure. Ah, pugs.

Good thing I decided to muck out the pug stalls! The shoe seems unharmed (as in "not chewed on"). Of course you should see the dollar bill she managed to get her little velvety muzzle on. I'm pretty sure I can take all the pieces to the bank and get a new one, but do I really want to explain?

The Regularly Scheduled Post has been Preempted

I was going to post a tale about Wee Erwin, however it was preempted by this creature at left:

This is Madeline. Maddie for short, Mad Max more commonly. She's a puppy mill survivor/foster pug, and in this photo she's foaming at the mouth for the simple reason that she scrounged up Erwin's pill after he spat it out. It didn't taste so good, and me being evil and all, I had to photograph her.

Maddie is making up for her lost puppyhood by putting everything in her mouth. If someone adopts her from me, I promise to write their kids notes when she eats their homework, because I wouldn't put it past her.

In fact, Mad Max is Chester's protege. Those of you that know Chester from my previous posts are probably groaning. Yeah. Me too, which leads to today's tale.

Chester has been a proper brat of late, showing Erwin just how to marke the kitchen trash can. Chester, being a good 7 pounds bigger than Erwin, also has a bigger bladder, and I am considering buying a stock in Scott Towels, except that their stock will tank the day Chester dies, due to the lost demand for their product.

I'm tired of the smell of bleach, so today Chester and Erwin got to wear belly bands. For those of you that have well-behaved dogs, or no dogs at all, a belly band holds a sanitary napkin and fits around a boy dog's unmentionables like a little doggie diaper. Chester cringed when I put it on him this morning and ran upstairs to look up something on the computer (or check my friends' status on Facebook).

I left Chester, Erwin and Maddie penned in the kitchen and returned to find that Maddie had freed her bossman from his discomfort and engaged in a little paper shredding as well. "What? Me? No way did I do dat."

I really, really need to find a home for her. Soon.

In other news, I played pickup soccer at The Kroc Community Center last night. It was mostly young guys -- high school and up, but I was not the oldest person there. I was the oldest woman, but there were only 4-5 women total. I thought I'd be sore the next day from all the running, but apparently the strength training took care of that. Instead, I am completely wiped out and exhausted. And the dry air around here gave me a raging case of exercise-induced asthma. Yes, there really is such a thing. Ugh, double ugh. Even so, I did get asked to play on a league team, not because of my athletic prowess (heck, I have vertigo!), but because I'm a warm female body who is likely to show up at games. Roger that! LOL! I am so hoping I acclimate and don't end up with another coughing fit.

I did talk to one of the 19 year old kid at the desk and we were chatting about the Wii. Apparently I totally rock in snowball fight, because his best score is 6 less than mine. Score one for the old lady with purple hair!

Dating advice for middle aged men.

First off, this isn't a pug story, but there is a pug bit at the end. This is, however, a true story and don't feel bad about laughing because in truth, after my ego shook off being "dumped" in record time, I laughed really hard. After having a male houseguest who had romantic intentions towards me (HEY NOW! I have a guest room, and my bedroom door has a lock!), I am doing this as a public service for you fellows out there.

Guys, if you are in your 40's and you plan to be dating, here are some things NOT TO DO, especially if you are interested in a strong woman. You can take my advice or leave it, but if you leave it, that woman and everyone she knows will think you are a complete, clueless dumbshit, and no one wants that: in your 40's you do not want to be burning these bridges; you need all the friends of the opposite sex you can get. (That last bit goes for everyone, really)

First of all, realize that strong women have their own lives and you should appreciate that they are making time for you because generally their lives are pretty full. By consenting to have you visit or date you, it doesn't mean they want to immediately marry you and have your children. Chill out!

1. Be aware that by age 40 if you've only lived with one woman for 4 years and your longest committed relationship is with your 10-year-old male Boston Terrier, you have raised a HUGE red flag. In this case, really pay attention to #2, #3 and #4.

2. Do not, under any circumstances, send the woman naked pictures of yourself! Control yourself! Especially if you are flexing in the picture, because you will always have to flex when you are around her. Besides, women know anyways. When a desire to send pix strikes you, take a cold shower instead unless you want that picture to be passed around and critiqued and laughed at by at least 30 people.

2a. If you have friended her via Facebook or other social networking, at least look through her posted pictures and her profile. If she has a blog, that picture you couldn't help sending may end up there.

3. When you actually get to the date, don't talk incessantly about yourself. You should at least know at the end that her dog's name is Chester and her motorcycle is a red Suzuki.

4. Don't talk about all your ex-girlfriends, and KEEP IT TO YOURSELF that at age 47, the youngest you will date is a 34 year old.

5. Don't tell stories about how when you were drunk and partying you did... whatever. That's all fine for back when you were a 20-something, but it's really unattractive at your age. Really... Unattractive.

6. If, because of your fear of commitment (which she already knows you have), you "kick her to the curb" within 24 hours, be MAN ENOUGH to look her in the eye while doing so. And when she says, "Could you at least look me in the eye, please" don't get all snippy. Even dumping by saying, "It's not you, it's me" while being completely transparent, is a little better because you are at least showing a little regard for another human being's ego.

6a. Believe me, if you have a list of what's "wrong" with her that you feel will help her "grow" as a person, she has a list of your flaws that's twice as long, and she's being really kind for not telling you, which means she is on a way higher level of personal growth than you ever will be. Just keep it to yourself, a little self control never hurt anyone. The self control thing should be your mantra.

7. When leaving after kicking her to the curb, DO NOT NOT NOT ask for a hug, and do not ask if you can call her sometime. That just screams "I am a clueless dumbshit!" See the part about self control and your new mantra.

8. Do not deliberately leave her a "gift" of one of your old, cologne-soaked t-shirts, unless there is a note attached that says, "I know you love gardening, and this is a great deer repellant."

8a. When she texts you with "Hey, you left one of your t-shirts behind, how can I get it back to you?" understand that she REALLY thinks you are a complete moron and is having a little fun trying to see just how stupid you actually are.

Trust me, the shirt was put out in the alley trash can as soon as she found it (um, in my case after photographing it). Do not confirm your stupidity with the following text-message reply: "That is for you."

For you pug fans, I did just think of something that I know will make you say, "I love that little Erwin, despite his yappy piddly neuroses!" During this guy's visit, I was upstairs getting out some guest towels when a pug fight broke out between Bugsy and Erwin. I came charging back down the stairs to find that the guy stuck his hand between two fighting dogs, yet another sign of moronism, and Erwin nailed him. YAY WEE!

Year 22

Yes, 22 years of pug photos with Santa. Each year has been different, and fun in its own way (sometimes it was only fun years later). This year, Bugs stood and wagged and wagged his tail, while Chester was fascinated by Santa's beard. Erwin didn't have a clue, and was looking around the mall to see if there was someplace good to pee. Santa declared the pugs better than 99% of the kids he gets. Chester is looking like a majestic walrus there in front, and Erwin just looks SO serious.

Afterwards, the pugs had to be dragged off Santa's lap. I think they were in velour heaven, the little dudes, and Wee was snug as a pug in a rug there in Santa's armpit. As we walked back down the hall, a squeal came from Radio Shack, and it was the manager who insisted I bring them in. Bugsy got to chew on her fingers. Then, on the way home, we had a minor miracle: they all sat nicely in the back seat of the car. It was truly weird -- I think a first.

Holy smokes, it's been a while!

I have been remiss. Largely because I like to post pictures, and my camera broke (I dropped it, bummer).

But this is too good to pass up! It's a Chester story. Sort of.

First of all, I have to explain I took in a foster girl who came from a local puppy mill. The "breeder" lives in a trailer and meets puppy buyers at her mother's nicer home, so no one is the wiser. This girl is a year old and was the product of an accidental breeding (although this "breeder" produces so many $800 puppies with congenital liver shunts, you'd think all her breedings were accidental, but I digress). Anyhow, Madeline is a 24 pound girl whose owners could no longer cope with her because she is afraid of everything.

The pug pack here has transformed her, and she is less afraid, but still afraid of people and of being picked up. So of course I pick her up ALL THE TIME. She has become quite dominant, and she picks on Erwin just like Sasha did. Poor little Napoleon.

So day Monday I put all the pugs in the kitchen and went off to do errands. When I came home, the baby gate was on the floor and Erwin was nowhere. When I found him (on the sofa), he had a "There's Something About Mary" hairdo. In the canine world, this means someone had been doing his hair with spit, and when I looked, sure enough, he had bite marks on his ear. Maddie had gone after him. Poor Erwin's ear was just oozing and he had a bump not unlike cauliflower ear. I cleaned him up and instilled some ear meds, but his ear was just oozing goo.

The next morning I called my vet. I love them -- they got me in right away, and sure enough, Erwin's ear is cut and infected. They had to shave part of his hair so his ear can dry out, so he has meds. On the way home, I managed to run over a small bit of road debris which made a heck of a thump, and when I got into town, I noticed that people outside would look at my car as I drove by. Not a good sign. Not at all. Especially since I had to be at work.

I pull up to the house and realize that sure enough, my back tire is getting flat, really fast. So I grab Wee, yelling "Come on! Hurry! I'm losing air!" Of course the more I panic, the more like a brick he becomes, but he's only 16 pounds of hilarity, so that was one brick I picked up and RAN into the house. Luckily, I had already put Maddie in the crate, so I left Erwin and Bugsy in the kitchen and started hollering for Chester.

Chester did not respond. I couldn't find him and time was a-wastin'. So I made the executive decision to drive on a flat the 5 miles to Les Schwab -- it was faster than putting the spare on. The entire way, I wondered where the heck Chester was, and resigned myself to probably using a whole roll of paper towels, a bottle of Tilex, doing laundry and vacuuming when I got home in the evening. That's usually how it is when Chester is loose.

Lucky for me, Les Schwab is a block from my shop, and I wasn't late. It took them about an hour to put on a new tire (the old tire wasn't fixable. When I do something, I do it all the way). A friend dropped in and offered to watch the store while I went and got my car. After she left, I felt really alone because Bugsy wasn't there, so I put the "back in a minute" sign on and drove home to get him. Bugsy was waiting and I'm sure if he'd had opposable thumbs, he would have been ready at the door.

I called Chester, but no joy -- I had this idea I could hear snoring coming from upstairs, but I was afraid to look, so Bugsy and I headed to work.

When I got home, I had to holler for Chester again and sure enough, he had been upstairs. Alone. In my office. All day. Oh, the humanity. I didn't go look. In fact, I didn't go look until the next morning, afraid of the Hurricane Katrina like destruction.

But there was no destruction. None at all. Not even a pee spot. Nothing. The wastebasket wasn't even tipped over! This is completely remarkable, and worth a blog post. Of course, do I entertain the thought that perhaps Chester is growing up now that he's 8 years old? NOT EVEN! But it is a momentous occasion, and I marked the calendar.