Dorothy Encounters Boot Camp

At seven months, Dorothy is still an early riser.  She seems to be a big believer in the early bird getting the worm, and rising and shining and all that.  So sometimes we are at the nearby park by 6:15 a.m., and despite what you non-morning people might think, we are not nearly the only ones there.  There's always a few dogs being walked, and people cutting through the park on their way to work.  There are usually old women speed-walking in chatty pairs, and the people who spend the night in the park are often up and doing their ablutions, for lack of a better word.

Dorothy is not phased by any of these folk and generally will not pay any of them any mind.  However, there is one group of early risers that intrigues her -- the boot campers.  Several times a week there is a group of people taking a boot camp exercise class in the park.  There are about twelve of them, and they follow the barked commands of their leader as he gets them to do various sprints and push ups and other exercises.

Dorothy will often stop and just stare at what they are doing.  A few days ago as we came to the entrance of the park, the boot campers were running around the outside of the park, and when they reached the entrance we use, they would lie down on their backs (on the sidewalk upon which Dorothy often piddles, might I add) and put their legs up at a 90-degree angle from the sidewalk, lower them to a hover about 6 inches off the sidewalk, and then bring them back up to the 90-degree position.  Dorothy just could not figure out what they were doing!  She stopped and stared.  She sort of half-crouched half-tip-toed closer to them.  She sat again.  She tilted her head.  She looked at me.  She looked back at the people on their backs.  It was quite funny!  She really wanted me to let her go up to some of the exercisers so she could start giving them her "are you okay?" smooches, but I thought it best not to interrupt them.

I had a hard time getting her moving again after that!    A few days later we came across an old man doing what I assume was tai chi.  He was moving very slowly and Dorothy thought that maybe he, too, needed her help.  He did not.  You never know what strange thing you might see in the park.

Dorothy is trying to understand boot camp, but she just doesn't get it:  

Have they not heard of the sidewalk sit?

Return to Sender

Alms, Alms For The Poor

Because it was a day that ends in a “y”, I had to bring one of my pets to the vet on Monday.  I made the appointment on Friday because the histiocytoma (gross red benign tumor) on Dorothy's leg was still bigger than a gumball yet smaller than a gobstopper, and she had started to give it the occasional gnaw, so it was scabby with blood and occasionally oozed lord knows what.

Going to the vet is not a problem for Dorothy.  Unlike my pug, Tulip, who disliked the vet so much she didn’t even like anyone with a “v” in their name, Dorothy loves the vet.  She loves everything about the experience, from the other animals in the waiting area, to the vet techs and office managers, to the vets themselves and the treats they will occasionally give her, to the strange 1-lb Chihuahua who wears a turtleneck and sits in a box under the front desk and sounds like a piccolo when she barks.  She loves it all so much that she even has a reputation there for being rather excitable or, to put it bluntly, a hyper spazzkin.  I get comments about her activity level, which is a bit odd, since in general the problems I have with Dorothy are more of the torpor-ific variety (see a few paragraphs below).

But anyway, once there, they confirmed that Dorothy’s tumor was indeed a histiocytoma, which should go away on its own accord, but doesn’t always do so.  I was given a eyedropper-type ointment to put on it twice a day, and I’m hoping that Dorothy’s tendency to worry the thing will cause the tumor to decide that Dorothy’s leg is not a hospitable place on which to live, and vamoose.  And I would like it to decide to do so before I have to pay an arm and a leg to have it removed from her pretty haunch.

We left with the ointment and a new carsickness medicine to try out on our Maine trip, and we got about half of the four SHORT blocks home when Dorothy decided she was done walking, and that all she wanted to do, thank you very much, was to flop on the hot pavement and roll over on to her side and see how much sympathy she could wheedle from the passers-by.  And how much sympathy would that be, you might ask?  Answer:  a lot.  She had walked two blocks and wasn’t even panting, but of course everyone who witnessed her “faint” on the pavement was convinced that I had been running her ragged in the 101-degree weather, just because I enjoy tormenting pretty little bulldogges.  People nicely asked if she needed water (she had just had a drink at the vet’s two short blocks away), and then would politely and not-so-politely tell me she was tired and it was hot and I needed to be careful, etc. etc.  Sigh.  Meanwhile Dorothy was wanly receiving belly rubs from the advice-givers, while peeking out of the corner of her eye that wasn’t pressed against the pavement to enjoy the concerned looks on people’s faces.

Tired of the hullabaloo, and you know, having to get back to my JOB so I can earn enough money to keep Dorothy in kibble, I scooped up all thirty pounds of Dorothy and commenced walking the two remaining blocks home.  Dorothy’s head bobbed a bit on my shoulder, as she continued her Oscar-worthy act by locking glances with the still-concerned strangers walking behind us.

And what did Dorothy do when we got back inside the air-conditioned apartment?  She proceeded to zoom and literally bounce off the walls and chase cats for a good ten minutes.  So much for being out of energy.

Dorothy, thinking that you shouldn't believe everything you read on a blog:

Cooked In The City

On Friday it was 104 degrees in Philadelphia, and at 9:00 pm my electricity went out.  I fully admit:  I did not handle this experience suavely.  First, I panicked because I thought I had one match and one stumpy candle.  I did have one stumpy candle (and no flashlight!), but it turned out I had another box of matches stashed in my cabinet.  Even with said stumpy candle lit, however, it was Very Dark in my apartment -- so dark, that Dorothy slunk into the bedroom and nestled down on the bed between the pillows, all heebie-jeebied out.  The cats, on the other hand, took the opportunity to show off their superior night vision by running hither and yon and acting like they couldn’t understand what my and Dorothy’s fuss was about.

At 9:20 I took Dorothy outside and saw that the electricity outage was a result of an underground fire on my block.  The block was closed off, and firemen were dropping one-by-one down the manhole at the end of the street, all suited up and yelling commands.  The message on the PECO call-in line informed me that my electricity would be back by 11:00 pm, but after seeing the firemen, I had my doubts; and soon they changed the message to say that a 7:00 am return was more likely, so at 9:45 I went to bed.  Since it was 97 degrees outside still, I couldn’t open windows to cool things down, and I expected a long hot night ahead.

Now, I fully know that there are worst things in this world than having no electricity, even than having no electricity surrounded by pavement on a 104-degree night and day.  But for some reason, an electricity outage tends to be the mallet to the gong of my neuroses—after a few “hits” I am bellowing like an idiot.  And calling PECO every ten minutes to get a new update.  I’ll ruin the ending of this story by revealing now that the electricity came back on at 1:35 pm the next day.  And if, at 9:00 pm on Friday, someone would have informed me that I’d be losing my electricity for about 16 hours on the hottest day of the year, I would have grumbled but would have been fine with it.  It is the Not Knowing that drives me insane.  And specifically it is the Not Knowing What To Do In Regard To The Pets that is the worst, which is why I am writing about the outage in this particular blog.

My boyfriend generously offered to pick me and the pets up on Saturday and drive us to his air-conditioned abode.  And had the electricity appeared to be on the brink for 2-5 days (which happened my first April in Philadelphia, a 5-day electricity outage!) I would have gladly taken him up on his offer.  But the proposed favor would have entailed driving 25 minutes with one vomiting bulldogge, one motion-sickness-induced drooling cat, and one motion-sickness-induced vomiting and pooping cat.  Not to mention all the accompanying paraphernalia like litter boxes and kibble and baggies, etc.  So you can understand why I didn’t want to make the trip unless the trip was very necessary.  And I couldn’t tell if it was going to be necessary or not, because when I woke up on Saturday and there was indeed no electricity still by 7:00 am, the PECO message changed to a vague promise of how they were busy “estimating” the return time of the electricity, my only comfort being that there were 880 households effected, an amount that seemed to me to guarantee that they would at least be taking the outage seriously.

By noon, the estimate had solidified to 4:00 pm, and at 1:35 I walked into the living room to get something and was startled to notice that all my lights were blazing and my central air was a-churning.  Hallelu!

Things aren’t completely back to normal yet.  There’s been a mack-truck-sized generator parked at the end of my block to which I think all the nearby households are hooked up.  And I had a message on my voicemail today from friendly PECO telling me that my electricity would be down from 12:00 – 3:00.  [Update: it is now to be off from 7 to 10 pm, grrr.]  But I have since learned from my boss the cat expert that cats are actually very good at regulating their body temperatures, especially when it comes to heat.  They have more problems in the cold.  And by the end of my “roughing it”, when my apartment was 81 degrees (not too bad) but 78% humidity (isn’t that a rain forest?), my cats were both acting cool as cucumbers.  Plum was curled up in Posy’s tiny cat carrier, and Posy was curled up on my down comforter on the bed.  Dorothy, who did seem to change her sleeping habits a bit during the outage, by lying stretched out instead of in a wee bulldogge circlet, was not too bothered by it all, as you can attest by the following photos.  At one point Dorothy noticed Posy on the coverlet and decided to join her in a hot furry cuddle:

Dorothy and Posy lying butt-a-butt:

And it wasn't until after the electricity and air conditioning was back on that Plum positioned himself like this:

The Wall of Meaty Paradise

Perhaps it was an error in judgment on my part to bring Dorothy with me to the corner store on Sunday, which happens to be a dog boutique.  For when we entered and Dorothy walked over to the nearest wall, which was filled with bully sticks and rawhide and meaty bones in all different shapes and sizes -- well, she felt herself to be in paradise.

I quickly found the box of mini buddy biscuits I had gone into the store to buy, while Dorothy wiggled with glee and did little taste tests of the various bones on that wall.  She sniffed at some of the large bags of dogfood, and I successfully kept her away from the side of the store that was filled with plush toys and balls.  I paid for the buddy biscuits, Dorothy got admiration and a treat from the cashier, and then I tried to leave.

"Tried" being the operative word in that sentence.  We did leave the store, but when we got outside and Dorothy realized that I was actually planning on taking her away from the Wall of Meaty Paradise, when we so clearly could just move in and set up camp there, well she was having none of it.  And even though I had a bag of fine treats in my hand (duck and potato roll!) all ready to pop into her gaping mouth, she still put on all four footbreaks, and then bucked and pulled her head when I gave her an encouraging tug with the leash.  I did not pick her up and carry her the half-block home, but I probably should have done, since it was not a fun journey DRAGGING the stubborn bulldogge eight doors down from paradise.

Once inside my apartment, Dorothy turned around and lay down with her nose facing the door and Did Not Budge for 35 minutes.  We have been out a few times since, and each time she darted left, trying to make a bee-line for the shop.  Why in the world did I think she could enter and exit the store like all the other dogs that do so daily?  I have only myself to blame.

Dorothy, not understanding why there is no Meaty Wall of Paradise in our home:

Urban Pastoral

I offer you a bulldogge in a windowsill:

Bed Zoomies!

Dorothy enjoys herself a bed zoomie.  It is nothing I taught her to do:  she arrived in my life with the inclination to zoom on a bed, and there didn't seem to be much I could do to stop it or to start it.  When Dorothy's feet hit a human bed, she is like a wind-up toy that has been wound to the limit:  once on the bed, she goes absolutely crazy!  She starts zooming back and forth like a wild thing:  she jumps, she scoots, she slithers, she does the occasional drive-by exuberant bite.  Reader, she zooms.

I had described the bed zoomie to friends and relatives at various times, but until you actually witness it happening, I don't think you can quite comprehend its intensity.  When my sister and her girls arrived and we began to set up the air mattress, I warned all three of the impending bed zoomie that would probably ensue.  I couldn't make any promises, mind you, since every once in a while Dorothy just isn't feeling the zoom.  But she did not disappoint!  The air mattress, as it turns out, is perfect for a zoomie.  And Dorothy even incorporated the couch into her zoom, plus she zoomed into my bedroom to zoom a bit on the bed in there before returning to the mattress.  I now have three witnesses who can concur that the zoomie, it exists, and the zoomie, it rules.

Here are some pictures of the zoomie, which don't quite do it justice.

Avery's stance here is the perfect reaction to a zoomie--she smartly averts her face to save her eyes:

The zoomie-er in pounce mode:

Creating a false sense of security--is the zoomie over?

Resting mid-zoomie -- don't get too close!:

The zoomie kissing attack!

Bulldogge By-Laws: Section WWTD?

Once again, there is strife in my home surrounding the Bulldogge By-Laws.  I keep requesting that before chewing on an item inside (or outside) the apartment, Dorothy first refer to Section WWTD, and follow the instructions there by asking herself "What Would Tulip Do?" before chewing.

Tulip would not chew shoes, for example.  Or threads hanging from couches.  Or the drawstrings on sleeping bags.  Tulip would not steal panties from the hamper, nor chew on the underwires of brassieres.  Dropped foodstuffs are fair game, of course, including kibble that falls out of the mouths of cats.  Hairballs are contentious:  see under the section entitled "Disgusting Habits."  Chew toys are ideal!

In response, Dorothy has demanded that the "T-word" be stricken from the by-laws.  After all, she claims, a pug is not a Bulldogge, so a pug's do's and don'ts are irrelevant to said bulldogge's conduct and chewing habits.

We are at a bit of an impasse.

Dorothy queries:  does this look like a pug to you?

The oft-mentioned dead big sister:

A Teaparty With Dorothy

As mentioned previously, Dorothy's spaying went well.  She never once bothered her stitches, and she was pretty much back to normal by the next afternoon.  The only glitch was that she got a urinary tract infection, and had to take a week's worth of antibiotics, which seemed to work.

However, after being off the antibiotics for about five days, the UTI returned, so Dorothy was given two weeks worth of antibiotics this time to really flush the infection out.  A few days into this second round of antibiotics, the vet called and requested that I bring in a sample of Dorothy's urine so that they could do a urinalysis and be sure.  This turned out to be easier said than done.  To be blunt, Dorothy is a low squatter when she urinates; there is only about a half inch between Dorothy and the ground, so when I tried to sneak a wee tupperware under her golden shower, so to speak, she would immediately jump up and give me a look that screamed BAD TOUCH!!  And:  ARE YOU INSANE?!!

I was only able to get a teaspoonful, and when I checked with the vet tech to see if this would do, she said that it would not, and I should perhaps try a little plate.

So the next day I rummaged around and found a china saucer that was hand-glazed by my great uncle Willard's mother.  I apologized in my head to this woman for what I was about to do to her pretty light-blue iridescent saucer.  We went outside, and while Sean distracted Dorothy by standing in front of her, I was having a little tea-party down by Dorothy's nethers.  I slipped the saucer in the 1/2-inch space, collected quite a specimen before Dorothy was on to me, transferred the saucer contents into the wee tupperware, and then did a little Urrgh dance with a side-step of Gross!  Don't worry, Martha!  I made sure to wash my hands after this particular outing.

The sample was dropped off and tested and proclaimed unspectacular.  Dorothy had her last day of antibiotics on Sunday, so I am very much hoping that the UTI (or whatever it is) does not rear its ugly head.

I've been giving Dorothy probiotics and yogurt to counter some of the negative effects of the antibiotics. And now that the antibiotics are through, I've started giving her an herbal concoction recommended by Dorothy's breeder, called Harmonize Bladder.  I will be very pleased if Dorothy's bladder is harmonized, and might even add a little harmony myself in the form of a jaunty celebratory tune.

Dorothy's other health issue is that she has developed a nasty looking growth on her leg, which by all accounts seems to be a histiocytoma.  These nasty things are common in certain types of dogs (especially boxers and bulldogs) and appear when the dog is under two years of age.  They are supposed to disappear on their own accord; I just have to make sure Dorothy doesn't bother it.  It's about the size of a nickel and protrudes a lot:  it's nasty and I'm ready for it to Be Gone!

Dorothy would like her histio-whatever to disappear before it is the size of this tennis ball:

Dorothy and Josie Beagle

There are some dogs that Dorothy just immediately adores, and Josie the beagle is one of these dogs.  If Dorothy sees Josie walking down the street, she immediately will begin doing a greeting wiggle while continuing to walk, which makes her look like she was cut in half and then sewn loosely back together again.  When they are nose to nose, they will begin wrestling right where they were when they stopped wrestling the day before, as if only a few minutes had gone by since their last body slam.  It almost seems like they are saying, okay, you had me in a headlock, thusly, while I was chewing on your left ear and kicking you with my right foot.  There we go, yes that's right.  Begin!

Josie is 1 1/2 years old and a little shorter and thinner than Dorothy, but maneuverability and strength-wise, they are a good match right now.  In fact, for some reason Josie seems to do more "bully" moves than Dorothy.  Both dogs don't like strange car noises, so when they were in the midst of play at the park yesterday and a car sped past, both dogs jumped apart and stared at the offended vehicle, until deciding it was safe to resume their game.

Dorothy will also often play with a cairn terrier/chihuahua mix named Izzy.  However, Dorothy and Izzy will play 80% of the times they meet; the remaining 20% for some reason unbeknownst to Izzy's mom or me, they will turn their heads away and refuse to even greet the other, let alone begin a game.

Dorothy has an English bulldog friend named Max who is two months her senior, and Dorothy has just reached a size where she is able to engage Max and not be trampled by him.  In contrast, there's a Harlequin Great Dane puppy named Xena who is Dorothy's exact age, and Dorothy and Xena used to play often in March and April.  But now Xena is so much bigger than Dorothy, that she lies down to play so as not to be towering above her.  Xena's paws are also about the size of dinner plates now, and Dorothy doesn't particularly like being whopped by one.

On the flip side, Dorothy is very interested in two Olde English Bulldogge males who are about two years old and quite handsome, but these fellows don't play nicely with others, so their owner keeps them on short leashes.  The more stand-offish they are, the more Dorothy is intrigued and would like to go over to them.  She doesn't seem to be able to comprehend that some dogs might not be interested in meeting her, especially since she is so cute.  And so meet-able!

Dorothy, wondering why the Bulldogges don't like her:

Posy and her Auntie Meredith

In years past, Posy has been rather indifferent about the whole concept of a house guest. She is okay if said guest is an adult, but if there are children in the mix, her idea of being a fine hostess is to spend most of her time lurking as a den beast under the bed, or running pellmell towards the direction of the bed in order to escape.

Lately, however, Posy has been a bit more open to the idea of Other People In Her Home.  She has realized that some such people will give her nose a scritch--and there is something to be said for that.  So instead of running under the bed when Meredith and the girls arrived the other day, she decided to give them a fine welcome.  Here is the greeting she decided upon:

Yep.  Posy decided that she would greet her southern aunt and cousins by remaining ensconced in the bathroom sink, thank you very much.  Her master plan worked; her aunt and cousins came to her, and her little coral nose was given many a scritch.

Eventually, however, she decided to be more friendly.  Here she is having just taught her Aunt Meredith how to scratch her on the head just so:

And the scratch completed, she decided to join Meredith in reading a junky People magazine, in case Meredith needed any help deciphering the words or pictures.

How thoughtful, Posy!

Dorothy Meets Lily and Avery

My sister, Meredith, and her two girls, Lily and Avery, came for a visit on their way up to Maine last weekend.  This was Dorothy's first experience with house guests, and it was one she would very much like to repeat!  Dorothy is a big fan of CONSTANT EVENING ENTERTAINMENT, and she also likes new people and new experiences.  Add to this the fact that she adores all children, and you can imagine that she was very pleased with the visit.

Dorothy first surprised me by walking at a fast clip several blocks down to the parking garage to meet her cousins.  [Her new thing these days is to walk beautifully on our 8:00 pm-ish walk, and I almost hesitate to mention it as I don't want to jinx anything.]  We then walked them back to our apartment, and Dorothy only sat down once!

Here she is giving her cousins a thorough inside greeting.  She hadn't known when we met them on the street that they were going to follow us home, so she was pleasantly surprised.

Since Dorothy was a bit too interested in the content of all the suitcases, they were stored behind a closed door in the study.  Sometimes, however, the door was open and a bulldogge had to slip in to see what was what.  Here is one of those times.  Dorothy was very keen on Avery's new Toms shoes, but Avery was just as keen at keeping the Toms away from Dorothy.  Good move, Avery.  Here Dorothy is helping Avery unpack:

And here is Dorothy, very pleased with the air mattress in the living room.  She thought it was a fine place to spend an evening with the girls!

Dorothy also enjoyed having the girls introduce her to their favorite TV shows.  Here she is, hanging with her homies:

Wot?

And here is Dorothy trading secrets with Lily on the cat-scratching chair:

And posing with Avery back in the living room on the couch.  Don't they both look lovely?! Can't you see the family resemblance?

Dorothy is already looking forward to their next visit!

It's Not Easy Being Green

In case you are wondering, Dorothy would like you all to know that she leads a very difficult life.  While people get to do their business in pristine air-conditioned bathrooms, perched on porcelain, and perhaps with good reading material at hand, Dorothy is forced to pound the hot pavement in search of a good spot.  Such a search and such a pounding involves moving her Very Own Legs, and sullying her Very Own Pink Paw Pads. 

This is unacceptable.  But since I yell and scold if she should do her biz-ness inside, causing her to run to Mr. Snacks for comfort and tuck her head under his arm, outside she must go!  Frequently.

What is even more horrible, apparently, oh woe is Dorothy!, is that after she walks a half-block and finds a good spot and performs adequately, she then – get this – is expected to walk back home!  Are you not outraged?!  Dorothy certainly is.

So now when she walks the half-block home with perhaps a break to sit, and then a break to be praised by passers-by, and then a break to kiss passers-by, and then a break to roll over on her back for a small child, and then a break to wrassle with a passing dog, and then a break to be startled by the sound of a car wheel crushing garbage, and then a break to protest and lie down flat on her belly on the sidewalk…well then, as you can imagine, a girl like Dorothy is plumb-tuckered out.

She will manage to walk in the first door, and walk up the six or seven steps to sit on the top step for a treat while I unlock the inside door.  But after such an excursion that I have just put her through, do you think she can walk up the hall to our apartment? 

The answer is no.  She most certainly cannot.  A bulldogge is simply too tired for hall-walking.  And so Dorothy is now in the habit of collapsing in exhaustion after we get inside our building.  She flops down on the carpet and will even roll over on her side in the middle of the hall and lie there all dehydrated damsel-like.

Yesterday, I left her lying there, and went into my apartment and got my camera and returned to my battered bulldogge.  My going into the apartment and letting the door close behind me caused her to roll over from her side to her belly, but she still was not going to get up on her own four legs on her own accord.  So here is Dorothy, oh so exhausted:

Will not someone invest in a red wagon?

How about a palanquin like Queen Victoria used to travel in?

A rickshaw mayhap?

All together now:  oh poor Dorothy!!

Meta Posy

Posy is rethinking her previously negative stance on this whole interweb business.

The Early Bird Gets The Worm

Dorothy is still pretty much an early riser.  Although every once in a while she will sleep in till 7 -- and once she even slept until 8:00! -- in general 6:00 - 6:15 is her favorite time to wake up and get the show on the road.  The show being me.  Her preferred method of waking me up is to either start licking my face and ears with her hot tongue, or perform a body slam on my face.  Neither is a very gentle awakening.

The first month I had to rush her out the door the minute she awoke like she was a bomb about to explode.  Nowadays, we still go out first thing, but it is not quite a matter of life or death.  As you know, Dorothy is not a walker, so some mornings we don't make it all the way to the park.  She'll do her business and then want to return home for a tasty breakfast.  If we do go all the way to the park, though, this is our view upon entering it:

It's a lovely city park on the whole, although I do have to make sure Dorothy doesn't run over and leap on to the few people who are sleeping in it.

Here is Dorothy looking about, seeing what dogs are out already, or what doormen might be willing to ooh and ahh over her.  She is also deciding what corner of a building she should choose on which to read her morning's p-mail:

And then we walk the 1.5 blocks home.  If I'm lucky, she walks the whole way with or without coaxing.  If I'm not lucky, she will go on strike and sit down and not budge.  Here she is, having made it home, waiting for a piece of kibble on our doorstep:

Good girl, Dorothy!

The Southern Cousins Are Coming

But hopefully not via Segway!

Dorothy will soon get to meet her two cousins from the South!  They don't know it yet, but she fully plans to join them on the blow-up air mattress while they are here.  Sleepover!!! She is also busy trying to decide whose pillow she will share, Lily's or Avery's?  Luckily, they will be staying for two nights, so there will be time to rest her large snoring bulldogge head on each cousin's pillow!  Lucky cousins!  Little do they know that while in Philadelphia, the first sight that will greet their eyes when they open them in the morning is this:

Although Dorothy's repose in that picture is really a bit misleading.  Before they see that sight, they will feel a hot tongue cleaning their ears, and a gangly bulldogge body draped across their necks.  And when they see that face, it will more likely than not be coming toward them at a speed of about 60 mph.  Oh what fun!

Said The Spider To The Fly....

I have started to be able to do a bit of knitting every now and then, since Dorothy has become quite fond of her morning naps.  The other day I got Dorothy settled in her bed on my bed all princess and the pea-like, and sat down to do some knitting while listening to NPR.  All was going well until I felt a menacing presence from above and to the right.  I looked up, and:  duh, duh duhhhhhhhh!:

Evil has arrived:

Posy is drawn to yarn like a moth to a flame.  This is problematic, since it isn't enough that she play with the yarn, or pounce on it or bat it with a paw:  no, she must needs eat the yarn.  She's like a zombie going after brains.  Is that yarn you have?  Then Get. It. In. Mah. Belleh!!

When I knit, therefore, I always have to keep an eye on where she is in relation to my knitting. She is not above doing an innocent act either, and I am not below falling for it. She will come up to me all purring and sweet looking, perhaps sticking out the tip of her tiny pink tongue for cute emphasis.  She will climb into my lap, very much Lucy with the football:  I will not touch your knitting this time; I'm just going to sit here and purr on your lap and gaze at you in admiration.  So then I am all knit, knit, knit; and she is all purr, purr, purr.  Until:  ATTACK!  She can stand it no longer!  She must attack and kill that impudent sweater sleeve and the yarn snake that is attached to it!!  Arrrgghhhh!

So when I am knitting, and Posy suddenly de-lurks, thusly,

I know it is going to end in tears...or at the very least, one heck of a tangle.

Good Fences Make Good Neighbors

When I thought that Dorothy might have to spend a few days in her crate wearing the cone of shame, I took the partition out of her crate to make it larger.  As it turns out, however, Dorothy was not even remotely interested in her stitches or her surgery site, so she ended up only wearing the cone of shame for one night.

I have yet to put Dorothy's crate partition back in.  For one thing, she has had a growth spurt lately, so when she stretches out, she really does take up the whole crate.  But I've also discovered that with the partition out, I can put her favorite bed in the back of the crate, with her quilt from her Aunt Elsie and a few toys in the front of the crate--we call that area her "front porch."  So she now has a nice cuddly bed in there for snuggling in, and then a nice front porch area for storage and for stretching out in (if it turns out it's for piddling in, I'm putting the partition back in stat....)

But now that the crate is all nice and roomy, complete with handmade quilt, Sir Plum has decided that it is a worthy place for him to spend an evening, and indeed a whole night.

Plum, looking a wee bit sheepish:

Despite harboring some initial reservations about the spot, after spending a few nights there, Plum decided that he Liked It Very Much Indeed.  So one evening when I returned from running errands and opened Dorothy's crate to let her out, Dorothy made the critical error of not exiting from her crate immediately.  For while she was still dawdling in her bed, Plum decided to settle down into his spot on the crate's front porch.  Which brings us to:

I call this picture, Guess Who's Stuck?

Plum's eyes are closed, and he's all comfy on the quilt.  How peaceful, you might think!  How sweet!  But Dorothy soon decided that she would prefer to snooze on the couch.  Instead of just standing up and leaping out the door of the crate, though, she let her nerves get the best of her and sat hemming and hawing in the bed, giving Plum time to stretch out his paw and hold it all ready, talons primed for some slapping.  Dorothy moved forward an inch, Plum air slapped in front of her nose!  Dorothy began to move--oh! air slap!  Dorothy sat back down.  She stood up--air slap, air slap, hair away from snout slap! Dorothy sat back down.

Finally I came to her rescue and pulled her out while blocking Plum's punches.  I'm not sure what the moral of this story is, although I feel it has one somewhere.  Don't let Purple Sirs nap on your front porch?  When your mother opens the door of your crate, exit the crate immediately and give her a proper greeting?  Invest in a bulldogge-size suit of armor?  Hmmm, I think the second one has a nice ring to it.