Rose's Cantina

Scott chose Finnigan from a dysfunctional litter. His mother was a Bernese Mountain Dog, purebred. His father came from unknown lineage. Papa was a rolling stone. He rolled into Finn's mother's yard, did the deed and escaped without offering any child support. Finn may look and smell like a Labrador Retriever, but undoubtedly, there is something else in there. The vet thought Daddy might have been a Great Dane. Still, his offspring masquerades as a Black Lab. And he's good at it. It's always hard to pick from a litter. I mean, all puppies are cute, right? Finn made a good impression. He nuzzled Scott's hand and licked him all over. Clearly, he was far superior to his brother who spent our visit chewing wires on the tractor. Finn, on the other hand, seemed sweet and loving. That was until he got in the car and promptly puked all over Marissa. Since adopting him four and a half years ago, we have had many names for him. Idiot. Asshole. F!@kh...

For two years, Scott has been telling me that Finnigan, our Black Lab, would settle down...eventually. At that point, all of my dreams would come true. There would be no more menacing guests and crawling all over them, no more punching me in the face or ripping me a new butt hole when I turned my back on him. No more of that high peeled, incessant barking when he wanted out, or simply demanded attention. No more dropping saliva-coated twigs on my leg while he shook nervously. Sometimes, Finn has been hard to love, especially during the times he's put me in real danger, like that time at the dog park when he nearly knocked out my front teeth when he hit me in the face whilst running full boar. I had two black labs before Finn. Mandy died after eating an entire bowl of oatmeal chocolate chip muffins the babysitter had left out. Maggie was given to my friend Derik after many failed attempts at training and one scary event in the dog park when she pinned me on the grass with ...

The Red Ball is a hit at our house. Thank you, Kong. Thank you so much. I've been trying to curb Finnigan's bad behavior. The barking. The menacing. The jumping. Nothing worked. Nothing. Until the Red Ball. Finnigan is now obsessed. He sits at the bottom of the stairs waiting for it. He lays on the ground rolling it over in his gob. He won't even bark anymore lest he lose control of the Red Ball. Instead of a high pitched woof, his bark is like someone stuff his mouth with something. Which in effect, I did. What's best about the Red Ball is that he likes to play fetch with me. He brings it to me -- but only after he's smeared it with dirt, drool and foam. Good boy, Finnigan. I'm going to need new chairs.