Rose's Cantina

"You finally got rid of all the kids," my landlord said. "Why on Earth do you want three dogs?" ...At my age.   He almost said it, stopped short of insulting me in my own backyard. I shrugged. "I'm here by myself," I explained. "I like the company." What I wanted to say was that I prefer the company of dogs to landlords who come around every bleeding day in the summer, and hammer while my husband is sleeping off his shift work.  Like the dogs, there's no point talking to Doug. Scott asked him not to come over on my birthday, and he showed up with his girlfriend and chatted up my entire family over the fence. Doug is like the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz -- tall, made of straw, and with few brains.  He doesn't have any kids or dogs. He is, it seems, allergic to anything with a heart.  The next time Doug encountered my dogs, he found himself pinned to a wall with Viggo, the Chocolate Lab, licking his ears, ...

Of late, our family spends a lot of time obessing over the bathroom habits of our dogs. Oh, oh, Finnie swallowed a chewbone. We'll be up all night! Gordie hasn't had a poo all day. What's with that? Finnigan, good boy! The bowels of our dogs are directly related to their behavior, our ability to sleep through the night and the state of our carpets. If Finnigan is "off", he is completely uncontrollable and will eat or destroy anything in sight. If Gordie gets backed up, steer clear! Gordie, the pug, is the funniest one of all. If Skylar, the baby, is anywhere in sight, Gordie will crap himself where he stands, which is usually right behind me, Scott or Nick. Invariably we step in it. I saw him barking at the neighbors yesterday, standing guard at the fence, and with each bark, a stream of fecal matter oozed out. You couldn't turn away. Today, this glorious day, Gordie ate his breakfast then went out and did his business. Like the old days. ...

Truth be told, not everybody in this household is happy with the arrival of The Little Peanut. Gordon J. Blackstone is positively apoplectic. He whines and he barks, he spins backwards like a New Zealand toilet. If I'm feeding Skye, Gordie will nose in, lick her feet, then bounce back on his back paws, startling himself. When I get up with her, Gordie runs around my feet. My elderly pug may think she's a cat; I'm not sure. I fear dementia. If he thinks she's a cat, I'm concerned. Gordie chased the last cat we had into the furnace room and she wouldn't come out. We had to find her a new pugless home. Can't do that with a baby. Gordie's going to have to learn that there's a new sheriff in town and she wears Pampers. I'm hoping he'll adjust. Yesterday, he was spinning so frantically, he let several tiny turds fly out of his butt hole like it was a machine gun. Rat-a-tat-tat.