…they start sharing food.
I caught Ivy munching on Storms food this morning when she was supposed to be helping feed the dogs. Ivy wouldn’t give Storm all her food (it’s in the jar) right away because she insisted that they were sharing. I’d like to say that my explanation of why we don’t eat dog food went over well or that this was an isolated incident, but I don’t like to lie…
For dinner tonight we had shiskabobs with sweet potato, apples from our own apple tree, ham from our own pig, zucchini from next door, and pineapple. Served with our own sweet corn and brown rice.
Delicious!
Well,it could have been…
The epic badness I called dinner started around 4:30 while mixing everything up in the bag of marinade. As I mushed and mixed my bag exploded spewing juice and chunks all over me and the floor. Of course a dog came running, and since I had no extras of any of the ingredients on hand I shoved the dog away, while frantically scooping everything up into a strainer and then attempted to wash it off in the sink. It was one of those times where you’d like to throw a fit and cry but since you are the mom nobody is going to help anyway so you might as well just swear a few times and get on with it.
So I did. Rinsed off, re-bagged, re-marinated, refrigerated, and well cursed, only a few hairs were left when it was time to make the skewers. Already dinner was not looking as delicious but I still had hope. Then John was late. This was a problem because clearly shiskabobs go on the grill, and clearly I have no business going anywhere near a grill. In fact I’m pretty sure the last time I tried I was 21 in collage and drinking enough beer that it didn’t matter how my brats (in buns!) turned out. As John was delayed later and later I decided to bite the bullet and do it myself. It’s a grill, its charcoal, how hard can it be right? I can start fires, I can cook over fires, Ivy says she’ll help.
Turns out Ivy is no help.
I finally figured out how to get the charcoal lit with the help of the chimney thingy and get my skewers on, I’m so proud I take a picture.
At this point I’m still hoping that John will swoop in and save us, but it seems to be going OK… and going and going and going… then I realize that I am slow cooking my shiskabobs.
In case that didn’t make you gag, let me just let you know right now that slow cook shiskabobs that include ham are not good, not good at all. The girls and I are hungry so we eat it some anyway. Ivy eats very little, then feeds the rest of hers to Storm while I am not looking. It’s bad enough I don’t even have the heart to yell at her for it.
All of a sudden I realized it was 7:00 (Clara’s bed time) I had more to grill, Clara seriously need a bath, food was out on the picnic table where the dog would grab it if I didn’t put it away, Ivy wanted to play in her sprinkler and John still wasn’t home.
So, I…
-stripped my filthy dirty daughter Clara naked
-brought food inside
-found Ivy’s swim suit
-put rest of dinner on grill (still assuming John will show up any moment)
-set up sprinkler
-moved Clara over to play in sprinkler with Ivy
-flipped kabobs
-finished cleaning up dishes from outside
-took dinner off grill, stashed in microwave so the dogs wouldn’t get it
-went to go get Clara for her shower (and mine too, don’t forget the spewing bag incident)
When I reached the girls Ivy looked at me and asked “Mom, what’s on your shorts?” After a flurry of questions, answers and running around the yard I confirmed that Clara had pooped near the picnic table and I had carried her over to the sprinkler with out noticing, getting poop on my shorts, shirt, legs…
John got home while I was upstairs putting Clara down to bed. As soon as I got downstairs I told him that while dinner was in the microwave he might want to be careful, since in addition throwing it on the floor, and slow cooking it I also had probably moved it around two different times with poop on my hands, but that I had only touched the wooden skewers so if he was feeling brave he could probably cut the food off instead of sliding it off, discard the end pieces and still salvage some of dinner.
Part way through my explanation John got a funny look on his face…I guess he was hungry when he got home.
John went and had a shot of Scotch, and I re-gave up grilling.
My friend Jessie has two dogs, Finley and Cooper. Finley I introduced you to last week when I went to meet her, Cooper I left out of the e-mail because I was having trouble photographing him at his best. Cooper is a super nice dog, and probably the issues with my pictures of him just had to do with my poor composition, poor lighting and whatever you call red eye in dogs.
Well, that and the drool.
As wonderful as Cooper is he has a tendency to drool in high stress (or moderate stress, or light stress, or exciting) situations. This makes him very lovable, a bit pathetic, and much to Coopers dismay does not encourage people to pet him.
Finley’s arrival clearly was a bit upsetting to Cooper and who could blame him, just look at what the little monster was doing to his feet!
Over the weekend Jessie came out with her dogs, visited for the afternoon and than babysat while John and I went out on a date.
YAY JESSIE!
Even taking into consideration the excitement of the visit Cooper’s drooling was not much improved. I was just starting to worry about the drooling and it’s consequences.
Worries like…
-Jessie is going to fall down becuase her entire floors will be covered with super slippery dog drool, then once she hits the ground Finely is going to maul her to death in a way only cute puppies with needle sharp teeth can.
-Finley is going to fall asleep near Cooper, Cooper will be scared to move, the drool will come faster, Finley will drown in the slime.
-Cooper is going to suffer from dehydration, causing Jessie to bring him to the vet, which will make him drool more, the vicious cycle will repeat until Cooper resembles a mummy.
Needless to say I was relieved this morning when I found this in an e-mail from Jessie:
” Cooper is starting to come out of his moroseness, he’s a bit more relaxed = less drool.”
Now I can stop trying to gather a Life Alert button, puppy sized snorkel, and IV fluids! Maybe tomorrow someone will even get close enough to pet Cooper!
Today my internet has flaked out and so instead of continuing my remodeling disease story I have gone to visit my friend Jessie, her computer with it’s fancy high speed connection and her new puppy Finley! 
Finley is very cute, and she makes me want a puppy of my own, but then she eats my toes with her super sharp puppy teeth and I think that maybe I’m OK with living vicariously through Jessie!
…they say, “Watch Mom, we are fightin’ like dogs”
I’d like to point out that while it is not apparent in the picture there was ” ‘tend ” biting going on as well, and big smiles on both their faces!
…she only carries things in her mouth.
…you find them chewing sticks together.
Yesterday I watched a mouse run across the kitchen floor right in front of Clara and our cat Fiona then dash under the dishwasher to safety. Only Clara tried to catch it.
I already wrote about how our cat Henry (above in orange) was the worlds worst mouser but Fiona(black) is right up there with him. Henry was awful because he could catch mice, never did anything to them and would eventually let them go. Fiona just seems to be lacking any hunting instinct whatsoever. I have never, ever, seen her with a mouse. And believe me, in our house, there are plenty of mousing opportunities. The worst performance by Fiona was about two years ago on a dark and stormy night. OK probably it wasn’t dark and stormy. In fact I really have no idea what it was doing outside, I’m not even sure of the season but I suspect it was winter since that’s when the mice really invade. Whatever was going on outside, inside John and I were both in the kitchen when a mouse ran across the counter and hid behind all our liquor bottles in the corner.
– A note on “all our liquor bottles in the corner“:
We used to keep these all in the pantry before a home improvement disease took over our house. Now our pantry has no shelves, and things are stacked on the floor or kept in Rubbermaid bins, not a good place for glass bottles so the bottles were relocated to the counter. Now, when I use the word ALL it seems like we are crazy party animals with a full bar but they are actually a strange collection of mostly empty bottles that are a minimum of 4 years old collecting dust next to one bottle of whiskey. There is no dust on the whiskey.
John and I closed in on the mouse and then tried to figure out what to do. I thought, ” We’ll get the cat, brilliant!” (this was clearly before I knew she was one of the two worst mousers in the world) I ran and got Fiona and put her on the counter next to the bottles. Then while I tried to keep Fiona focused John slowly started removing bottles. When we were down to just three or four in the corner (we don’t even drink them I swear they just show up and never leave!) the mouse poked it’s head out and Fiona saw it. “AH HA she’s got it!” we thought, but we were wrong. Fiona went up and tentatively poked her paw behind the bottles. The mouse stuck it’s head out the other side, Fiona never noticed. John put on an oven mitt (we were in the kitchen after all) and poked the mouse, the mouse ran and stuck it’s head out by Fiona, she poked it back to John…. You get the idea? After this went on for many minutes (while I helpfully laughed in the background) John brought Storm into help.
Now Storm is a hunting dog, she has hunting instinct, she is even what is known as a versatile hunting dog, but she is NOT a good counter top mouser. The mouse went back to hiding behind the bottles. Finally John ripped all the bottles out and smashed the mouse with his oven mitt clad fist.
Every now and then John talks about getting another cat. My new criteria is that it has to be a better mouser than he is!
Awhile ago I wrote a bit about Piper and mentioned that she was a crafty dog. I’m sure half of you just laughed at me thinking my big ‘ole dog was crafty. But she is, and I’ll tell you about it.
All dogs are bred to do something, point, flush, pull, track, retrieve, and Great Dane’s are no different. Originally bred as boar hunters they later became “estate dogs” when boar hunting fell out of fashion. 
Estate dog = big dog, sit around, look pretty, bark at stuff….. and that’s Piper. And let me tell you, she takes that sitting around portion of her job seriously! In fact in Piper’s world, sitting around is everything. Preferably this should be done on a nice soft surface, a couch is preferred, and all sorts of irritations can be dealt with so long as you can keep that spot…
Piper will put up with unwanted affection from kids…
…from adults…
…and from dogs..
…and she will share, when she would rather not.
The only real problem Piper has is when she has no comfy spot…
A few years ago Piper and I were visiting my Mom and Dad. Mom and Dad’s house has a big tiled living room with one big couch in it. In Pipers world the couch is the ONLY acceptable place to lay down, tile is not comfy and the carpeted areas are too far out of the action. This night however my parents three dogs had already taken up the entire couch. Piper whined and stared at them, but to no avail. Then my Mom and I watched Piper leave the room, go over to a basket of dog toys, pick one out, come back and drop it in front of the couch. Three dogs then jumped off the couch to investigate the toy, and Piper jumped up in her favorite spot.
Crafty.
She must have realized how effective the bait and switch tactic was because a few weeks later she tried it out on John. John and I were going to bed one night and Piper wanted up on the bed too. She was told to go away, and after many pathetic looks and whimpers she finally “gave up” and went down stairs. Just after that Piper started barking. I (the wimpy, I’m not checking out strange noises in the dark)wife, sent my (big strapping I’ll be a man and investigate) husband down to check out the problem. Turns out there was no problem. As soon as John made it downstairs Piper stopped barking, ran upstairs and jumped on his side of the bed.
Crafty.
Piper has got some brains in that thick head of hers, she just needs the proper incentive to use them.
Oh, and sometimes she pheasant hunts.
But it makes her tired!
Behind the Willows 
