Yuck!

Ok, seriously? Dog barfed in my bed, and when I cleaned it up, it clogged the toilet. Oh yes, you know you're jealous that I'm living the glamourous life...

Mistaken Identity

Soccer Sunday today. Jet kept trying to chase the ball while the girls were warming up, so I took him for a walk until game time. While Coach was warming up the girls, Graham twiddled his thumbs and looked around the park. Poor guy had a panic attack when, whilst scanning the park, he couldn't see me, but could see another woman walking what he thought was Jet. Being a bit of a worrier, he naturally assumed I'd had some sort of accident and that this good Samaritan was trying to find the dog's owner. He went trotting over and said "Uh, that looks like my dog". The woman said "Oh, is your dog Jet? This is his sister Stella." Turns out that with Jetty's new haircut, they look identical. Crisis averted. (Before you get all dewy eyed and think his concern is romantic in the Michelle/Barrack vein, rest assured that Graham is much more pragmatic than that. His main concern would have been - "Who'll do the laundry if something's happened to Diana?")

We first met Stella a couple of weeks ago, also at the soccer park. Carrie came over with her dog to say hello. She asked if Jetty was a Portie and I said "yes", and asked about her dog, who turned out also to be a Portie. She asked which breeder we used and when I told her, she broke out into a big smile and asked "Is this Jet?" Turns out we met almost exactly a year ago at soccer and she had fallen under his spell. I'd given her the breeder's info and the rest is history - her dog Stella and Jetty are brother and sister (same parents, different litter). Basically, it's our fault they have a dog.

Night, Night to My Dreams of Canadian Idol

Poor Gilly was up late last night finishing a project. She couldn't relax enough to sleep, so she asked me to read to her. Jetty and I piled in the bed with her, and I read a chapter, but she still couldn't sleep. Then she asked me to sing her a lullaby. I sang her a little nonsense one that I made up when she was a baby, which usually does the trick. Unfortunately, I had some backup vocals this time. I'd barely begun to sing when Jetty decided to editorialize on my limited vocal abilities with some long, drawn out whines and cries. Then Gilly really couldn't sleep, because she was laughing so hard she almost fell out of bed!

Brave Boy?

So, today we had our annual trip to the vet. Poor Jetty didn't see it coming. We went for a lovely walk first, and he should have been suspicious when we took a totally new route, but he was too distracted by the wonderful smells. He was fairly cool when we arrived, accepting a cookie and hopping on the scale (55 pounds! With a 38 pound Dad and 45 pound Mother, that certainly wasn't in the puppy brochure...).

The German Sheppard in the waiting room was slightly less cool. He crawled right up into his owner's lap. I smiled and made a comment about how all of them hate the vet. She explained that the vet wasn't the problem - it was Jet. Her dog is terrified of black dogs. Hmm, I had to point out to her that her dog is black - does that mean he's scared of himself? Poor fella.

So once the gate to the back part of the clinic was opened, all Jetty's cool deserted him. As we waited in the exam room he kept trying to crawl into my lap. See - the bad habits they pick up instantly, it's the good ones they can't seem to grasp. Once his vet arrived, it was game over - he dove straight under the chair and wouldn't come out. Poor boy, he must have known what he was in for —4 needles and a blood donation so they can do the heartworm test. At north of $325, both Jet and I hope it's the last we see of the vet for another year!

Presidential Puppy?

I understand that Barack Obama has decided to choose a Portuguese Water Dog as the Presidential pooch. Apparently he doesn’t want the bother of a puppy, so he will be choosing a slightly older rescue dog. Might I be so bold as to suggest a very handsome 1 year old Portie named Jet? He’s adorable, can do a sit/stay for a full minute, lies down on command, and gives high fives and tens.

Oh, right, why does he need rescuing? Because he’s in the dog house, again. I’ve told you about the poopsicle obsession already, but since spring is upon us, Jetty has all but given that up. It seems he only likes them when they’re frozen. Now he needs to find another way to indulge his oral fixation. He’s been slowly chewing his way through the house. So far this week we’ve taken away from him: socks, a dime, paper, Gilly’s stuffed bear, a toothbrush, and Kleenex. Last night I heard him banging away at something and decided I better get up to investigate. It turned out that he had ventured into Gilly’s backpack and taken her recorder. He slipped it out of the case, and was happily chomping away on it. He thought it was even better than a Nylabone.

Now, I did take it away from him, although I must confess that I wrestled with the decision. I’m all for free speech, but Jetty is in a difficult spot, because he can’t speak. Was he just looking for something to gnaw on, or was he making an editorial comment on the awful sounds that come out of that instrument? It was a tough call because, frankly, I have to agree. Listening to the recorder is like some sort of punishment. Why children are forced to learn it is beyond me. Is the TDSB trying to foster a hatred of music amongst their students? Will that allow them to justify cutting the music programs in order to balance their budget? Or is it just a way to get back at parents? Who knows. Gillian checked the recorder over this morning, and (sadly) it still makes “music”. Perhaps tonight I’ll accidentally leave her violin case open...

Stiff Competition

There’s a new puppy in town, and he’s fierce competition for Jetty in the cuteness department. Cody is a fourteen-week-old Great Dane and he’s is so unbelievably cute, he resembles a cartoon character. He’s all legs and feet, with soft, velvety fur; it was all I could do not to scoop him up and bring him home. However, he’s going to be HUGE; at his tender age he’s already as tall as Jet. The poor nanny who was walking him looked most alarmed when I kept going on about how big he’s going to be; she’s just a little bit of a thing and has her hands full now. Anyway, welcome to the neighbourhood Cody, Jet would appreciate it if could you please try to look just a little less cute.

We had a great Family Day. We spent it in the country at Wheatley Water Dogs. Jetty played with his Mummy Sailor, sisters Ivory and Ruby (who looks freakishly like Jet), and Bronson, the German Sheppard. They had a ball getting reacquainted and romping in the snow. And when Jet had to do his business, his eyes grew wide with excitement. Cheryl has trained the dogs to go in one particular spot (the Duty Den) so that spring clean up is easier. However, with that many dogs, you can imagine that the Duty Den currently resembles a buffet for puppies who like to eat poop (see previous post). Jetty thought he’d died and gone to the land of plenty. At that point we beat a hasty retreat back to the city.

Poopsicles

Ok, a little background for those of you who don’t know me that well. I’m not really a dog person. I’m a little uptight, and I like things to be just-so, which isn’t the ideal personality for a dog owner. However, over the past 11 months Jetty has wormed his way into my heart, and it’s safe to say that I love him to pieces. This means I’ve been able to overlook some of the attendant grossness that comes with having a dog. You know – the poopy patrols in the garden, the muddy paw prints in the bed, the nose prints on the French doors, etc. Until now...

I can’t believe that I’m even writing this sentence, but here goes – Jetty has begun to eat his own poop. No, sadly that is not a misprint. You heard me correctly. Yikes! I bet Obama would rethink his doggy decision if he knew this little puppy quirk. Anyway, apparently it’s more common than you would think. It even has a name – copro-phagia. At our house, we call it holyfreakingcrapthatisdisgustingdon’tyoudarekissme-phagia.

According to the vet, it doesn’t harm them. But I suppose I looked so horrified by the whole thing that she took pity on me and gave me some medicine to sprinkle on his food. It doesn’t taste bad going down, but apparently it does once it’s been processed, if you catch my drift. Once they try to eat the medicated poop, they lose a taste for it. I was trying to explain this to Gillian, and she just stared at me. With the wisdom of a ten-year-old, she said “Uh, Mummy, he eats poo. How can they make it taste any worse?” She’s got a great point. It’s a pretty steep downward spiral from poop.

Anyway, Happy Valentine’s Day. And, just to be safe, no kisses please.

Happy Birthday Jetty!

Well, today Jetty baby is 1 year old! We had a long talk about how he's a big boy now, and must start acting like it. He has promised to stop his bad-boy biting and to stop growing. I have promised to yell at him less frequently and to drop food more frequently. No cake or candles for him today, although he did manage to get a small piece of bacon from Gilly's breakfast - now he feels his life is complete!

Speaking of Gilly - what's wrong with kids today? Jetty and I picked her up from a playdate yesterday, and she was full of tales about how great the Wii Fit game is. She announced that she thought it was terrific and had come up with a great new game that they should add - dog walking?! WTF??? I just looked at her in complete disbelief. I have an idea - how about you get your butt off the sofa and walk your real dog around the block rather than waiting for Nintendo to create a virtual dog for you to walk around the living room. Grrr, she really didn't get why I was so dumbfounded. I blame it on the blonde hair.

Anyway, Happy Birthday Jetty, and Happy New Year to all !

Jetty & Me

Saw the movie Marley & Me yesterday. Liked it, but about halfway through I realized (Spoiler Alert) that the dog was going to die. That meant I spent the rest of the movie steeling myself for that moment. Didn't work - cried like a baby. Of course, once we got home, we were guilted/inspired to make the most of our precious moments with Jetty, and to be all lovey-dovey with him. That lasted all the way through last night and up to this morning’s walk; but now the fun’s over.

He found a delish puddle of sick outside a local pub and slurped some up before Graham noticed and pulled him away (my screeching may have had something to do with his sudden awareness). We rubbed a bit of snow on his nose and mouth to try and get the residue off. We continued on to Starbucks for our mid-walk cappuccino, and sat on a bench enjoying both it and the sunshine. The moment was too much for Jet, and he was overcome with the need to give Mummy a big, wet, slobbery kiss - right on the lips. Do they make Purell that can safely be ingested by humans??? Yucky, yuck, yucky !! Sorry, but the brief reprieve is over - you’re back to bad-dog status, Booger. And remember, Marley is dead, so the title of Worst Dog Ever is up for grabs. Let's work together to avoid that accolade.

My Hero ?

This morning we woke up to snow (pause here to pat my back in an effort to quell the tears...). Yuck. However, as Jetty was born in January, he loves the snow. He went crazy when we opened the back door and he discovered that the white stuff of his (relative) youth was back again. What fun he had romping and sliding around the garden. And frozen sticks are even more fun to chew than regular ones - like Mother Nature’s very own popsicle.

I may have mentioned that we’ve been having some trouble with Jet and his unnatural attachment to me. No one is allowed to hug or kiss me without getting a stern talking to from Mr. Jealous Legs. Even just leaning over to help Gilly with homework results in a firm body shove to make sure there is sufficient distance between us. He is constantly following me around, and it does wear a bit thin.

But, I have discovered that apparently there is a limit, even to Jetty’s love. I was tidying up the basement to try and carve out enough space to work on my new book, and moved a chair and some pillows. Out popped the most enormous spider and another disgusting bug—I don’t know the technical name, I just call them gazillipedes. Being a brave soul, I let out a piercing scream (I assure you it was just surprise, not fear). As I quickly turned around to find a heavy reference book to drop on the intruders, I saw a flash of black fur streaking up the stairs to safety. It’s nice that Jetty the Wonder Dog has finally shown his true colours. I love you, I love you, I love you. Oops, is there a problem? Gotta run... Typical male.

How's Your Nozzle?

Last night Gilly and I were playing soccer with Jetty when she started shrieking in that awful pitch that only young girls can reach. “Mommmm, gross. He’s got something stuck in his nozzle.” Well, my first thought was—I hope it’s nothing fatal, because there’s no way I’m touching his nozzle.

Eventually I realized that the neighbours could probably hear us, so I had to pretend to be a grown up and overcome my intense desire to run away. I joined them to see what she was talking about. She kept pointing at him and groaning, but she was pointing at his head. I asked her to be more specific about what she meant (ok, really I just kept shouting WHAT? at her). “His nozzle, Mummy, his nozzle - there’s something in there.”

The penny finally dropped; I asked her if, perhaps, she meant nostril, not nozzle. Yes, she did. It turns out it was nothing to worry about, just a booger. And who knew dogs even had boogers? This dog ownership thing just gets better and better. Pass the wine.

Everybody Poops

When Jet was younger, he would get what we call “the zoomies” several times a day. This would involve him barking and racing around with complete abandon - over people, furniture, any obstacle in his way. These hilarious episodes were akin to a toddler screaming “I not tired, noooo need a nap”. They would end when we were able to lure him into his crate, where he would promptly collapse into sleep.

These seem to have abated as he enters into adolescence, with one notable exception. When he has to poop, he goes crazy with the zoomies. Our fence is actually teetering on the verge of falling over because he’s slammed into it so often. He only does this at home. If he has to do his business on a walk, he has no problem. We can only imagine that at home he feels his body is betraying him - how dare he have to poop in his very own playground. We have explained to him that it is perfectly natural, and there is nothing to be upset or embarrassed about. We have also assured him that our regular “poop patrols” in the backyard will keep his play area reasonably clean, but he doesn’t seem to believe us. Do they make a canine version of the book Everybody Poops?