Wacky Dog is gone. I had to take him to the vet last night because he was sick again and they don’t know why. His exam was fine, his tests have been fine. And it was complicated by doggie senility (he was 11 or 12). And all of the crazy, wacky, kooky, awful and awesome stuff that made him both the best and the worst Wacky Dog in the whole world had gotten a lot worse. You couldn’t leave him outside and you couldn’t bring him inside. I keep thinking it wasn’t time. Because I wanted more time. But there is never a good time, we know that. He was not doing well. And he was my dog. As much as my husband and the kids claimed him, he was my dog. So I had to decide and I am miserable now.

Here are some pictures of him. I don’t want them full-frame, but you can go look at them.

I have no perspective on this. He was my best friend and always listened to my problems and even when I would get so frustrated and furious with him (for destroying our house, our yard, my sanity. for eating wood and puking it up. for peeing on my leg) he would still come up and nudge my hand. You know how dogs can never tell when you’re coming home? Since they don’t how to read a watch? I love that about dogs. Because you can be gone for five minutes or five weeks and you’re going to get the same exuberant greeting when you return. So what I am hoping is that all those times I yelled bad dog at him or was mean to him, that maybe he forgot that, too, the way he forgot that I’d always come back home after I left. Even if he remembered every slight, I know he forgave me.

I loved him always and I hated him occasionally and I am feeling so awful because of that. It was like taking care of a chronically ill relative. After awhile, you have caregiver fatigue and find it difficult to make decisions and then once you do, you regret it. Or you wish them gone (not dead, just gone) and then they’re gone and you feel like hell even more.

I have written about him so much.

His life in the witness protection program

His fan club

His ginormous fear of fireworks and bubblewrap

His dislike of Halloween costumes

His health problems

And more health problems…

His scabs

His need for pharmaceuticals

Songs for Our Dog (and Bong Hits for Jesus)

Pet lovers of America: Are you neurotic? If so, your pet must have inherited it from you. If you’re well-adjusted, no problem. You must have some unexplored, deeply hidden neuroses because your pet? All of his/her/its problems are your fault.

For my Thursday Thirteen:

13 Things I Found Out at the Vet’s Office Today

13. I need to modify my behavior if I want the dog to change, according to the vet tech. I began cursing at her, and it went downhill from there. And yes, she already knew about this and this (but not this) from reading his chart. (Is it karma? Is this whole thing my bad karma, because I stole the dog? Universe, you win.)

12. “I have fucking tried everything. Nothing works,” is what I hissed at her. (I did not slap her, as promised. Sorry.) Then I told her I was ready to have him put down over this, because my life is a mess. My house? Also a mess. She harumphed and left. They then sent in another vet tech who was nicer.

11. Just because the cat has worms it does not mean the dog does. Or the other cat. We now have a prescription for worm medicine for the one cat.

10. I found out that if I give the dog four tablets of Benadryl (25 mg. each) he may sleep at night and not stay awake, tormented, chewing his feet and tail and keeping us awake. (Bonus: I didn’t have to buy any! I’m planning to give him the liquid stuff I give the kids. Not straight out of the bottle — I’ll use a medicine spoon. Which I will wash afterward. Or burn.) (Also, the whole visit set me back $144. And that was without shots.)

9. The vet: “If you’re not getting enough sleep because the dog is keeping you awake, this might make you a little stressed.”

8. Then: “Our goal is to keep you less crazy than your dog.” Good, because that’s my goal, too. Finally we’re on the same page.

7. I need to take out the trash every time I leave the dog alone in the house. And keep all the dishes done. (Funny, I’ve already been DOING THAT. Because the few times we haven’t: Chaos.)

6. I am to give him one Metronidazole tab, 500 mg., every 12 hours for the next week. This supposedly will prevent bowel-carnage all over my domicile.

5. If I fill out a nine-page “Canine Behavior Consultation Questionnaire” and pay a vet who specializes in separation anxiety hundreds, perhaps thousands, of dollars, she will work with us. Sample questions: How does your dog get along with family members? Answer: Too well. He cannot bear to see us go. Describe your dog’s learning ability. Answer: He is smarter than I am. I’d have to say “Pretty good” to this one. List family member with least control: Hahahahahaha!!!! See? It’s always gotta come back to me, doesn’t it?

4. The Dog Whisperer says, “Give me a biting dog anyday over one of those frickin’ neurotic Yuppie Black Labs because those dogs? Those dogs cannot be helped.” (Or words to that effect. Actually, I didn’t find this out at the vet — I told her that I’d read this in an interview with him. She sadly agreed.)

3. If we try giving him treats we might be able to teach him better habits. (If we hadn’t already tried that one, lady, my dog probably wouldn’t weigh NINETY-SIX POUNDS. Not 85 — 96.)

2. Doggie Prozac might help. We probably would not be able to find a good adoptive home for him. (We’ve considered this.) “Dogs like this are extremely hard to place.”

1. “It might come down to how much your quality of life is suffering. Not his — he’s fine. I mean, look at him. He’s fine. But this is not good for you.”

You really do not want to read this if you are eating, or have a weak stomach. Or if you hate pets. Or if you love pets, for that matter. I do not love pets. I wish I’d never brought pets home and into my life. (more…)

The dog is an assclown.

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We were at dinner. Two tables over I saw this cute family — both kids dressed in their school uniforms. Well, the parents weren’t that cute, they were kind of homely. But the kids were cute, because of the uniforms and all. I’m thinking, like I always think when I see those adorable jumpers and the sharply-creased slacks and the plain white shirts, “I love school uniforms. So practical! So not Hello Kitty and Crazy Doesn’t Even Begin to Cover It (with that stupid bunny that my daughter and all the other girls adore) and My Pretending to Listen to You Should Be Enough and Your Shirt Says ‘Princess’ But Your Face Says ‘Frog.‘” Etc.

(I have a fondness for school uniforms that is not shared by my friends who attended parochial school. Unless their kids are at parochial school, in which case they all say, “School uniforms are the best. You don’t have to hassle every day about what to wear, and it’s cheaper, and NO FIGHTS ABOUT SLUTTY CLOTHES.”)

So I’m daydreaming about uniforms, and cursing crop-tops, low-slung jeans and bitchy T-shirts and I notice that her kids have left her table. And her husband. She’s alone. She’s having a moment of “mommy me time.” And she’s… tongueing something?

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My sister decides she’s going to get a dog. I think, Good! Big dog! Big dogs good!

She says, No big dog, medium dog.

I think, Eh, medium dog OK. Maybe a 40- or 50-pounder?

She is pleased as punch with 16-pound squirrel killer, The Ratter, aka Random Pooper because, you know. These are the reasons Random Pooper has been 86ed from our house, from time to time: Random pooping, licking her own ass and then my kids’ faces, licking the cats’ asses (repeat), kicking the cats’ asses, OH! Litter boxes! MORE cat ass! Good grazing.

Me: Fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa fwaaa.

My sister: I’m sorry!

Me: Why? Did you poop on the floor?

Then the Random Pooper shows up at my door, dressed up as a dinosaur, and how can I refuse her? (Notice she stays on her leash, so she won’t commit any crimes while she’s here.)

“I won’t fuck with the cats. Or eat their poop. I promise.”

“AIIIIIIIII AIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII I CAN’T SEE! HELP ME!”

“Are the cats here?”

My mom: “I tried to find one in Wacky Dog’s size — they didn’t have one!”

Me: “That was sweet, Mom.”

Wacky Dog: Thank you, Jesus.

Hello, hello,

I swore I wasn’t doing the Thursday Thirteen this week. School started today, soccer starts Friday, we’re so busy (and stupid, duh hey) that we completely forgot to take Wacky Girl to her ice skating lesson tonight. Wacky Boy keeps screaming, “I WILL NOT GO TO PRESCHOOL. I WILL NOT” on the half-hour. He’s adorable, no? (Preschool doesn’t start until next week. I am counting the hours. I will have three hours to myself, five days a week. Jealous much?)

Hockey God decided to tell the preschool teacher that our son is a biter.

Yes, Internet, the truth is out. Our son bites. And punches, claws, pulls hair, pinches — the cat is out of the bag. And WB was probably the one to put him there in the first place.

I blurted out, “Just family! He doesn’t bite strangers!” Which is true, so far. But I think this may change next week once he’s in class with 21 other pre-k’s who may possibly not color-code the blocks and line them up by size the way he likes them. His frequent complaint about other kids: “They’re playing wrong.”

Here’s another Q & A with myself, followed by my Thursday Thirteen.

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The Wacky Dog, he gets depressed. Anxious. Tense. Prone to chewing fences and throwing cats around the room. Thus, his prescription for amitriptyline which I just had refilled.

The label reads:

* Do not stop taking medicine without calling doctor
* May make you sleepy; use caution driving
* Skin may be more prone to sunburn; use sunscreen
* Do not drink alcohol while taking this medication

Woof! All better now…

(Sung to the tune of Smelly Cat):

“Scabby dog/
scabby dog/
what are they feeding you?”

Conversation between Wacky Mommy and Hockey God, re: Wacky Dog, whose tail is chewed on, scabby and disgusting:

“How many scabs is it going to take before we have him put down? Four? Five? Twenty? What?”

“I think you were the kind of girl who brought home the puppy and then got bored with him.”

“You’re not the one who just smeared Vaseline on the dog’s ass.”

No, said Nanny, an echo in Melena’s mind (and editorializing as usual). No, no, you pretty little pampered hussy. We don’t go on having babies, that’s quite apparent. We only have babies when we’re young enough not to know how grim life turns out. Once we really get the full measure of it — we’re slow learners, we women — we dry up in disgust and sensibly halt production.

from Wicked by Gregory Maguire

This whole vacation-from-blogging thing? Yeah, it went OK. But I have a lot to say and dammit, this is the place to do it. Like the quote? I frickin’ love that quote. Thank you L for sending it to me.

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