Enjoying Life with 3 Dogs, 2 Kids & an ADHD Husband.

Whenever I start talking about dog shows, my husband has two words for me:  “dog wackos”.  In fact, hubby has always maintained that he married a “semi-normal dog wacko”.   Whatever that means.

Being the sweet, demure kind of girl I am, I usually just smile and nod my head obediently.  Yeah, right.  Okay, so maybe I argue a bit.  Or a lot.  I tell him raising show dogs is a hobby, just like any other hobby.  Only a little more time consuming.  And labor intensive.  And maybe a tad more annoying (like when Fergie eats your son’s big wheel seat). 

But there are perks.  I mean, fishing might be enjoyable (if you find parking your fanny on the seat of a stinky old boat for long stretches of time, twiddling your thumbs and day-dreaming about Moby Dick “enjoyable”), but it’s not like you’re going to cuddle up with your fishing rod at night.  (And if you are, we don’t need to know about it.  Can I just say—ouch?)  How about kickin’ back on your couch, watching a little American Idol with your golf clubs?  Not so snuggalicious.  And honestly—who takes their Wii to the park for a game of Frisbee? (Of course, having Ridgebacks, the game of Frisbee involves me throwing said Frisbee, then chasing the fleeing dog with said Frisbee dangling from her mouth.  Hmmm….maybe the Wii would be a better choice.)

Hubby’s side?  Well, believe it or not, his main beef isn’t with the actual dog shows (although he thinks they’re lame), or the amount of money spent on dog showing (which he thinks is certifiable), or even how we treat our dogs like children (he’ll happily change a diaper, but pick up dog poops?  Ha!). 

No, his big complaint is simple.  According to him, what makes dog show enthusiasts “wackos” is their inability to shut up.  He says they never stop talking about their dogs.  Ever.  And I’ve finally decided he may have a point.

See, apparently, it’s not normal to continue discussing the minutiae of your hobby ad nauseum once your hobby session has ended.  And us dog folks?  Well, we simply don’t work that way.  We talk.  We discuss.  We converse.  In fact, we over-analyze every aspect of every Ridgeback we know, from the color of their nose (black or liver) to their ears (too short or too long), to the tip of their tails (kink or no kink?).  And I guess having daily phone conversations with your mom (and aunt), where 80% of the content revolves around this Ridgeback’s lure coursing run, or what that Ridgeback ate for breakfast, just isn’t normal.

But, even knowing all that, I was still ready to argue the point.  Until today.  Because today, I finally realized that my husband was right all along.  I am a dog wacko.  And here’s why.

See, I belong to a couple of Ridgeback discussion groups.  What do we talk about on these lists?  Yep, you guessed it—Ridgebacks (and, of course, sometimes ducks—but that’s an ill-advised and touchy subject).  Sometimes, the topics get a little hot.  But this past month?  Well, to say that things have gotten ugly would be like saying that crocodiles have teeth.  

 Not that a little list drama is a new occurrence–not even close.  Because if there’s one thing dog folks have in common besides the obvious, it’s their love of a good argument. 

But lately, it’s gotten out of hand.  Why?  To be honest, I’m not really sure.  I mean, as far as I know, nobody’s dead, nobody’s dog died, and nobody’s passing around genital crabs (although, I admit, that would make an interesting twist).  In a nutshell, I guess it all stems over disagreements about breeding practices and proper board and committee procedures.  I know, I know—it sounds about as exciting as a good toilet cleaning.  And yet the drama continues.

And this is how I know I am now, officially, a dog wacko.  Because even though this issue has next to nothing to do with me, I find myself fanatically reading every post, like my body is being possessed by aliens.  Aliens that like to read a lot of crap about Ridgebacks.  And not only reading—I’m posting.  Posting, I tell you!    Why?  Because I just can’t seem to help myself. It’s like  a terrible, terrible sickness—-some kind of compulsive Tourette’s of the computer syndrome.  Only without the swearing.  In fact, in one post I likened it to the horrified fascination you feel when viewing road kill.  The more you want to look away, the more you look.

Honestly, though, it’s a little more exciting than it sounds.  There’s drama.  There’s threats.  There’s bad humor (mainly mine).  There’s lawyers and name-calling and hound dogs, oh my!  And I guess since I gave up soap operas a long, long time ago, this is what I’m stuck with.

Besides, its not as if I have anything more compelling, like, say, rising gas prices (hubby commutes over 50 miles EACH WAY to work), rising food prices (yes, my family enjoys eating), and falling house prices (don’t even ask) to worry about.

So, yes, husband, I admit it—I’m a 100%, certifiable, dog wacko now.  But you’re stuck with me anyway.

One minute, you’re having a nice meal outside with your family.  The next, your 6-month old daughter has set a new secret password on daddy’s phone.  And she ain’t talkin’.

Don’t let this happen to you—-another good reason to Just Say No to infant cell phone usage.

Cheeky little sucker, isn’t she?

Okay, so I know I’m constantly harping on how rotten Fergie is.  I mean, let’s face it—she’s not the ideal dog for somebody who prizes their personal possessions (which obviously isn’t the case around here—-apparently, folks that cherish their stuff tend not to spew it throughout the house like so much barf at a frat party). 

Fergie gets away with all kinds of houndfoolery, though, because she’s such a sweet pumpkin underneath all the mischievousness.  In fact, my hubby and I talk quite a bit about how tolerant both of our girls are, especially with all the grubby little grasping (human) kid paws around here. 

A quick example—I still remember walking around the corner of our house one day to see blood splattered all over our blond hardwood floors.  It seriously looked like somebody had opened a butcher shop.  In our family room. 

Actually, it was just my son, playing a little game of doggy barber.  He was brandishing a pair of scissors, and Fergie was brandishing a gash on her ear, with blood spraying every time she moved.  And yet she didn’t make a peep, and hadn’t even left the room—she just stood there, waiting patiently by my son, with a look on her face that said, “Can we pleaseplay something else now?”  (Yes, my husband and I are idiots–we left the scissors in a toddler accessible drawer, but seriously, our son had never ever looked at them twice.  Until we cut his hair one day, and apparently, he decided Fergie needed a hair cut too.  And no, I don’t think he has a future in the dog grooming business—folks tend to like their dogs to leave with as many appendages as they came with.)

So, honestly, we couldn’t ask for two dogs that are better with our children.  Fergie loves kids, and Skye is impressively tolerant. 

And that brings me to the Queen of Tolerance—Fergie and Skye’s Grandmama Hound, Shani.  If ever there was a Ridgeback who would accept virtually any indignity with nary a peep, it was Shani. (Although, I will say, she had perfected the patented “Are you kidding me?” Ridgeback look.  And she could pull out the woebegone expression with ease, too—guaranteed to make even the hardest of hearts toss her a treat.)

Below are some examples of Shani suffering through our silly human idiosyncrasies (all the while thinking, “This is so beneath my dignity”).  She was, after all, the ultimate princess.

 Easily one of Shani’s most impressive feats was her begrudging tolerance of my husband’s peculiar dog-related amusements, all of which I’m sure she found quite pedestrian.

Exhibit A:  Hubby flying airplanes on a two-year old Shani.  (And he wonders why she used to scoot hin out of bed in the middle of the night).

Exhibit B:  Another of my hubby’s favorites, which I liked to call “Rock-A-Bye Hound”.  This, of course, was when he wasn’t shouting “Death comes from above, hound dog!” and bombing her with various items (dirty undies being his favorite) from the upstairs loft while she was lounging on the couch downstairs.  (Again–can you blame her for chowing through a pair of his ostrich-skin cowboy boots, or his cordless phone?)

(And yes, perhaps now we all have some good insight as to why his rottweiler is so troubled.)

Just a couple of Shani’s many Halloween costumes.  We also took her out to the Chicago bars in costume one year, much to her chagrin. 

Exhibit C:   “This costume was bad enough without the added indignity of stockings dangling rom my ears, Mom!”

Exhibit D:  And in this one, Shani’s dressed up as a retired show-girl.  Get it?  Get it?  Okay, so I’m easily amused.  (And in case you’re wondering, that bun in the oven is my son, Connor).

Exhibit E:   Yep, busted—I’m one of those put-antlers-on-your-dog-and-laugh kind of girls.

Shani also showed impressive tolerance for all kinds of interlopers, of both the canine and human variety.  

Exhibit F:  Shani “sharing” her bone with the intimidatingly huge rottweiler (who honestly didn’t ever grow much bigger, just more defective).

Exhibit G:  “Oh no, don’t eat me, you gi-normous Rottweiler, you!”

Exhibit H:  Okay, so I actually think this was less like tolerance, and more like love at first sight.  But I adore this photo of Shani and my old adopted dog, Riley, so I had to include it.

Exhibit I:  Shani, unsuccessfully attempting to take a little afternoon snooze.

Exhibit J:  “I suppose I can share the couch, but really, Mom—-must I put up with the butt-grabbing?”

After reviewing these photos, I’m no longer surprised that Shani used to go on a little destructo chewfest a few times a year.  Let’s face it—some Ridgebacks may be tolerant, but they all know how to get even.

So, just when I was getting ready to return Fergie to her breeder, express mail no less (yes, mom, I was going to let you know before the delivery man showed up on your front porch), she had to go and show me why I can’t quite muster up the desire to drop-kick her naughty tushy back to Colorado.

This feeling will probably last until such time as when she decides to make another collage out of the kitchen trash (yes, she can open cabinets, an-oh-so-special genetic trait handed down from her Grandmama, Shani) or track sand throughout my house (apparently, she thinks my son’s sandbox doubles as a hound sunbathing spa)—which will basically be twenty minutes, tops.  But I’ll enjoy it while I can.

Seriously, though—don’t let anyone ever tell you Ridgebacks aren’t good with kids.  And I suppose I’m stuck with the Ferganator, if Finley has anything to say about it.

Exhibit A:   Hey, look, mom, I’m a Ridgeback, too!

Exhibit B:  Hey Fergs—what’s shakin’?

Exhibit C:     Look, I got a hound dog leg!  Wonder if they’re yummy?

Exhibit D:  Forget the hound dog leg—-get a load of that ball!

Exhibit E:   I’m going in for the kill…..

Exhibit E:    Wow, this is oodles better than any teething toy my mom gives me…..Thanks for sharing, Fergie!

So, I guess instead of one of those highly sensationalized Dog Eats Baby news clips, we’ve got the slightly less sensational Baby Eats Dog Toy thing going on here.

Can I just say—yuk?

So, lately I’ve been wavering back and forth on when to introduce solids to my 6.5 month old baby. 

I realize it’s not rocket science, but decisions aren’t exactly my forte (okay, so maybe that’s a bit of an understatement—sort of akin to saying pit bulls don’t like Michael Vick).  Hey, it’s tougher than it sounds.  On the one hand, Finley eyes our food with a ravenous expression (at least in my imagination it’s a ravenous expression, but I’ve never been especially skilled at reading baby signs—I suppose it could also be her “I’m going to poop” or “Where did my foot go?” look), and she’s reaching for every morsel we eat. 

Of course, she’s also grabbing for grass, my hair (can you say, “ouch”?), and our dogs’ butts with equal excitement, so I’m not sure this behavior is as relevant as its cracked up to be.

On the other hand, once I introduce those solids, there goes that nice exclusive breastfeeding immune bubble we’ve got going on.  Hey, it might not sound like a big deal, but let me ask you this—do you enjoy grumpy, snotty-nosed, hacking-up-half-a-lung babies?  Yeah, that’s what I thought.

And then, as I’m looking through a bunch of old photos of my son, I get my answer. 

Exhibits A, B and C:   Connor meets pad thai

 So—not only will I not be introducing solids at six, seven, or eight months, I’ve decided to forgo them altogether until Finley can adroitly handle a fork and spoon and get every morsel into her mouth accurately. 

I’m thinking sometime around 10th grade or so ought to do it.

Our lives, as we’ve known them for the past two years, are over.  Done.  Finished.  Caput.

No, my family hasn’t been diagnosed with some rare disease (although, if we were, I’m sure it would probably be hound-dog transmitted).  Nor are we moving to Siberia or Mars, or even the foreclosed house across the street.  In fact, there’s nary a runny nose in the house at the moment (although that changes on an hourly basis around here) and it’s not like we could sell our house even if we wanted to (in case you haven’t been watching the news for the last year or so, here’s a tip—nobody’s buying).

What’s happening around here is equally huge, though.  Maybe huger (okay, is that actually a word?– because it looks awfully strange).  At least in my mind.  You see, our daughter is trying to crawl.  And she’s getting darn close.

Before you break out the champagne and propose a toast, let me educate you—this is not a good thing.  Not even close. 

Of course, with the first baby, you think it’s great.  Amazing.  The most spectacular thing ever to happen.  I mean, can you imagine?  A baby that actually crawls?  It’s got to be some kind of miracle, akin to the parting of the seas.  Or having the entire family sleep in past 8:00 a.m.

And then reality sets in.  You see, once the baby can crawl, the baby can get into trouble.  Lots and lots of trouble.  Okay, so maybe if you have a tidy, Martha Stewart-esque home, a crawling baby is no big deal.  But c’mom, folks—we’re talking about our home.  You’ve seen the photos, you know the chaos.  And it’s about five thousand times worse than when our son started crawling.  Why?  Because now his plethora of completely useless stuff has mated with our plethora of completely useless stuff, and said stuff’s mutant offspring has taken over the house. (Obviously we’ve been cursed, because it looks like he’s inherited those pack rat genes from my dad and I.  They really should do genetic testing for that kind of thing.  Really.)

And I have nightmares.  Scary, terrifying nightmares.  Not about serial killers or massive earthquakes (but thank you, Mr. Newsman, for sharing that tidbit of info with us about the expected big one in California—perhaps I can oblige you with a horrifyingly bad dream sometime in the near future), or even massive blow-outs on airplanes.  No, I have nightmares about not being able to locate my daughter, because she’s been buried alive in a sea of papers or junk somewhere in our home. 

In fact, the idea is so frightening that we might actually have to (gasp!) keep our house tidy on a weekly basis.  And I’m not sure it can be done.  My brain just doesn’t work that way.  And hubby?  Well, I don’t even think that part of his brain existed in the first place.

Okay, so I realize she had to start crawling at some point.  It’s just that thus far, I’ve managed to live in blissful denial, suppressing that concept so it only existed as a vague, fuzzy notion in the far, far reaches of my brain.  Sort of like ironing.  And there should be some kind of age limit.  No drinking until you’re twenty-one, no crawling until you’re two.  Hmmm….maybe if I’d actually obeyed the former law, I’d be having better luck with the latter.

So, based on the photographic evidence provided below, can anyone tell me how much time they think we have left?

Exhibit A:  Okay, so technically it’s not an attempt-to-crawl photo, but it was so darn cute, I had to include it.

Exhibit B:  What, has she been watching the Jane Fonda work-out video or something?

Exhibit C:  Oh no, here come the knees:

Exhibit D:  And this one is just way to close to comfort:

Well, obviously the weather has warmed up around here.  How can I tell without going outside?  By taking a gander at the view of the bathing beauties from my sliding glass door (By the way, please forgive the fuzziness of the photo.  For some reason, it looks like our doors have been utilized as someone’s personal snot rag and scratching post.   Nothing like a little hound dog slime to add flavor to our pictures.)

Okay, so at least Fergie deigned to open her eyes and look at the camera, but honestly, Skye appears to be dead.  What is it about a sunny day and warm concrete that turns even the feistiest hounds into lazy loungers?

And take a look at this photo.  It was actually taken about an hour after the first one, and in that time Fergie had begrudgingly gotten up for a drink and a quick bird chase before her next lounging session. 

What I want to know is, how in the heck did she manage to assume the exact same position she was in prior to getting up?  Seriously, can you tell the difference between this photo and the first one?  It’s like somebody made one of those chalk outlines to mark her spot (except those are just for dead people). 

Actually, I’m thinking she must have super special top secret hound dog powers, including some kind of  sunbathing radar.  Oh yeah, and the not-so-special (or secret, for that matter) ability to destroy massive amounts of household items in a single bound.

What I want to know is—when is she planning on tanning the other side?

 So, I look outside our sliding glass door this afternoon, and I realize I was right about why we have a gi-normous barren wasteland where our grass used to be.  Although, I have to admit, when I was thinking “broken sprinkler”, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. 

The Ferganator strikes again.

Exhibit A:   Oh, how sweet, the two sisters are playing together.  Wait a minute–what’s that they’ve got?

Exhibit B:  Fergie, that’d better not be what I think it is!

Exhibit C:  Son of a bitch! (or, to be more precise, daughter of a bitch)  I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure that object dangling from your mouth isn’t an approved hound-dog chewie.

Exhibit D:  Wow, Home Depot doesn’t make sprinklers the way they used to.  Anyone need a slightly well-used one?

 So, I guess getting that layout in House Beautiful is out of the question?

And I found this photo, too, from a few weeks ago.  I guess the blog-shaming effect only lasts so long, before lo and behold, there’s a pile of hubby hair in the sink again.

My son had just cleaned the sink the day before, hence the maniacal expression on his face.  He actually made me call daddy so he could give him a good tongue-thrashing over the phone.  Go, Connor!

Leaving the monster sized scissors out was also a nice touch.  Maybe my husband thought Connor wanted to give Fergie another ear, I mean hair, cut.

For awhile, I couldn’t find the little doo-hickey (technical term) that attaches the photo card to the computer (I know, it seems so strange that something would go missing in our uber-organized home), so I just came across a few photos that didn’t get posted.

 This one is from when I was sick last time and hubby worked from home, with his little helper.

And here’s a close up of Finley.  Note the finger in the mouth—that was the beginning of the end. (Actually, she did much better this weekend with the nursing–knock on wood, or hound-dog heads, or whatever else happens to be convenient to knock on at the time).