But She's a Dog (or The Fine Art of Refusing to Argue)

I'd never owned a small-breed dog before Zoe, so, after we got her, I was surprised to learn that she had hair instead of fur. That meant she had to be clipped regularly (hair won't stop growing at a set length like fur), and, since hair doesn't insulate well, she needed cold-weather clothes.

Well, okay then. I found a place that sold discounted dog clothes and set out to persuade Jay that I had to buy them. But even after showing him copious amounts of hair vs fur data, he remained unconvinced. 

He (slowly, as if I have difficulty comprehending English): She doesn't need clothes. She's a dog.

Me (earnestly): But because she was bred to have hair, she can't handle cold weather.

He (persistently): She's a dog. 

Me (with a little tear): She shouldn't have to suffer because selective breeding ensured she doesn't have fur to keep her warm.

He (rolling his eyes at the little tear): She's a dog. I'm sure her 'hair' will keep her warm, even in the snow.

At this point, we could have argued until the most determined person wore the other person out. In this case, I knew that I was the most determined person (especially since this issue involved altruistic shopping), but since I don't like arguing with Jay, I decided to agree with him.

Me (relenting, with a sigh): You know, honey, you have a point. She is a dog.

He (gratified): Yes, she is.

Me (agreeably): And, maybe, in spite of the research to the contrary, her body hair will keep her warm in the wind, rain, and snow. 

He (nodding with satisfaction at my capitulation): I'm sure it will. 

(Long pause)

Me (brightly): You know, sweetie, I just remembered from High School Biology that the human body is entirely covered in hair except for the palms, soles, and eyelids.

He: It's not the same thing.

Me (firmly): Hair is hair. If her hair can keep her warm, then your hair can keep you warm. From now on, the only thing you need is a loincloth, no matter what the weather.

He:  Now, listen---

Me (happily):  Think of the money we'll save when you stop wearing pants, shirts, sweaters, and coats!

He (shaking his head, mumbling): Oh, no. What ideas did I just put in her head?

Me (humbly): Thank you, oh, wise husband, for setting me straight about this 'hair can keep a body warm in the winter' stuff. I was wrong; you were right. 

(He rubs his face, groaning.) 

Me (warmly musing): Think of how cute you two will look taking long walks in the snow--her in nothing but a bow, and you in nothing but skivvies.

He (throwing his hands in the air): If you promise that you won't donate all my clothes while I'm at work, then you can get her a couple of shirts or sweaters or whatever.

Which was a silly thing to say since I wouldn't have donated all of his clothes; I would have left him some undies for modesty's sake. But I do love a man who is willing to change his mind, so I let the comment go. Besides, I was already shopping!

Jay flatly refused to walk the dog while only wearing his boxers so I could take a photo to illustrate this post, so, sadly, I can only show you pictures of Zoe.

 










Verse of the day: (Isaiah 61:10) "I delight greatly in the Lord; my soul rejoices in my God. For He has clothed me with garments of salvation and arrayed me in a robe of His righteousness..." Which is the best attire in all circumstances.


For more stories about Zoe (and/or Jay), click on Comical Cone of Contentment, But She Likes It!, and Pranking the Human.

For another story about when Jay abruptly changed his mind after I quite graciously agreed with him, click here.

But She Likes It!

Disclaimer: Posted with Zoe and Jay's approval.

Speaking of fathers and daughters, when we first welcomed Zoe, a Bichon Frise mix, into our home, she was two years old and weighed nine pounds. 

She hadn't lived with us long before her girth slowly increased. Caleb, our Korean Jindo, regulates his own weight (he'll stop eating if he gains a few pounds), so this was new to me.

I carefully monitored Zoe's food intake and made sure we exercised her regularly with long, brisk walks. (And by "we" I mean "Jay," of course. Hey, walking is good for him!) 

Yet, she still did not lose weight...

She gradually grew chubbier until she eventually weighed almost twenty pounds!
 

To: Resembles a beached manatee

From: Wouldn't hurt to gain a couple pounds

Actually, a baby manatee may have been smaller than Zoe
(photo credit: http://ambergriscaye.com/photogallery/121005.html)

I fed the dogs when Jay was at the fire station, but on the nights he was home, he insisted on serving their dinner so he "could bond with them." One night, I realized that he had been giving Zoe half as much food as he gave Caleb. 

Me:  Jay, she shouldn't get that much food!

He (shrugging):  I couldn't remember the exact amount to give her.

Me (logically):  Honey, Caleb is forty pounds. If she eats half of his portion size, then she'll be twenty pounds. She should be ten pounds, so you have to feed her less.

He (illogically):  But she likes it.

Me:  Jay! We have to make decisions based on her health. We're the parents.

I marked a measuring cup and put it in the dog food bag. Jay claimed he was adhering to the guideline.

Yet, she still did not lose weight... 

Matthew 10:26 says that "there is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known," so it was only a matter of time before I noticed that Zoe always followed Jay with unusual enthusiasm when he went in the kitchen "to get a drink" before bed. The next time they went, I hazarded a guess.

Me (calling out, suspiciously):  Jay, what is Zoe eating? 

He (after a long pause):  You can hear that?

Me (suspicions confirmed!):  What did you give her?

He (after a longer pause):  Just some butter.

Me:  Butter! Jay, you can't feed her butter. No wonder she's so chubby.  

He:  But she really wanted some. She even sat up.

Me:  I don't care if she puts on Highland Tartan and dances a jig; don't give her butter.

He:  But she likes it.  

Me:  No more butter!
 
I thought that would solve the problem, and, when questioned, he assured me that he'd stopped feeding her butter. 

Yet, she still did not lose weight...

A few months later, I saw what looked like white paint on Zoe's ear and chin.

Me (puzzled): Jay, are you touching up the paint somewhere in the house?

He:  No. Why?

Me:  It looks like Zoe has white paint on her face.

He (after a long, long pause):  It's probably sour cream.

Me:  Did you say sour cream?

He (lamely):  I thought it might be getting old, so I mixed a little with her food.

Me (with my left eyebrow raised):  Yeah. And how much of this "old" sour cream did you give her?

He (vaguely):  Not much. Whatever was left.

Me (with both eyebrows raised):  Yeah. And exactly how much was that? 

He:  Only like a third of the container.

Me:  A third of the container? Did you say a third of the container?

He (reluctantly):  Well, it probably wasn't the best thing to give her.

Me (looking at the dietary info):  Not the best thing? Since this little dog just consumed about 300 calories and 25 fat grams, I would wholeheartedly agree. And all this time you had 'no idea' why she was so overweight?

He (stubbornly):  But she likes it.

This, my friends, is why God did not give Jay daughters.
 

A sour cream-smeared Zoe winking (literally) at her Partner-in-Crime

Verse of the day:  (Proverbs 22:9) “A generous man will be blessed, for he shares his food with those in need." 

For those ready to call Pet Protective Services:  Thanks to my daily monitoring of Papa Pushover, Zoe might still be a bit chubby, but at least she no longer looks like a miniature fuzzy hippo.

Doggy Bags or Daddy Bags

My dad (for whom we can blame my sense of humor) wanted me to share this story on my blog because he thought it was funny. My reaction was a little different than his.

This post is for you, Daddy, in honor of Father's Day.

Jay (my husband), Caleb and Zoe (our dogs), and I visit my parents across the country at least once a year. On our last trip, one of my cousins took Jay and me out to lunch. Caleb is my Medical Alert dog, so he went to the restaurant with us, but Zoe (a little Bichon-mix) had to stay home. 

We ordered barbequed ribs. Delicious. I collected the fatty scraps, chopped them up, and put them in a "doggy bag" to dole out to my spoiled pups throughout the next week (to the Pet Police: we mix very small amounts with their dry food for flavor). I also packed up a ton of fries that we hadn't even touched.

Fat and half-chewed-on-meat for the dogs

After lunch, we stopped by my parents' house. I went in to tell my dad, "We're going to the cabin to watch a movie. I'll call you if we're going to be gone more than a couple of hours. Oh, and I brought food for you," I added, as I shoved the containers in the refrigerator. "They gave us way too many fries." 

As evening fell, I dutifully called home to say, "Dad, we decided to eat dinner here. Zoe's probably hungry by now, so could you feed her? In the refrigerator you'll find two containers. One has fries for you. The other has fat that I brought home for the dogs. Just mix like half a teaspoon of that in Zoe's dry food or she won't eat it."

My mom was at my sister's house, so I expected my dad to be a little grumpy when he found out he'd be eating alone, but I was surprised to hear how annoyed he sounded when he snapped, "You said you brought food home for me."

"Fries are food. I didn't say that I brought you an entire meal. You can make some scrambled eggs. French fries taste good with eggs."

Looks like food to me

"You said you brought food home for me!" he persisted.

"Dad, you can figure out something to eat with the fries. There's lunch meat in the refrigerator. Why don't you make a sandwich? After you eat, will you please feed Zoe?"

"You said you brought food home for me!" was his stubborn reply.

"Sorry, dad, but all we had left were fries. Eat them or not--your choice. Anyway, in the other container you'll find a blob of chopped fat covered in sauce from the barbequed ribs. Just mix a tiny bit into one scoop of Zoe's dry food, okay?" 

"You said you brought food home for me!" he insisted, slowly and distinctly, as if I were the one with a communication problem.

I was getting exasperated when Jay laughingly interrupted me with the interpretation. "Pamela, he's trying to tell you that he thought you brought the fat home for him, and he already ate it!"  

Oops.

Ew!! 

Verse of the day:  (I Corinthians 10:27b, 31) "...eat whatever is set before you, asking no question for conscience’ sake...Whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do it to the glory of God."

My dad grew up during the Great Depression when lard on toast was a treat, so he insists the fries with barbeque-sauce-soaked-fat were delicious. I'll take his word for it.

Medicated Part Two

This post will make more sense if you read last week's post first. It's ingeniously titled Medicated Part One to distinguish it from this one, Medicated Part Two.

Then we get to the worst part of the day. I was feeling better in the afternoon after a long, damp nap (reference is from last week's post) when I heard sirens in the distance. Why is that important, you ask? Let's back up a bit.

The nice thing about Korean Jindo dogs is that they don't bark much. Caleb would bark to alert me when a person came on our property, but he wouldn't bark at birds, squirrels, or paper bags flying in the wind. Which was good, generally speaking. 

My problem was that on the few occasions he did bark, he only barked when outside. I wanted him to bark when he was inside and someone came to the door (especially while Jay was at the fire station for a 24-hour shift and I was home alone). Caleb's fierce, white-wolf looks didn’t intimidate strangers when he was silently peeking from around the corner. 

Our vet told us we'd done an amazing job with Caleb's rehab so far (a neighbor rescued him and gave him to us several months earlier), but advised us to continue to build his confidence until he felt secure enough to bark while in the house. The vet was an older man with a heavy European accent, and since I'm illogically convinced that a heavy European accent guarantees expertise, I raptly listened.  

While looking for ways to boost Caleb's confidence, I noticed that when he was outside, he howled happily, tail wagging, when he heard firetruck sirens.

 

A light bulb went on (bing!). I figured that if I could encourage him to howl indoors, then he would eventually feel secure enough to bark indoors as well. Brilliant!

So, the next time Caleb was inside and I heard sirens, I cleverly said, "Howl," and gave him a demonstration. He looked perplexed that I was howling in the house, but eventually joined me by making some faint, strange noises, with his forehead puckered. He was possibly asking if I was losing my mind, but I praised his vocal efforts with an enthusiastic, "Good howl!"

When Jay came home from work the next morning, we heard sirens again (no, we don't have an arsonist on our street; we live a couple of miles from the fire station.), so I commanded, "Howl," and we both howled for Caleb. After a few minutes of our idiotic indoor bawling, he finally joined us with a response that sounded like a dying moose.

Most likely it was doggy laughter.  

But I exclaimed, "Good howl!" to encourage him.

 

Back to the worst part of my day...I was feeling better in the afternoon after a long, damp nap (reference is from last week's post) when I heard sirens in the distance. Caleb was outside, and I knew he'd howl when they came closer. Excitedly, I shouted for Jay, who was in the kitchen, to rush outside and join him. 

Jay obligingly ambled out the side door. He's very good to me.

Thinking, I, too, could help, I climbed out of bed and went out on the back deck. I couldn't see Jay, who was around the corner of the house, but when I couldn't hear him, I had an annoying suspicion that he was humoring me by standing there whispering, "Howl. Howl. Ah-rooo. Ah-rooo," under his breath. 

The sirens were lessening, but I smugly decided that I, at least, was dedicated enough to our pup's rehab to continue the exercise. 

I leaned over the deck railing in my powder blue, snowflake pajamas and howled. 

To my joy, Caleb raced from the side of the house, barking! I proudly assumed that he was responding to my feral vocalization, so, although the sirens were long gone, I threw back my head and howled again. 

Nice and long and loud. 

It was a spectacular howl!

As I slowly lowered my head at the end of my award-worthy canine call, I noticed that Caleb had kept running because he was actually barking at the neighbor who lives behind us; she was next to our back fence, partially concealed by the bush she'd been clipping, staring at me in open-mouthed shock. 

She abruptly put her head down and scurried away. 

We don’t know her well, so I desperately wanted to yell to her rapidly retreating back, "I'M MEDICATED. HEAVILY!" 

Verse of the day:  (2 Corinthians 15:13-14) "If it seems we are crazy, it is to bring glory to God. And if we are in our right minds, it is for your benefit. Either way, Christ's love controls us."

Zoe pretending she wants a howling lesson (I wasn't going to lean over the railing this time).

She didn't let out a sound, so I began to suspect she was just egging me on.

Confirmation of the set-up complete when she burst out laughing.
"Humans! Ha! They're so gullible."

Follow up:  I stopped taking that prescription (to the great relief of my husband and several neighbors). So I can no longer use medication as an excuse for my behavior.

I miss that.

Pranking the Human

As I've said in a previous post, our cat Louie Belle likes to carry live, unharmed animals through her cat door and set them free in the house so that I can chase them through our humble abode to capture them (hopefully) and release them back outdoors. 

It's important to note that Caleb (our Jindo dog), Zoe (our little, black Bichon-mix), and Louie Belle flatly refuse to help me catch them. To the point that the feral critters have literally climbed over the lounging bodies of my pets to escape me.

Louie Belle most often brings in lizards, mice, and voles, but she occasionally catches baby bunnies in the early spring.
 

One of the many baby bunnies brought in by Louie Belle

Usually the wee rabbits are calm and subdued, but occasionally she grabs a lively one who vehemently protests the kidnapping (or bunny-napping, as it were). Don't let their tiny bodies and mild nature fool you; their screech can rival a fire alarm (seriously!) in volume and shrillness when they're upset. 

One early Sunday morning (while Jay was at work, of course), I was jolted from the deepest sleep by ear-splitting shrieks. As I lurched out of bed, I instinctively grabbed a shirt that was in a Goodwill pile. I threw it over Louie Belle who was crouched in the hallway with a screaming bunny in her mouth. As she dropped the little cottontail, I scooped it up in the shirt and stumbled out of the front door, still half asleep, while Zoe barked and ran circles in the foyer, overstimulated by the startling event.  

I quickly dropped the loosely-wrapped bunny under a bush next to the porch, and then turned to go back inside.

Just in time to see Zoe, in her considerable excitement, bump the door.

Which closed it.  

And automatically locked it. 

I stood dazed, disheveled, and wearing only my knee-length sleep shirt. I tried to tell myself that I was surely still in bed, dreaming, but the freezing rain on my bare feet finally convinced me otherwise.

Louie Belle and Zoe bounced from window to window to watch as I waded through frigid puddles and squished through mud to get to the backyard (I swear they were giggling), desperate to find our hidden key and fervently praying that the neighbors were still sleeping.

Caleb is now my favorite pet.

Zoe and Louie Belle trying to look innocent while thinking:

Baby bunny:  Free
Door nudge:  Free
Look on Mom's face when she realized we locked her outside in her sleep shirt:  Priceless!

Verse of the day:  (Revelation 3:20) "I (Jesus) stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in..." 
  
To read about a lovely gift that Jay did not appreciate, click here.To read about more presents from my pets, click here. 

Thanks! I Think.

Today is my birthday, so this post will be short (like me). 

I've flattered myself that because I've kept my face out of the sun for most of my life, I look younger than I actually am. People have kindly kept me floating in this delusion as I've aged, but I was abruptly brought back to earth a few years ago when a dear friend (who was much older than me and close to fifty years old), talked with her mother and my name came up. 

Her mother assumed my friend and I were around the same age, and, thinking to compliment me, remarked, "You know, Pamela doesn't look like she's fifty." 

Which was a relief considering I was nowhere near fifty! 

Had to laugh. Happy birthday to me. 

She doesn't look like she's in 5th grade

Occasionally when I tell this story, someone bristles, "What's wrong with being fifty?"  

Nothing at all.  

And someday when I turn fifty, I won't be any happier if someone says to me, "Honey, no matter what anyone says; you don't look a day over sixty-two!"

Verse of the day: (Proverbs 20:29) "...the glory of the old is their gray head of wisdom." I color the gray out of my hair so I don't intimidate anyone with the profusion of "wisdom" sprouting on my head.

Caleb: You still look like a puppy to me (wink)! Happy Birthday!
Zoe: Oh, brother! Caleb, you are soooo embarrassing (eye roll).

 

Pajama Pants

I suspect being home all the time has affected my view of which clothing is appropriate for which occasion.  

I moseyed out to our side yard one recent morning to see how much progress Jay had made in the construction of our soon-to-be raised garden bed. I found him talking to two boys from our neighborhood. The youngest looked at me oddly, so I answered his unspoken comment with, "Yes, I'm wearing pajama pants and a sweatshirt. And, yes, I slept in them. Leave me alone--this is the South, so I'm allowed to be eccentric."

Hens (appropriately dressed in feathered ensembles) and Pamela (caught in the yard in her pajama pants)

To be fair, the pajama pants matched my coat perfectly. And they were advertised as "lounge wear." Since I had no intention of joining Jay in digging, there was no reason for me to change into "exertion wear."     

Zoe, on the other hand, always wears what's appropriate. Once, while my dad was visiting, she wore a cute, comfortable dress all day. When we were ready for bed, my dad picked her up to take her into his room. She was half asleep, and I didn't feel like changing her, so I lazily said, "That dress is just like a nightgown, isn't it?"  

Jay agreed.  

Dad agreed.  

Zoe disagreed.

This is a dress, not a nightgown

A few minutes later, Jay's and my bedroom door popped open, and Zoe stood, swaying sleepily, in the doorway. She toddled in, put her nose on her pajamas lying at the end of our bed, and looked at me with drowsy eyes like, "Surely, you didn't expect me to sleep in a dress."

Another day, my dad called out, "Pamela, something's wrong with Zoe! She's always excited to go for a walk, but now she won't leave the house."
 
I know her well, so I yelled back, "Dad, what's she wearing?"

"What's she wearing? What does that have to do with anything?"
 
"Dad, is she still in her pajamas?"

"Um, yeah. Are you trying to tell me she knows the difference between pajamas and the rest of her clothes? Don't be ridiculous. "

"Dad, just change her clothes."
 
He did (no doubt rolling his eyes). As soon as she was appropriately dressed, she raced to the door. I could hear my dad muttering, "I just can't believe this. I see it, but I just can't believe it." 

Sleep attire--not to be confused with STREET attire

Surely, he didn't expect her to walk though the neighborhood in pajamas.

Perhaps I should get her some "lounge wear."

Verse of the day:  (I Tim 2:9)  "...wear modest and appropriate clothing..."  
I have "modest" down, but I'm still working on "appropriate."  If you see me in Wal-Mart in pajamas, it's time to stage in an intervention. 


For a story about Jay's questionable clothing choices, click here.
For another story about Zoe's attire, click here.