Puppy update

Well, Bella's gone and we're back to being a one-pup household.

She was obviously a sweetheart, but it was a little too much for us to handle -- and would have become impossible once Dave starts work and begins traveling 4 days a week. (SINGLE PARENT FTW.) I have decided that I don't want to be outweighed by my pets, so we can only get little fouffy dogs from here on out.

Of course, the good news is that our little girl went to a foster-to-adopt home with a woman that works remotely and can give Bells the attention she needs. Fingers crossed it works out because that dog really deserves it.

In the meantime, Dave casually mentioned something to me while on our rescue's Facebook page the other day...

"Hey, Lis, look at how cute this pit is."

Yes. Cute.

Cue me scrolling through to read the comments about this sweet-looking gal.

Cue me seeing DAVE comment about fostering her.

"Oh, yeah, I said we might be interested in fostering her," he shrugs.

You what, now?

"Just a foster, not adopt! Come on, look at that face."

Look at MY face.

"We'll just do a meet-and-greet and see if she and Rocco get along."

I don't recall that ever being a problem with Rocco.

"Oh, look, they already emailed us."


So, we may be fostering another Court Case pup next week. And we may not. Someone is already interested in adopting her, so she might not even need a foster home at all. We'll see...

Calm assertive state

I admit it: I've watched quite a bit of Dog Whisperer in my day.

I've learned a lot...namely, little dogs are huge assholes when you act like they are human babies, a swift "SHHHHHPPPPPT" noise will correct many behaviors and Cesar Millan really, really likes rollerblades.

A common theme in the show isn't just training dogs, but having the owners become the Pack Leeeeeeeader. In my house, I like to think I'm Pack Leader, but if we're being honest, this is the one the dogs listen to:

Spray bottle of doom.

[It's filled with water. I don't *actually* Febreze my dog(s)...]

Yep, that's the trick. When the spray bottle comes out, the dogs go right to a submissive state. Oh, you want to bark incessantly at nothing? SPRAY BOTTLE. You're going to play right after eating, so Rocco throws up? SPRAY BOTTLE. You're going to play on my awesome, new couch? SPRAY BOTTLE.

It's hardly parenting pioneering over here, but it works and that's all I care about. I am Mom. I am dominant. And I will spray the shit out of you if you act like a jerk in my house. And then I will cuddle you afterwards because I feel a little guilty. If that's not love, I don't know what is.

Decisions, decisions

When I was young, I wanted to get my ears pierced. I told my mom, who, surprisingly, told me that I could do it -- but that it would hurt. Even then, as a durable, injury-prone, bounce-back-from-anything gymnast, I wasn't good with pain. I started to reconsider...

Then, my mom and grandma told me to make a pros and cons list to help me decide. I thought of tons of pros (I'd look pretty, I liked jewelry, I'd be grown-up, etc.) and only one con: needle through ear hurts. A lot.

If pro-and-con lists were about length alone, the decision would have been easy. With far more pros than cons, I'd have done it instantly. But that one, singular, painful con carried much more weight for me. It took me ages to actually pull the trigger, no pun intended. But I finally did it. And now? I hardly wear earrings.

I thought about that little story in bed the other night when I was wondering whether or not we should keep this new dog in our house. There are plenty of pros and cons floating around, but once again this isn't a decision than can be boiled down to a few words on a piece of Lisa Frank paper.






This dog is sweet, smart and loving. She and Rocco get along so well. She likes to cuddle and sleep. She doesn't have a sensitive stomach. She's a pleaser.

But...

My house is more crowded. My floors have been peed on once a day. The dogs set each other off when one hears a noise. The playing is overkill.

We're all still adjusting, I know. Things have gotten better each day. If we didn't already have Rocco, this would be a no-brainer because this dog is just so awesome. But is it the right long-term living situation for the four of us?

As they say, time will tell.

How accurate ARE breed tests?

I'd be the first to say that my dog is not what we'd call "handsome."

He's a stocky (62-lb), meaty little thing with beady eyes and a butt that will NOT stop shaking. He hates cats, loves food and takes up way too much space in the bed. But, as his mom, I also think he's the Cutest Damn Thing In The World. The brindle coat, the awkward ears, the white socks on his paws -- that's my baby boy.


But, aside from being adorable, what IS he?

Before you start thinking I'm delusional, yes, I know that he's definitely a Pit Bull. But Pit Bull and what? Full Pit? Pit-Boxer? Pit-Lab?

I was starting to feel like a bad mama who just swooped up some pup from the slums and never bothered to figure out what the heck he is. I care! I want to know! So, Dave and I did what any neurotic parents would do: We ordered a breed test.

We swabbed Rocco's mouth, popped the swab into a packet and mailed it in to WisdomPanel. And as of a few weeks ago, we got the results.

Are you ready?

Rocco is...

...a...

...Pit Bull (American Staffordshire)...

...and...

...wait for it...

...a...

...fucking...

...DACHSHUND!...

...

I'll let that sink in for a moment.

...

Back? Okay. Let's resume.

My dog is a Pit Bull/Dachshund mix. And we have the paperwork to prove it:


So, mystery solved. Now, the only mystery is why Rocco's grandpa raped a doxie, but I don't think we'll ever know the true answer to that.

Instead, I've put my energies into keeping a straight face when we go on our walks and I say, "Oh, him? He's a dachshund mix. No, I'm sure. We had him breed-tested. This is my precious little doxie boy!"

I think I speak for all of us when I say, the fuck?

I'm a parent to a teenager

Rocco's family reunion was this past weekend, so we threw him in the car like good parents and took him to the crazed event.

I say "crazed" because there were, oh, 20-something dogs running around like maniacs, sniffing each other's butts, barking loudly and generally spazzing out. There was even a hump or two. For Roc, it was heaven.

Pups everywhere

Sitting contest -- we're on the right

Me, surrounded by dogs

With all that stimulation, I guess it's not reasonable to expect your 18-month-old pup to be on his best behavior... and he wasn't. Yes, he almost won the sitting contest, but good lord, does my boy have a mouth on him. He kept barking every time another dog barked and even when everyone was silent.

In fact, during the raffle announcements, they announced the winning ticket for one prize and whose dog decided to bark? Mine. "No, Roc, you didn't win anything," I told him. He slumped down as if he understood English. But I know he doesn't because otherwise he would understand "GET THAT SLOBBERY TOY AWAY FROM MOMMY BECAUSE IT'S GROSS AND I DON'T PLAY."

Anyway, he was a bit of a hellion at the reunion, but so many other dogs were too. Seeing his behavior, we cornered the trainer who was there and bombarded her with questions to help figure out why he is an ass.

"How old is he?" she asked.

"About a year-and-a-half," I told her.

"Oh yikes," she said. "Worst age ever."

"Yeah... Wait, what?"

"Yep, this is a HORRIBLE age for a dog. You're basically raising a 15-year-old."

Oh. My. God. I hate teenagers so much. I don't want one! As I was absorbing this info (and some of her great training tips), I kept an eye on my little monster. Of course, he behaved like an angel when the trainer was near. Go figure.

When we got home, it was a different story. He did something that he has NEVER, EVER done. Something I never thought he would do in his lifetime.

He peed on my bed.

On purpose.

Right in front of me.

Fucking teens! I just know it was a spite-pee. I wouldn't play with him while I was eating dinner and when I went to go fold laundry in the bedroom afterward, he came with. He sat next to the bed, waiting for permission to come up.

What a good boy, I thought. Permission granted!

He got up there, started pawing and kicking the covers to create his own little "bed" and then promptly started peeing. Peeing!

I screeched, startled him enough to make him stop mid-pee and threw him off the bed while shouting obscenities. (My neighbors love me.) Roc knew he was in deep shit. He crawled out of the room with his ears back and his tail between his legs. I continued to rage. I told Dave what happened and he joined in on the rage with me. BAD BOY, ROCCO.

And to top off the evening, he decided he didn't want to go in his crate. Oh, sure, Roc, why don't you just sleep with us, since you've been soooo good. Guess again, jerkface. It was a bit of a battle, but he eventually accepted his fate.

But seriously, where is this behavior coming from?? I will not tolerate it in my house. I used to only have two house rules: No biting and no rapes. He obeys those. But it looks like I'll have to amend the rule to: No biting, no raping, no peeing.

Gah, I thought that was a given, but I guess not.

Welcome to the teenage years. They suck.

I'm not above fighting with old men

I have what's called a "short temper." Some days, it's shorter than others. I know this. You know this. It's just a fact.

Today, my short temper reared it's ugly head and I got into a fight with a 70-year-old man.

Don't judge me.

You see, I was walking my DEADLY MURDEROUS PIT BULL KILLING MACHINE through the neighborhood after work. As we passed one of the small parks, a child almost walked into him. Rocco halfway glanced at the kid and we kept walking... Until the kid's grandpa grabbed him and said, "That dog almost got you!"

Uh, slow reaction time aside, Gramps, I assure you, your kid was in no danger. So, because he's old and I'm trying to control my temper, I let it go.

But he didn't.

He said to the child, "That's a pit bull. That's a dangerous dog."

OH, NO YOU DIDN'T.

I whipped around and walked back to him.

"Excuse me, what did you say?" I asked in that tone.

"That's a pit bull," he said.

"Yeah, and?" I challenged.

"That's a dangerous dog, not a pet."

Well, folks, I kinda lost it on this old man. I mouthed off about how this is most certainly NOT a dangerous dog and threw in a few are-you-KIDDING-me's and dramatic eye rolls every time he tried to correct me. However, you'll be pleased to know that I did not say bad words because the kids were there. That said, it was still not a pretty scene.

He even told be how back in Mexico, he saw a pit bull attack a German Shepherd.

"That's great," I said snidely, "but you know chihuahuas and tiny dogs attack like that too. All dogs can, not just pit bulls! It's ridiculous to think otherwise, come ON."

Our exchange went on until I walked off calling him an asshole under my breath.

Meanwhile, my dog? Sat down and waited until Mommy was done arguing with an old dude.

For the rest of the walk, I was ranting and raving about the ignorance of some people and how absolutely disgusting it is that adults actually TEACH their children to fear a dog because of its breed. I was in the middle of my not-so-quiet rage when I heard a tiny voice.

"Hey, can we pet your dog?"

I turned and saw three young children behind their fence, smiling eagerly.

My heart softened and I walked The Killing Machine over to the kids. He sat down while they pet him, asked his name, giggled and single-handedly erased my anger. They were so sweet to him, blissfully unaware of the stereotypes and prejudice that we face nearly every day we walk. They made me smile, too. I almost didn't want to leave.

As Roc and I turned around to finish our walk, I was happily gearing up for Round 2 with the old man, but, alas, he had departed. (No doubt whisking his grandkids away before they had a chance to be murdered by my dog on our return route.)

Oh well, I shrugged. Can't win 'em all.

So, when enraged, go find some cute neighborhood kids to hang out with, grab a much-needed beer, cuddle with your pup and thank God you are so lucky to have such a well-behaved, gentle creature in your life.

My dog is not a killing machine

Never in a million years did I think I would get a boy dog, much less a boy pit bull. But here I am, a happy mommy with the sweetest pup on the planet, full of cuddles and love.

Those of you who know him know that he will hurl all 55 pounds of himself onto you as soon as you sit down. He'll rest his head right in your lap while we talk. He'll give you kisses if you want them. He'll nudge closer and closer until he's practically on top of you. He is the very definition of sweet.

Yet, whenever I walk this people-loving, dog-friendly pit bull, people act as if I'm walking Hannibal Lecter on a leash.

They cross to the other side of the street to avoid him.

They plaster themselves against a fence to stay out of our way.

They stare, wide-eyed and terrified as they pass.

It. Is. Infuriating.

Most people don't even give him a chance. One girl, while waiting for her bus, actually walked into the street so she wouldn't be too close to us. Seriously. She'd rather get hit by a car than risk getting sniffed by this obedient, leashed dog.

On that same walk, an old man didn't even give us the opportunity to move out of his way; instead, he immediately started walking on ice to avoid Rocco. In case you don't know, old man + ice = DANGER. But again, he'd rather break some bones that risk getting a glance from my pup.

Now, I understand that some people are scared of dogs. But this happens far too often for that many people to have a canine complex. No, this is pure, unadulterated pit-bull prejudice.

It really disgusts me how many people give us that "look," the one that says, "Ugh, how dare you bring a vicious, fighting beast into this neighborhood and have the nerve to walk him within 20 feet of my personal space." Is Rocco stronger than most dogs? Yes. Is he aggressive? Absolutely not. You'd know that if you didn't sprint into oncoming traffic to avoid us.

But because he's a pit bull, he is deemed dangerous. And it's bullshit.

I don't know every single pit bull in the world, so yeah, there are some shitty pits out there. (Just like there are shitty labs, greyhounds, poodles, etc.) There's even one pit bull in my neighborhood that always tries to attack Roc for no discernible reason. It's true that these dogs were originally bred for fighting, and, unfortunately, some ignorant people still follow that tradition, giving all pits a bad name.

That said, stereotyping every pit bull you see as a murderous killing machine is just wrong. Not just morally or ethically, but logically.

According to the American Temperament Test Society, pit bulls have an average temperament score that even beats out the "ultimate family dog," the Golden Retriever -- not to mention many, many more. Generally speaking, they are not the carnivorous little devils that you see in the media.

Speaking of the media, if you want to read some stories about heroic pit bulls, click here.

I couldn't be happier that Rocco is in our lives and I don't know what we did to be lucky enough to end up with such a well-trained, kind-hearted little love machine. What I do know is that I keep hoping we're helping change the unfair stereotype about pit bulls. And in the meantime, if you live in Chicago and want a little extra puppy love, you know where to find us.

My baby boy

I've been working like a fucking madwoman on the weekdays and freelancing on the weekends, so this dear blog of mine is being neglected more than a ginger stepchild. I do have some things I want to say though. It's just a matter of finding the time to get it out.

Sooo, in the meantime, here are some picture of the newest love of my life, Rocco.

Weekend with Baby Lu

Hiya kids.

So, when I last left off, I had Baby Lu with me for a few days. It was quite interesting.

Mommy Ang jokes that Lu is "the prettiest, not the smartest," but we know that she IS quite smart. And stubborn. This is what I imagine goes through her brain: PLAYTIME, must piss on Aunt Lisa's floor, I'm hungry, time to piss on Lisa's floor again, hey now I'll shit on the floor, PLAY WITH ME, PLAY WITH ME, PLAY WITH ME, I'm sleepy, just kidding - I have to pee on your floor again, nap time, PLAY WITH ME, watch me piss on your floor.

In case you're wondering, the princess turned my apartment into her own personal toilet, starting with my down comforter on Night One. Even though I took her outside a bunch, she just didn't seem to care for 40-degree weather, strange noises and the sweater I made her wear to help combat the cold. After a battle of wills, I gave up and just let her go in the apartment. You win, Lu!

During the day, I used whatever I could find to block Lu off in the living room, where I work. Since my apartment is a long, open space, this was a creative challenge. I ended up going with a patio table, a trash can, a recycling can and a little suitcase. NOW I WIN, LULU.


Yeah, she hated that.

Anyway, Lu and I were alone together most of the time, but when Uncle Dave came home, good god, was she excited. She would sprint up and down the entire apartment bringing him toys, she'd stay with him in the kitchen while he cooked, she'd hump his arm whenever possible, etc. Basically, they bonded.


For all of the trouble Lu and I had together, we also cuddled like crazy. During her daytime naps, she was always by my side; during bedtime, she crawled under the covers in between my legs; during her evening naps, she was curled up in my arms. It was pretty damn cute.


All in all, though, she was a lot of work, but she was also cute and hilarious. And a humper.

EDIT: I originally posted the wrong video up there because that's just how careful I am with this blog. Here's the humping in all its frantic glory.



Oh, Lu. Anyway, all of this, my friends, means that we're one step closer to getting a pup of our own. Baby steps, that's how I roll.

Baby Lu will make me more responsible

Little Lu is coming over tonight -- from now through Sunday, I'll be taking care of her while Mommy Ang has a blast in Vegas.

How's it gonna go? Lu and I are totally in love, but I've never been responsible for taking her outside, cleaning up her shit, keeping her entertained and keeping her safe. The horror of it all is that she's not a sleeper like I am. Ang says Lu sleeps better when she's in the bed rather than her crate, so I say, come on in, little one! Whatever will give me another hour of drowsy bliss.

So, we'll see how this turns out. All I know is if I can't handle Baby Lu for four days, I can't handle my own dog, period. It will be an eye-opening experience either way. Stay tuned...

He's cute, but broken

This is Moe:

This is Moe's ramp:
that my brother built

Poor little Moe is a gimp!

It started when he was having trouble jumping up on the bed a while back. Instead of darting into the bedroom and hurling his 55 pounds up there like some sort of out-of-control missile, he would instead walk into the room and stand with just his front paws on the bed, staring at my mom. My mom would then reach over and hoist him up.

Not like him at all. He's too much of a spaz to be considered that lazy.

So, even though Moe was still running around in the yard and being a general menace, the fam took him to the vet to get checked out.

The vet's diagnosis?

Torn ACL.

In BOTH knees.

This little maniac has been sprinting, jumping and acting wild while he's got torn ACLs. We have no idea when it happened, which makes my mom look like the worst dog parent EVER.

Well, it turns out the running can only last so long when both of your ACLs are essentially disintegrated. As of last weekend, Moe aggravated one of his legs, so now he's gimping around on just 3. Another trip to the vet had him scheduled for surgery in early August, but until then, he needs a ramp to actually go down the 2 steps to get outside.

Brave or stupid? We'll never know.

Monty

I had planned on my next post being somewhat of a wrap-up from my weekend trip to Florida a few days ago.

I was going to tell you about drinking sparkling wine on the balcony overlooking the marina, laying out at the breezy beach, tanning in the serene "quiet zone" of the grown-up pool, floating past the mini-waterfalls of the pool's lazy river and getting flashed by my brother-in-law's bare ass before going to see Fiddler on the Roof. (Hey, they can't all be Hallmark moments.)

It was a great weekend -- much needed by all of us.

But instead of looking back on the weekend and thinking fondly about all those things, I'll always look back on this as the weekend my dog died. My baby girl.

January 23, 1998 - April 27, 2009

While putting on my makeup on Sunday night in Florida to go to dinner, my cell phone rang. It was my brother. Since he's moving to Chicago this summer, I figured he was calling about apartment-related matters.

I answered the phone with a chipper, "Hey!"

Silence.

"What's up?" I tried again.

When my brother spoke, he was more shaken up than I'd ever seen him. He told me that Monty had 2 seizures.

"You mean, what, she just started shaking?" I asked.

"No," he said flatly. "She dropped to the ground and convulsed for a full minute. Right in front of me."

My heart sank. My stomach churned. The mascara quietly slipped out of my hand.

My brother told me that they were taking Monty to the hospital to get her checked out. On the way there, she had another seizure in the car. While getting checked out, she had a fourth seizure -- except this one caused her to stop breathing. She turned blue and had to be intubated. They medicated her, removed the tube and gave her oxygen while someone sat with her all night for observation.


While all of this was happening, I was in Florida, helpless and terrified.

If they can just keep her on some meds, I thought, I can catch a flight home to see her this week. Heck, maybe she'll come out of it. Maybe she just has epilepsy and will need to be on more medication to control it. We're talking about a dog that survived cancer! She's tough! She could be okay, I told myself.

I didn't sleep much that night. I didn't talk much in the morning. I was numb during my flight back to Chicago.


The second the plane touched down, I turned my phone on and saw a text from my sister. "She looks great," sis said. They had picked Monty up from the hospital.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. I called home to get the details and was told that the baby was at home, calm but exhausted. Her blood work came back normal. Mom was keeping an eye on her, but my dad had even gone into work. Monty would be taken into the vet in 15 minutes to see what was going on. I was cautiously optimistic.

Throughout the day, I got several more phone calls and updates from my brother and mom.

Monty failed her neurological exam. The vet thinks this is a primary lesion on her brain. The hospital needs to confirm.

They do.

My mom called me, crying, to tell me that they had to put Monty to sleep that afternoon. My baby girl of 11 years -- who almost NEVER missed a night of sleeping on my bed, who gave "hugs" with both paws, who played gently with my mom and I, who greeted my dad when he came home from work every evening -- she wasn't going to be around anymore.

The last time I saw her? That was the last time I'd ever see her. I can't describe how much that stings.


So, at 3:30pm yesterday, my little girl (all dopey from the medication) was brought into a room with my parents and sister so they could say goodbye. They took their time, petting her and talking to her. My mom gave her an extra hug for me. My sister managed to lift the poor 55-pound pup onto the table and my mom kept talking to her the whole time. There were tears from everyone.

Just before 5pm, I got that final phone call. It was done. I lost it.


I spent the rest of the night fluctuating between sobbing and being eerily calm. I watched TV, played DS, drank -- anything to distract myself. A temporary fix, of course, but it got me through the evening.

And now? I don't know. I've been focusing on work, which is good. Today I can think about my dog and not burst into tears, like I did all day yesterday, which is even better. But I still get sick to my stomach thinking about the last two days of her life and the last time I saw her. I guess that's the grief and it will pass with time...


RIP, baby girl. We miss you already.

Happy Belated Birthday Moe-Moe

Yay, Moe is 4!


This is definitely a belated birthday post, but none of us have any idea when you were actually born, Moe. Unlike my baby princess, Monty... her birthday is January 23. Aw, Monty. So perfect...



But what about you, Moe? No clue when you were actually born, you little maniac. We think it was at the end of June, but who knows.




In honor of Moe's 4th birthday, whenever it really was, here's how he came to our family and the reason why we don't know his exact birthday...

Back in 2004, my lovely sister (who may or may not read this) was working at a vet's office in Memphis. Dave and I came in town for the 4th of July to celebrate with the fam. At some point early in the weekend, I was driving Dave and my grandma over to my parents' house when my sister called. This was our conversation:


Me: What up.

Carrie: I'm bringing a dog home.

Me: We already have a dog. What do you mean, you're bringing one home?

Grandma: What's happening?

Me: Hang on, Grandma.

Carrie: There's this tiny black puppy at the vet and Doc is out of town all weekend and the puppy is too young and sick to stay there alone. So, do you think mom will mind if we keep him for the weekend?

Me: Um, yes. She'll flip her shit. You know how she is with puppies. She'll want to keep him and send him back all at the same time. It's a very schizophrenic phenomenon.

Carrie: I'm kinda hoping we do keep him. He's adorable.

Me: You can give him to Grandma...

Grandma: Don't give anything to Grandma! What's happening?

Me: Carrie got you a dog.

Carrie: No, I want to keep him myself!

Grandma: I don't want a dog!

Me: This is too easy.


So, we return home to see my mom cradling this tiny black fur ball. He was so sick, he wasn't moving very much and he was very weak. We could tell he was the most loving little thing, despite his fragile condition.


We named him Moe because he was so mopey. (We're a very creative bunch.) Little Moe was apparently abandoned in the ghettos of Memphis and found, near-death, by a police officer who brought the pup to his church. A woman at his church brought Moe to the vet's office and my sister scooped him up and took him home.

So, we ended up keeping him. Naturally.




And here's a story about how we discovered what kind of dog he was...

My mom and I were at PetSmart picking up dog stuff for Moe. As he grew, his features become more distinct and less generic-black-dog. But we still couldn't figure out exactly what he was. So, at PetSmart, I wander over to a rack of "Breeds for Dummies" books.


Me: Ma, come here. I think I found Moe.

Mom: Oh my God! I've been dying to know what he is! Let me see the picture. Oh, wow! That's definitely him. What breed is it?

Me: Okay, but don't curse.

Mom: Why would I cu---

I flip over the book.

Pit Bulls for Dummies.

Mom: Oh, what the fuck. Goddamn it. Fucking shit.

Me: Well done.


So there you have it. We accidentally adopted a Pit Bull. He is the sweetest, most loving dog ever. He doesn't stop giving kisses (annoying), he cuddles when it's bedtime (adorable) and he lets me use him as a pillow without squirming or anything (awesome). He's still kind of a shithead sometimes, but I think it's because he's a boy. Go figure.

Happy birthday, you little shit.