You Caption It

Everybody Loves the Princess Ball

Merry Christmas from Our Zoo to Yours

I Would Caption This, but the Only Word that Comes to Mind is FAT

Beauty and the Beast

When I Say the Dog Will Do Anything for That Kid, I'm Not Kidding

Wouldn't Want Anyone to Accuse Me of Playing Favorites

Why the Long Face?

My Money is on the Cat

The Future Looks . . . Furry. And Wet.

I married a nut. An animal nut, that is. Given the opportunity, Mr. Husband would have an array of hedgehogs, a troop of monkeys, a muster of peacocks, a pack of dogs, a litter of cats, and a mob of other animals running around our house. I've often said that my dream house would be surrounded by at least three acres of property, but the truth of the matter is that he and his merry animal obsession would ruin that dream by taking over every spare inch. So, I make do with our smaller yard and remain very Bob Barker-ish about the whole pet population thing around here.

If ever I need a reminder why I have to remain guarded about the whole pet population thing, all I have to do is think of Bobo the Bunny. Bobo was an all-white bunny Mr. Husband found running around the parking lot outside our apartment in Ohio. Bobo was apparently a former pet who had been set free because he was very tame and perfectly willing to follow Mr. Husband into our enclosed patio area. Mr. Husband set Bobo up with a rockin' bunny bachelor pad out on that patio. Bobo had food, water, was granted occasional visitation by our cats, and had quite the nice-sized garden to roam freely.

Until he ate one of my newly purchased perennial plants, that is. Then he was granted a REAL nice-sized garden to roam freely because I opened the gate and chased him out.

Alexis is the next generation of nut. If I let her get every animal she asked for, we'd have to rent Neverland just to have enough space for them all. She is mostly focused on her quest for a kitten (still ain't happening, yo), but once in a while she gets on a new bend.

Tonight, she started her quest for a baby seal. Yes, a seal. She has it all figured out. I am supposed to go buy her a big, baby seal and it MUST be a girl. Then I am supposed to go buy a pool. Alexis showed me the exact spot where the pool will have to be set up in the back yard. She's going to feed the seal breakfast burritos every day and for every meal, but the seal can only have dinner if it takes the dogs for a walk first.

Y'know, if Bobo the Bunny had contributed to the household by walking dogs or whatever, we might still have him. Clearly, Alexis is going to out-nut her father.

Fantastic.

The Adventures of Mr. Moth

I first noticed it on Wednesday. A moth had invaded our master bathroom and decided the curtain was a really good place to just hang out. I stared at it for a few moments, wondering how it had gotten in, and then wondering if it was even alive. It sat, completely unmoving, for what had to be five minutes. It didn't flinch as I blow-dried my hair, didn't budge as I slammed a drawer shut, and sat frozen in place as I walked past several times.

I probably should have tried to get rid of it right then and there, but instead I decided to see if it would just vanish on its own. It's a big house, after all, and there are four whole rooms that I basically never enter. The moth was welcome to find its way to any of those rooms. Or a certain male-type figure was welcome to notice the quarter-sized black moth on the stark white curtain and take care of it for me. Whichever.

Of course, the moth was still there later that evening. It seemed like it might be alive, but it still hadn't moved so much as a millimeter. In a rare show of mercy for a bug that had entered my No Bug Zone in the house, I just left it there. Surely it would be gone in the morning.

It wasn't.

Nor was it gone later that night or the next day.

Four days after I first spotted it, I walked into the bathroom and saw that my friendly neighborhood peeping Tom was on the floor. I wasn't sure if it had fallen off the curtain or flown down there, so I walked a wide circle around it. It didn't budge. Twenty minutes later, I picked up the hair dryer and glanced down at the moth. It didn't flinch. I went about my business, the moth about five feet away. Every once in a while I would glance down to make sure I wasn't about to be murdered by a moth-shaped nuclear weapon, but it continued to stay in its exact spot.

Until it didn't.

I didn't see it move, but I glanced down and found that the moth had turned about 45 degrees. It was no longer facing the window and was instead facing directly at me. "Guess it's not dead," I thought.

I walked past it to grab something from the closet and turned around to find that it had spun. It was facing me. Again.

I shot it a suspicious look as I walked past, returning to the bathroom counter. I wiped up a blob of toothpaste surely left by a certain 3-year old then glanced down to see that the moth had turned to face me. Again.

GAME ON.

I decided it was time for Mr. Moth to meet Mr. Dyson. I stomped out to the hall closet and returned to find that Mr. Moth was AGAIN staring straight at me. I plugged in the vacuum (most of our bathroom has carpet--I know, WTF, right?) and prepared for a Mr. Moth vs. Mr. Dyson showdown.

As the vacuumed neared the moth, I suddenly hesitated then swerved just left of the moth. I stood cussing silently in my head at the major wimpery that had just happened. I then pulled the vacuum back to take another swipe. The moth sat completely unmoving as I shoved a death chamber directly at it. Probably because it was a mind-reading nuclear weapon and knew I would wimp out again.

I KNOW.

What. the. heckery. feckery?

I am not a wuss when it comes to bugs. I swear. I usually show exactly NO mercy. Somehow, though, I had come to pity that stupid kamikaze moth. TOTALLY RIDICULOUS.

After I had vacuumed every square inch of carpet except the one square inch the moth was occupying, I slammed the power button off, called myself a few choice names, and went back to cleaning up the bathroom counter.

The moth just sat there staring at me, probably laughing hysterically that I had shown it mercy just as it was about to blow my head off. As I finished scrubbing the mirror, I decided that the moth had to be very near death and that I would get rid of its carcass that evening. Surely it would be dead of natural causes at that point so I wouldn't have to have the death of a moth on my conscious.

Shut up. I KNOW.

As I tossed the paper towels into the cabinet, Cody (our Havanese) came galloping into the room, his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth and his eyes lit with mischief. He galloped over to me, gave me a love rub, and then turned to leave.

The next few moments were a blur as the moth turned to make sure it could keep its beady little eyes on me and as Cody set his beady little eyes on the moth. Before I could string together the syllables "Co-deee-nooooo," Cody had stuck a paw on top of the moth, batting at it like a miniature baseball. The dog scooped his paw downward then drug the moth across the carpet. It fluttered backwards, free of its captor. The moth tried to regain its composure and righted itself just as Cody's paw found its way back to the moth. Again the excited pup mopped the floor with the moth. And again. And again.

The moth that had sat unmoving for days in the bathroom was suddenly full of fight, its wings flapping and its legs flaying. It's eyes were probably darting to and fro (I don't know because there was NO WAY I was going to get close enough to find out for sure) as the dog tossed it all over the room.

And then as quick as it began, it was over. The moth sat unmoving and clearly dead and the dog galloped off, probably in search of a new victim to torture.

I grabbed Mr. Dyson and put the period on the end of Mr. Moth's four-day adventure story, but not before chewing myself out for having let a furball do my dirty work for me.

Her Expression Absolutely Never Changes

A Dose of the Bully Baby

Plotting His Escape

There's Something Not Quite Right About This Picture

Five Things I Wish We Had Found on the Bulldog

1. An ATM hidden under her tail. I could totally use a convenient little spot for getting some extra free cash. I'd even be willing to put up with the requisite odor of Bulldog farts on my money.

2. A chocolate bar tucked into the folds above her nose. If I can be picky, I could really go for a Snickers right now.

3. The secret to eternal life tattooed on her belly. I could sell that sucker for major cash.

4. A brain between her ears. Enough said.

5. A new dishwasher under her toes. For the love of my sanity, the freakin dishwasher that came with this house has got to be the loudest blasted dishwasher that was ever made. You could land a helicopter in the kitchen and I wouldn't hear it because all I can hear is WHOOSH WHOOSH WHOOSH from the ugly dishwasher that doesn't even manage to get dishes clean.

Instead of any of those fun options, we found a tick on Meg today. A TICK. On the dog who routinely mistakes me for her personal portable pillow.

Ick.

Blech.

Puke.

Gag.

Can't. stop. itching.

Haaalp! They're Ganging Up on Me!

I'm outnumbered. There are two animal-loving freaks in this house, and just one semi-sane version of me. I predicted long ago that those two would eventually gang up on me, and now here I am--on the bottom of the kitty pile.

I probably started it. While we were at a local pet store grabbing some supplies for the Saltwater Tank of Horrors, I veered over to the kitten kennel to let Alexis play with the wee little kitties for a few minutes. She is her father's daughter, so of course she loved the feisty little buggers. Within moments she was giggling and carrying on about how she wanted one.

We have two cats. We don't need a kitten.

Fast forward a few weeks, and we found ourselves at PetSmart. PetSmart hates me, so they made sure to have tons of kittens hanging out right where Alexis would see them. She sprinted over to them, laughing, giggling, grinning, and pulling every kid trick there is when it comes to getting your way. Then she started in with the heavy guns, "I fink we need free kitties." She paused. "Please?" Her voice dripped with sweetness.

It took me a minute to figure out what she meant, but then I got it. Free = Three. She was asking to get another cat. Two + One = Three. It also equals NOOOOO.

Fast forward a few more weeks, and we went through the fuzzy kitty coos again. Alexis is the master of knowing how to manipulate me. She has manners, and she knows exactly when to use them. She also has laser eyes that can slice through my resilience. Not that it helped her any.

We have two cats. We don't need a kitten.

Somewhere along the way, I accidentally mentioned the whole thing to Mr. Husband. He correctly pointed out that my main excuse for putting the ka-bash on the animal acquisitioning was the amount of available space in our townhome. Without thinking, I said, "Yeah, I guess we'll have plenty of space once we move."

Now there are two of them pestering me for a kitten. One of them claims he's not in it for the kitten, but that he just wants to make the other one happy. One of them is such a liar, liar pants on fire.

We have two cats. We don't need a kitten.

If I say it enough, maybe I can maintain my Meanie Face long enough for the two of them to quit asking.

It Would Have Been Cheaper to Just Use a Spork

I screwed up.

Cody should have gone to the vet for a little snippy snippy of his manhood right before we went on vacation. He had by then turned six months old, and since we have never had any intentions of letting him be fruitful and spread his furry genes on to another generation, there was no reason to delay. However, I thought I would be a genius and delay that little snippy snippy project until after we returned. I frankly didn't want to deal with it while I was in the midst of my Disney Anticipation Buzz. Then we got back, and of course a vacation isn't a Real Vacation unless your return from it flat-ass broke. Which we did.

Excuse after excuse, delay after delay, and somehow the furball made it a few months too many with all his berries intact. It wasn't until I started thinking "DAMN, why is this really smart dog still refusing to learn to be housebroken?" that it dawned on me.

Boy dog. Not neutered. Peeing all over our house.

Oh yes, he was.

I immediately called the vet to make an appointment for that little snippy snippy, but OF COURSE there was an additional two-week wait to get his furry little butt in.

Enter the Urine Scene Investigator (credit to plbrickner for that GENIUS title).

Oh yes, Mr. Husband went out and bought a black light so he could find out everywhere that Mr. I Want My Balls Hacked Off with a Spork had peed. Judging by the amount of cussing that went on the first time the Urine Scene Investigator donned his equipment, it was baaaaad. And everywhere.

Yet, I still felt a widdle bit bad for the stupid dog this morning when it was time to load him in the car and take him to the vet for his snippy snippy. I don't know if it's because I'm such a compassionate fool or because I'm just glad *I* will never need snippy snippy, but I looked into his big brown eyes and felt guilty.

Then I saw it.

I had set my camera bag on the floor so I could grab Alexis' lunch bag. Cody apparently mistook Mr. Canon and his wondrous travel accommodations as his territory. Right about then it was probably a REALLY good thing Cody barely even qualifies as a dog. His just-barely-bigger-than-a-football stature meant he didn't quite get enough lift, and ended up just getting the wood floor. BUT HE TRIED TO PEE ON MY BELOVED MR. CANON.

I was so mad I wanted to kick a puppy. And, hey! Look! It's Cody! He's a puppy!

He's damn lucky his only punishment was a little snippy snippy and a little yanky yanky.

Oh, You Knew It Was Coming

(More evidence that we torture our prisoners is over on Flickr.)

You Caption It . . .

. . . because I have NO idea what this was all about. :-0