It's catching, like H1N1, only funner

How about a little vintage Valentine:

Christmas, 2005

Tuesday was Valentine's 4th Rescue Anniversary. I just realized that. Four years ago this past Tuesday, Michael and I were spending another afternoon at the Los Angeles Animal Shelter in Van Nuys. We had been fostering dogs from a local rescue group for about five months and we knew we were finally ready to adopt a dog of our own. We didn't want to adopt through a no-kill rescue because even though they are the rescues we support, we knew that those dogs were safe. A dog in a no-kill rescue is a saved dog. We wanted to go right to the source and find a city shelter dog close to the euth list*. Since all of our foster dogs had been large and cat-hungry, we wanted to find a dog small enough that if it tried to go after Toby or Amelia it would get it's little dog-butt kicked. We didn't care about the age, sex or breed.

We drove to the shelter on a cool Monday afternoon with the top down on the Mustang and Bing Crosby's White Christmas playing on the stereo while we held hands over paper cups of holiday coffee. We were in love and it was Christmas and we were adopting a puppy. Well, probably not a puppy, probably a fully grown dog, but still.

That afternoon we met lots of dogs who were sweet and terrified and each one broke my heart a thousand times. But I couldn't make a choice. They were all great dogs; how could I choose one and not the other? I fell hard for a ten-year-old blind three-legged chihuahua whom I wanted to name 'Scrappy', but Mike felt uncomfortable making a commitment to a dog that would clearly require medical care well beyond our budget. I couldn't argue with that. We went home that night with empty arms and heavy hearts.

The next day, December 8, 2005, we decided to try again, only this time we spent the drive to Van Nuys in silence. I was dreading the afternoon. I hated the cold corridors and full cages at the pound. I didn't want to have to wander from kennel to kennel listening to the terrified crying of hundreds of beautiful, discarded dogs. I didn't want to have to choose one and turn my back on the rest.

We hadn't been at the pound for very long when I found Mike squatting in front of a little, yellow, rat-like mutt. I had had enough. I buried my face in his shoulder.

"Let's go. I'm done here."

"What do you mean? We just got here." He looked surprised.

"I can't do this right now. This was a terrible idea. Let's just go home." I'd lost hope.

"Hold on. We can go if you want, but before we do, did you see this one?"

He was pointing at the little yellow dog, a scrawny thing with a terrible over-bite, big sagging nipples and a rat tail. She was stretched up against the chain-link, her paws hooked so that she looked like she was hanging on for dear life, but her tail wagged happily. There were eight other dogs in the kennel with her, every one cowering in the back corner.

"Can we just go? Please?" I turned to walk away.

"Wait, wait, wait. Let's just take her out and say hi."

I turned back to him. The little dog cocked her head to one shoulder. I took a step closer and knelt down. She was kind of cute. Kind of ugly, but kind of cute. One of her little cellmates crept up beside her, tail wagging, looking for some love. She whipped her head around, bared her buck teeth and snapped at the perceived intruder.

"Whoa. Did you see that? She's all, Keep away, Bitch! These are MY people!"

Mike grinned at me. "You want to take her out?"

I did.

That was how we met Valentine. All we know about her life before us is what we read on her kennel card: She'd been picked up off the street on October 26, 2005. No tags, no chip. No one had claimed her, no one had come looking for her. She was an unaltered female, one to two-years-old. In bold red ink the card warned, "To be handled with CAUTION."

She hasn't changed that much. She looks less like a buck-toothed rat and more like a dog, but I'd still recommend handling her with caution. Why we chose her over all those other dogs? We didn't. She chose us. If you've ever adopted a pet, you know exactly what I mean.

Please note the rat-tail.

But actually, I didn't even mean to tell you that story, this was supposed to be a post about Christmas but then I sat down to write and found that photo of Valentine and remembered what day it was** and I ended up writing this. The title of this post actually refers to the post I intended to write, only now it doesn't make any sense at all.

Anyway, my point is that there's been a lot going on lately and time is passing so quickly that I cannot even believe Christmas is in less than three weeks. It's not that I'm feeling grinchy or scroogey, I just don't feel like it's Christmas yet. It can't be. It was just summer YESTERDAY.

Only it wasn't. Yesterday it was freezing and I had to wear six layers of clothing under my heavy wool coat and I was cold anyway. Yes, I'm completely exaggerating, but it is in the low thirties and even though Mike, who was raised in Michigan, keeps telling me that it's not cold out, I grew up in the San Fernando Valley where it is currently seventy-five and beachy and I say that it is VERY COLD OUT.

So apparently Christmas is going to be here in a minute and I'm completely unprepared. But I am getting into the holiday spirit anyway, and even beginning to enjoy it, as you can see with my new holiday header.

Isn't that great, by the way? That would have been our Christmas card this year, but Mike was worried about offending people, so instead our Christmas card is completely benign and completely boring. My dream Christmas card would be all of us at Frosty-licious doing the nativity. Theo could be the baby Jesus, Mike would be Joseph, I'd be Mary, the cats would be the angels and Valentine would be pooping in the corner***. Wouldn't that be great?

This post is now so full of random segue's that if I don't sign out soon I'll start writing about the audition I have tomorrow for my favorite show ever and I wouldn't want to do that, so I'll say good night.

Coming up next: A post about why Christmas is like the Swine Flu!

*Euthanasia list

**We don't actually do anything in celebration of the pets adoption days, it's just nice to take note.

***In case you didn't know, in Catalonia, Spain, it is traditional for the nativity to have a little pooping man. His name is El Caganer and here is a blurb from Wikipedia if you don't believe me.

Spain

El caganer

In 2005, the city council of Barcelona, Spain commissioned a nativity scene which did not include the region's traditional nativity figure, elcaganer, a red-capped defecating character which is not a part of the nativity narrative but simply an expression of the irreverent scatological humour of southwestern Europe.^[51] The council claimed the character set a bad example as sanitation laws against public elimination had recently been passed.^[52] The council's decision was viewed as an attack on Catalonian tradition, and, following a campaign against it, el caganer was restored to the nativity scene in 2006. In addition to the traditional caganer, other characters have appeared assuming the caganerposition. In 2008, a "pooper" of Barack Obama was made available just days after his election as the President of the United States of America.^[53]

Little Wolf

Um, Valentine? You've got a little breakfast stuck between your toes.....

9/5/09

Meat Eaters

This was too good for a photo:



You're welcome!

9/4/09

Making dreams come true.

About a week ago, Michael and the dogs were locked out of the apartment. Of course he called the super to let him in, but the super was away and would not be home for at least two more hours, and I was temping for the day. So Mike decided to make lemonade out of lemons and use the time to explore our new neighborhood.

He discovered something grand:

Three blocks from our front door is a trail that leads off into a forest.

Um, hi! WE LIVE IN HARLEM. Not Inwood*, not Fort Tryon**. Harlem. Who knew there were forests in Harlem?? I didn't know that. Did you? Well, there are. Is. There is a forest in Harlem. And even though it is very small and very much littered with broken glass and condom wrappers and soda cans and even though you never escape the sound of traffic at any point on the trail, IT IS HEAVENLY.

(Perhaps you would not think it heavenly if you were used to living in a place where you were surrounded by huge forests, but I am used to living in a place where I am surrounded by huge steel buildings and masses of filthy concrete. It is all about perspective.)

(I think I will start walking in my forest with a garbage bag so I can pick up trash as I go. Then my Harlem Forest Trail will be even more beautiful.)

The last three days in a row, immediately after breakfast and coffee, Mike and I have leashed up the dogs and taken them to the forest, where, once we're about 100 feet in, we take off their leashes and watch as they gleefully charge ahead of us. I cannot explain the joy I feel when I watch those two little dogs tumbling, free of their leashes, romping amongst the grasses and trees, snuffling in the underbrush, exploring their surroundings.

Having them off-leash frees us to walk as leisurely as we want, holding hands or with our arms wrapped around each other's waists, like newlyweds. It reminds Mike and I how much we enjoy each other's company and how much we love those perfect little dogs - how much they love and trust us. My heart melts when Valentine stops in the middle of the trail, watching over her shoulder to make sure we catch up with her.

Theo is more in his own universe - a universe where the quest for rotting food never ends. We know he's a city dog because the squirrels and the birds? No reaction. If he gets held up on the trail, his nose under a log and his ears shut off from our calls, you can bet it's an old piece of pizza he's sniffing out and not the trail of some small animal.

My one major concern about moving so far uptown was that in order to get to Central Park, I would have to take the subway, which meant that I probably wouldn't ever take the dogs to Central Park again. Dogs on the subway = hassel that is totally not worth it. I really treasured our early morning off-leash adventures in Central Park and was sad to think we'd never do that again. Then Mike happened upon the forest and you know what? It is WAY better. Closer, quieter, more secluded, more beautiful. And off-leash any time of the day.

I needed this. I really needed this. Remember last year when I was lusting after large, open spaces? Maybe I can't grow a vegatable garden in my forest, but I can let my hounds run wild while I hold my husband's hand and turn my face upwards into the sunlit strewn sky.

*Inwood is The Greenest Place in Manhattan. It is surrounded by old-growth forest on three sides.

**Fort Tryon is also incredibly green and lush. Sibley loves it but I have yet to explore it.

P.S. Click on any of the photos to see to get a bigger view.

Bliss

Not eligible for XY rating.

This weekend Valentine woke me up in the middle of the night by vomiting all over my face. I jumped awake thinking someone had dumped a bucket of warm water on my head, but it was just Valentine, her wet little nose pressed to mine, emptying the contents of her belly all over her mama. Because that's what widdle babies do when dey don't feel well. And I did what any mama would do. I wiped myself off, put Valentine back to bed, laid a towel over the wet spot on my mattress, and fell back asleep.

The next morning I got up, went about my normal morning routine, and then settled in to work on the unpacking. Around noon, I noticed Michael staring at me.

"What?"
"Um ... have you ... showered today?"
"What? Why?"
"Because, um, it looks like you still have dog vomit in your hair."

"Huh? Oh. Whatevs. It's just a little dog puke."

"..."

"What?"
"That's a hormone thing, isn't it."

"What are you talking about?"

"Someone threw up on you ten hours ago and you still haven't showered."

"It was mostly water. And it came from Valentine."

"I am going to believe that this is an X chromosome thing because otherwise, this is just too disturbing. So this is an X chromosome thing. A 'getting ready to be a mommy thing'. Ok? Just tell me that's what it is."

That's when Valentine leapt off the couch, trotted over to me, put her little paws on my shoulders and started licking my face. 

"Oh god. That is disgusting."
"What are you talking about? Dese are doggy kisses! Da best widdle kisses in da world!"
"I'm filing a complaint against your hormones."
"Papa dust doesn't understand our wuv, does he baby girl? No he doesn't! He doesn't! Das a good widdle baby doggy." *smooching*snuggles*yummytimes*

" ... She eats poop. You're covered in dried vomit, kissing something that eats poop. ... ... ... WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT DID YOU DO WITH MY WIFE?"

Practicing their Kill Technique

And also, another example of why we call the blonde one "The Hellhound".

P.S. They did this for an hour and a half today, ALL OVER Central Park. But mostly wherever there were large expanses of dirt. They also did this all over Central Park yesterday morning and Friday morning. Is it any wonder then, why they are both passed out on the living room floor right now? Or why, when I jangle their leashes for a mid-afternoon pee walk they both look up at me as if saying, "God Woman! Haven't you had enough for one day?"

P.P.S. This video, as well as yesterday's, were shot on my PHONE. I can't believe it, can you?

Warning: Will Make Your Heart Melt

Unless you are just a cold, cold worm.

Easter Choir

Remember when I told you that Theo likes to sing with me? Well, he's got the Chiremlin joining in now. Check it out:

p.s. Yes, I know I'm a complete dork. It's cool.

Why I Can't Get Anything Done

She just won't let me.

We Reap What We Sow

Poompy and I come home from an evening out with friends and were looking forward to curling up and doing married people things, but oh no. Not tonight. Because, see, we have four animals. Four. We open the front door and are greeted by the following scene:

The Chiremlin feasting on a pile of litter-caked cat poo, Theo lapping up a puddle of what could only be cat-poo-vomit released unto the carpet thanks to the Chiremlin, Toby cleaning out our toaster oven with his tongue, and Amelia hacking up a hairball onto our clean but not yet put away laundry.

Remind me again why we have four animals?

I think she might be a little near-sighted.

Poompy was walking the chiremlin through Central Park the other day when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, she starts to freak out. Growling, snarling, pulling at the leash, foaming at the mouth - she went from Sweet Mutt to Rabid Beast in under five seconds. Now, we are used to having to keep a tight rein on her when big dogs are near. She loves small dogs, but she always tries to start fights with bigger dogs. She's an instigator. But Poompy couldn't see a single dog anywhere. He couldn't figure out what she was so upset about until he noticed a life-size statue of a sled dog. He let go of her leash then and she raced at full speed toward the statue, shackles up, teeth bared, fierce as fierce could be. Just as she was about to sink her teeth into the bronze throat, she skidded to a stop and began sniffing the air. And then she walked away. As if nothing had happened.

And just for that, here are a couple of photo's of the little bitch looking particularly fiendish.

She's GOOFY

You'd never guess this is the same hellhound who's After Midnight photo I posted just a few days ago.... would you?

In case you were wondering...

I realize that I've explained WHY we call the Chiremlin a Chiremlin. I know I've also explained how she earned the nicknames Satan's Lap Dog and Hellhound. But I think it's finally time for me to share photographic proof that our Chiremlin really IS Satan's Lap Dog. You may not be able to bear it. Please, use caution when viewing this image. If you look at it for more than 30 seconds it will most likely haunt your nightmares forever. You were warned.

Pretty Poo-Eater

Poompy and I have recently taken a special interest in the Hell Hound's diet. We have switched her over to a newer, fancier food. It means that we now spend about $12 a pound on the very best 100% natural, totally organic, high protein, vitamin-infused, antioxidant-rich dog food so that Satan's Lap Dog can have a healthy well-balanced diet. But rather than appreciate our efforts to assist her in living a healthier life style, she turns her little wet nose up at us. And eats wood chips. And cigarette butts. And used paper towels. And poop.

There was this one day, when we were still living in Hollywood, when a homeless guy had to point out to me that the chiremlin was eating poop. We were out for our afternoon walk, and to keep myself busy while she sniffed every individual blade of grass for five blocks, I decided to make a phone call. I was so distracted by this phone call that I wasn't paying attention the the chiremlin at all. All of a sudden this homeless man walks up to me and points at the chiremlin and says, "uh... yer dog's eating shit..." I look to see what he's talking about because I just can't believe that my gorgeous little blonde dog would do such a nasty thing and she's not just eating the poop. She is CHOWING DOWN THE POOP. She's inhaling this fresh, gooey, yellowish-poop as if it were a nice filet mignon. And she's getting it all over her face. Her pretty little nose, that I often kiss and caress, is streaked with poop. When I got her home, I had to clean poop off her face. I used rubbing alcohol. It was traumatizing. For the next three days her belches smelled like farts.

Tonight when I served the chiremlin her tres expensive fancy organic Lamb and Rice formula dog food with antioxidants and Vitamin E, she sniffed it, looked up at me disdainfully, pranced into the living room and started eating out of the litter box.

I think the new diet's going well, no?

Merry Christmas!

The Chiremlin and I accompanied M to the hardware store this morning* and I noticed that they already had their Christmas decorations up. I mean, I know that shops like to get ready for the holidays early, but it's not even July. They've got their whole front window decked out for the holidays. Little pine cones and tiny packages, a mechanical Santa writing out a list of good and bad little boys and girls, signs pointing out which tools will make good stocking stuffers... and then I noticed that the gift wrap and the lettering were... a bit faded. The pinecones covered in a thick layer of dust. Santa's beard a grimy grey when it should be snowy white. And I realized - they've just never taken their decorations down. They're year-round Christmas. I bet they've had their decorations up since they first decorated the first year they opened. They have perpetual Christmas. Since Christmas time is my favorite time, Hell's Kitchen Hardware is now my Official Favorite Hardware Store in NYC.

*Side note: I have never been opposed to taking my dog on walks - I love to walk her when the walk involves some kind of purpose for me as well as for her. Call me selfish. Go ahead, do it. I hated walking her in L.A. because that's all the walk involved. Wandering around the block. So boring. I love that in NYC I can combine her walks with errand-running, because most of the shops in my neighborhood don't care if she comes in. So I can hit the market, the deli, the pet store, the hardware store, all with the hellhound in tow. It's awesome. And it pays off for her too, because she gets a lot more exercise now.

Chiremlin: The Original Hellhound

Dear friends,

I often refer to my little Hellhound, Satan's Lap Dog and the Chiremlin. In case you were wondering, I'm talking about my little mutt. She's a sweet dog, only about 15 pounds, some broken teeth and missing toenails... she lived on the streets for goodness knows how long before she was picked up by Los Angeles Animal Control. She spent over a month in the pound and then she came to live with us. She stank, she was soaked in urine and she had huge, saggy nipples. And bald patches. You can see why we were so enamored. She has a penchant for eating poop, growling at dinner guests and attacking the ankles of innocent sidewalk-walkers. When she plays she makes these horrible, amazing noises in her throat - she sounds like she's in the midst of a cold-blooded murder. We have no idea what kind of dog she is or what she's mixed with... we suspect there is some Chihuahua in there somewhere, and most definitely some Gremlin. We're sure she's part Gremlin because we once fed her after midnight and then these weird balls of fur exploded out of her back and bounced all around and turned into these gross slimy cacoons... and.. well... then we moved to NYC. We left the cacoons in the attic of our little bungalow on St. Andrews Place.... we're hoping they just turn into pretty butterflies and fly away into the sunset, but we're not so sure. That's why she's the Chiremlin. She's a Chihuahua-Gremlin mix. If you hear a howling in the night.... lock your doors. It prolly means Satan's Lap Dog got out.

;-)