Welcome To A New Wiener, Outtakes

I'm surprised no one has said anything about my fabulous new banner, but I'm not going to get upset about it considering the wonderful outpouring of support I've been getting for the new website. I am so thrilled that you've been reading it! Your comments have been wonderful and very appreciated.

But let's get back to wieners. I wanted to share these outtakes from the New Years Eve photo-shoot because, HOW HYSTERICAL IS THIS?

I would've shared these sooner but I didn't get the files until last night. Adam was the photographer, I was the stylist and Theo, of course, was the very tolerant model. These shoots are so much fun that I think I'm going to do one every month. Maybe you can even help me come up with tag lines. Like, how can one express a Valentine's Day message while cleverly using the word 'wiener'?

Be my wiener?

Happy Wiener's Day?

Be mine and I'll let you touch my wiener?

A million dollar prize* to whoever can come up with something really funny.

In the meantime, enjoy these outtakes!

*a million wiener dollars

Good News and A Story About Scones

The good news is that Theo doesn't have any parasites or creepy crawly's other than tape worm, which is apparently not a very big deal. We start his de-worming meds tonight and our vet said we don't need to worry about treating the other three animals since they are not exhibiting signs of tape worm (i.e. dropping worms out of their butts all over my bed) so it is highly unlikely that they have worms too. The other really good news is that Mike and I don't have to worry about de-worming ourselves since it is also highly unlikely that we contacted the worms. Even though they were in our bed.

Now to make up for yesterday's awful post, here is a story my mom sent me. It is true, about her, and may give you some insight as to where I get my quirks.

But first, let me preface the story by telling you that my mother loves scones. LOVES THEM. One of my happiest memories from childhood is of coming home from school to find that my mom had baked scones so that we could have a little tea-party, just the two of us. We spent the afternoon drinking pink tea and eating scones and even though I didn't like them as much as I liked marshmallow cookies, it was absolute heaven. So while my parents were in town for an early Christmas celebration, I baked a batch of raisin scones. At the end of the day there was only one scone left and I sent it back to California in a zip-lock bag so that my mother could enjoy it once she was home. This is what happened:

So, what does the Scone Lover do? What does she do, after she walks downstairs, makes a cup of tea, and turns toward her last scone (which she transported all the way from Sugar Hill, NYC)? What does she do as she turns toward The Scone with great anticipation?

And finds it, in it's plastic bag (where it was presumed to be Safe), Covered with ants? COVERED.

I'll tell you what she does. She curses, and then she puts it in the freezer. Freezes the many ant butts solid. Then takes it out, brushes the ant butts off of it, and puts the lovely scone in the toaster oven at 350. Then she Enjoys it (every mouthful), with Orange Marmalade!

I love you, Mama. Thank you for making me laugh with such a funny story! And I'm glad you got to enjoy your scone, ant butts be damned!

It's not a merry season for all.

I want you to meet some Bronx beauties. This is Gizmo:

This gorgeous boy is Mickey:

Here is Toby:

This funny girl is Lara:

Here we have Teddy:

And last, but certainly not least, is Elizabeth:

Every single one of these kitties was euthanized this past Monday morning to make more room at the shelter. Each cat was under the age of five, sweet, friendly, and perfectly adoptable. Their fates were sealed by the sheer number of animals stuffed into shelters on a daily basis.

I've recently started volunteering for A Tail At A Time, a no-kill animal rescue that pulls animals from the euthanasia lists at Animal Care and Control and takes in animals off the street. A Tail At A Time doesn't have a shelter location; instead we rely entirely on people willing to foster homeless animals in their homes. The rescue pays for all medical expenses; volunteers provide food and love.

If you're in the New York area and you have space in your life to give a temporary home to an animal who will otherwise be euthanized for space, please email info@atailatatime.org. If you're interested but need more information, you can visit the website at www.atailatatime.org or the blog, www.atailatatimerescue.blogspot.com. (This blog, by the way, is one of the ways I am volunteering. Since Mike and I have five animals, we are unable to foster. Instead I help out at fundraisers, adoption events, and this week I started writing the rescue blog. It was previously written by one of the lovely women who founded the rescue.)

Thousands of cats and dogs are euthanized in this country on a daily basis. Many of them are puppies and kittens born from animals who's owners didn't bother to spay or neuter. It never fails to amaze me when a pet owner doesn't want to neuter because they think it's cruel to remove their pet's testicles. I balk when I meet pet owners who think it would be "cute" to let their pet have babies because their pet is so cute! And the babies would be so cute! And it would be fun! It isn't cute. Irresponsible breeding results in the death of innocent animals, no matter how "cute" they are. Just ask the kitties pictured above. Oh, wait. You can't. They're dead.

No matter where you live, I urge you to think about ways you can help save animals in your community, whether it's making sure to have your own pet spayed or neutered, whether it's adopting instead of purchasing a pet from a pet store, whether you volunteer for a local rescue or petition for your local animal shelter to transition from kill to no-kill, do something wonderful before the year is out. Save a life.

City dogs experience unadulterated joy

Yeah... pretty much no one should ever visit Harlem.

Wouldn't want to experience a serene city park, would you?

If these dogs could talk

I have been very busy lately. Very busy and very tired. As a result, I've been cutting a few corners here and there. Not major corners, just like -- ok, here's an example: Dinner for the dogs. Normally, dinner for the dogs is raw chicken on the bone, which is great for them, but a holy mess to clean up for me. The other night I was just too, too tired. I mean, my own dinner that night came out of a cereal box, so if those dogs really thought I was going to do anything special for them, they had another think coming. They were going to eat kibble, and they were going to like it.

"Valentine! Theo!"

Two little dogs came running into the kitchen, tails and tongues wagging.

"Sit!"

Two little dog bottoms hit the floor. I scooped kibble into each little bowl.

"Bravo!"

Theo dove right in, chomping happily. Valentine didn't move. She looked at her bowl. She looked up at me. She thumped her tail on the linoleum. She looked at her bowl, up at me, thump, thump, thump. Down at her bowl, up at me ...

"Fine! Jeez." I opened the fridge and grabbed a tub of cottage cheese. Theo paused mid-chomp. His tail twitched. Valentine did a little happy dance and then sat nicely in front of her bowl. I opened the cottage cheese tub. Theo's nostrils flinched and he huffed. I reached for a spoon. He took a long step away from his dish and sat down, a perfect little dog, waiting patiently for his supper to be served, just like I taught him. I dipped the spoon into the tub and dropped a teaspoonful of cheese into Valentine's bowl as both little tails began a rhythmic thump, thump, thumping. I swirled the spoon in Valentine's bowl, kibble rattling loudly as it rolled, sweet cheese coating each crunchy morsel. I rapped the spoon on the edge of the dish, knocking off the last bits of cheese, and stood. Theo's eyes widened and Valentine's tail froze.

"Bravo!"

Valentine leapt for the feast and dove in. I slapped the lid back on the tub, flung it into the fridge and shut the door. I washed the spoon, dried my hands and dragged myself back to the living room where I crumpled onto the couch in a heap of exhausted limbs.

If you belong to the school of thought wherein dogs are stupid creatures who act soley on instinct, I would like you to tell me why, after finishing the last of his cheese-less meal, Theo lifted his leg and urinated in his bowl. Was that just instinct? Because it seems like a pretty well thought out statement to me.

Meat Eaters

This was too good for a photo:



You're welcome!

9/4/09

Max the Dog

My friend B.J. (his last name is Serviss. I'm not joking.) has a dog named Max:

B.J. and his wife, Kat, adopted Max from a local adoption group. They were in love with him before he even came home and they made sure that he had all the accouterments he could possibly need to live a comfy, suburban life. They bought him a dog bed for every room of their house, installed a doggy door, bought plenty of toys and raw hides, got him a water fountain drinking bowl, even a food dish that automatically fills at 8 a.m. and 6 p.m. every day, so that no matter what they were up to, Max would always get fed on time.

About a week after they adopted him, B.J. and Max were out for a walk when a neighbor decided to use his leaf-blower. The sudden loud noise frightened Max and he reared back, pulling his head out of his collar. Before B.J. could grab him, Max ran off down the street. B.J. took off after him, calling frantically, but the dog was too fast. My friend watched, horrified, as Max darted across a heavily trafficked street, dodging cars. And after that? There was no sign of him at all.

B.J. ran back to his house and loaded his pockets with treats and squeaker toys, called in sick to work, then went out again to canvass his neighborhood. With his heart in his throat he walked the streets calling out to Max, begging him to come home. After more than three hours of fruitless searching, B.J. went home to make the dreaded 'Lost Dog' flier. As he sat down at his computer he heard Max's dog bowl ding, then the soft shuffle of kibble being dropped into the bowl. The realization that his sweet dog wouldn't be home to eat dinner was too much for him, and he burst into tears. Then he heard the doggy door slap shut. He held his breath. It must've been his imagination. But then - the familiar click-click of Max's nails on the kitchen tile. B.J. rushed into the kitchen and there was Max, snarfing down dinner. Damn dog knew it was time to be fed and didn't want to miss a meal.

B.J. Serviss, Kat, Me

P.S. Max wears a harness now.

8/4/09

Being tricked has never been so wonderful

Trish and Gustav, circa Nov. 2007

I had gone with Jen to pick up Sadie, the beagle she had just adopted from Pets Alive in Middletown, NY. Pets Alive and Best Friends had recently shut down an Amish puppy mill in Vermont? Virginia? I can never remember which. Anyway, it was horrifying, the conditions these animals had been living in, and there were close to three hundred small-breed dogs who needed medical treatment and new homes. (Apparently the Amish do not believe dogs are God's creatures. If they did, these dogs would have been in much better shape.) While Jen was filling out all the necessary forms to take her newly adopted dog home, one of the volunteer women walked up to me with this tiny bundle of ears, eyes and paws and said, "Could you just hold him for a second?" and our fates were sealed.

I was not looking for a another dog. Dear goodness no. Mike and I had only been living in NYC for six months, we were B R O K E, both suffering from depression, and living in a tiny tenement with two cats and Valentine. Bringing a fourth animal home would be one of the stupidest things I could do.

"Who is this?" I asked the volunteer, my heart thumping.

"That's Gustav. Isn't he handsome?"

"What kind of dog is he?"

"A long haired dachshund."

But I've never liked wiener dogs, I thought. And I really don't like long-haired animals, they're too high maintenance. And then he nuzzled his face under my chin and sighed.

"Awww ... wow. He's really sweet."

"No one wants him, can you believe that?"

It was bad enough she'd walked up to me and put this dog in my arms so he could nuzzle his face under my chin and melt me. But then she had to go and tell me that no one wanted him. That was all I needed to start fishing around in my purse for my cellphone.

*ring*ring*

"Hey Trish! Did you get Jen's dog?"

"OHGAWDYOU'REGOINGTOKILLME. I've completely fallen in love with this little dog and I don't know what to do I think I'm going to adopt him no one else wants him I just filled out the adoption application STOP ME OR ELSE."

But Mike didn't stop me. He said he thought it was actually pretty cool.

And then our landlord gave his signed consent that we could have another dog.

And then the person who home-checked us approved us. (Thanks, Sibley!)

And then I stopped myself. I forced myself to hand Gustav back to the woman, kiss his nose and say good bye because really? It was entirely the wrong time to be adopting another dog. Our apartment was too small, we were too broke, we had too many animals as it was, what was I thinking? So Jen and I drove back to Manhattan, Sadie curled in a ball in the back seat of the rental car.

For days, I pined over Gustav. Four days, to be exact. On the fourth day I called Pets Alive and asked after him. No one else had put in an application for him. And Mike convinced me it really would be ok, and Sibley offered to drive me back to Middletown and my boss gave me the day off work and I got Gustav. Who we re-named Theo.

That first evening he was home with us, the first moment he met Michael, the first night he lay curled between us, under covers, breathing hot breath on our necks, I couldn't get over the magic of it all. I was nervous about the new responsibility, but so thrilled at this little creature worming his way into my heart.

And then he squirmed out from under the covers, toddled to the foot of the bed, and laid a big huge poop.

I love you, little dog. I love you even though you eat cat shit out of the litter box. I love you even though you communicate mainly through bodily fluids. I love you even though your ears smell like stinky cheese, no matter how often I wash them. Bringing you home was not stupid at all.

7/23/09

With relish.

There's a wiener under my bed.

7/16/09

Warning: It's bloody.

This is what they mean when they say, "Heavenly Skies"

And then there is this:

Honestly? Five minutes before this photo was taken I was near tears whimpering, "I have blood on my hands, I have blood on my hands, OH MY GOD I HAVE BLOOD ON MY HANDS."

This is why I bake instead of cook, 99% of the time. Baking rarely involves blood.

I would just like to apologize right now, for any vegetarian or vegan who enjoys reading this blog. I hope the above photo is not offensive. Also? "Vegan" is not a word, according to my spellcheck. And, in case you were wondering, when using the T9 function on my cellphone, I cannot spell out the words "shit", "asshole", "douchebag" or "vagina". I can, however, spell "bitch" "poop" and "fuckers".

But for reals now, Mike is responsible for this photo of me chopping up raw liver for the dogs. We have successfully switched the mutts to Orijen dog food (which, please check it out, it is for sure the best dry dog food on the market, I am not kidding. Nor I am getting paid to say that.) and now we are attempting to add raw foods into their diet. Because they are carnivores and raw is best. And to the guy who lectured me for twenty minutes today about how dogs die because they are not vegan (I do not exaggerate here): DOGS ARE CARNIVORES. SOD OFF. (I feel British, all of a sudden.)

It's not going well. The adding of raw foods into their diet. Theo loves it, but today he had the runs. Valentine, Bitch Who Eats Cigarette Butts And Wood Chips, Chihuahua Who Joyfully Noshes Homeless Man Poo, Satan's Hell Hound Of All Hell Hounds, Valentine won't have anything to do with it.

If this is even a percentage of what a parent must feel when they are dealing with a teenager, I am going to just have my tubes tied now.

7/14/09

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.

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?"

You call that food, cretin??

That white spot on his nose? It's kitty litter.

In an ongoing effort to shave down our expenses, I started buying chicken livers from the butcher for a dollar a pound, to use as dog treats. The "all-natural" fancy-shmancy dog treats we usually buy are $7 a pound, so I thought I'd found a great bargain. Of course, I have to cook the livers myself, but it's for the dogs. I save money and feed them real food instead of processed crap. Totally worth it. Now, you might think that chicken liver is gross, but I'll have you know that to any dog with half a brain, chicken liver is manna from heaven.

The first day I came home with the livers I was so excited that I cooked the slimy little things right away. And because I was feeling generous, and excited about my new bargain dog food, and proud of myself for actually cooking, I decided to give Valentine and Theo each a WHOLE liver instead of just the bite-sized pieces I planned to dole out as rewards. 

Valentine, good little bitch that she is, gobbled hers right up. But Theo? Theo, the dog who fishes from the litter box on a near daily basis? The dog who eats Valentine's poo AS IT'S COMING OUT OF HER BUTT? The dog who, while running down the street, will crane his head around and scarf up a huge pile of dried out poop without pausing to sniff it first? Theo wouldn't even take the liver from my hand. I had to put it in his dish so he could poke at it with his nose, prodding it until it flipped over, huffing and snuffling and snarfling at it. And then? Because apparently he still wasn't sure, he peeled his lips back and using just his frontmost teeth took a tiny, tentative bite as if to say, "I'll try this because you clearly went to so much trouble and I wouldn't want to offend you. But please take note, mere human. This is only a courtesy bite."

F*cker.

Just in case you need a laugh.

Thanks, Dooce!

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.

If given the opportunity, he absolutely would eat my face.

I've had this huge blister on my left heel for WEEKS. It was completely painless, just this annoying bubble of flesh on the bottom of my foot. I've been dying to cut it open and trim all the dead skin off, but I knew it would be stupid to mess with it, so I've exercised incredible restraint and just left it alone. It finally ripped open last night and the first thing I did was grab my little nail scissors and trim the quarter sized piece of skin off the bottom of my foot. And then, just because... I don't know... maybe because I'd recently consumed 8 or 14 oz of gin, I gave the piece of skin to Theo. I mean, he was sitting at my feet, gazing up at me with that pretty tail of his thump-thump-thumping the linoleum. When I held the flap of skin out to him, he literally started jumping in circles. How am I supposed to resist the jumping in circles thing? So I handed him the piece of me and he ate it. Just gobbled it right up. Then looked up at me as if to say, "Got any more?"

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.

Eat Air

Why I Can't Get Anything Done

She just won't let me.