Okay, so that really sucked.
Ever have one of those weekends when everyone is sick, all at the same time? It's a mother's nightmare, to be sure. I can handle it if The Chief and the kids all get sick together...but if I'm sick on top of it, it is Pure Hell.
Hell's Barrister is to blame...he had it last week and missed two days of school. By Friday, The Chief was all fever-and-arfy-barfy, but the Barrister was all better and bouncing off the walls. Saturday evening, Little Mouse and I were starting to feel icky, but I bravely volunteered to walk the dogs so The Chief didn't have to go out. Now, some of you might not think that "bravely" is an appropriate adjective to use when describing a gentle jaunt around the block, but at the moment the sidewalks around here are smooth, polished ice with absolutely no traction, and Canis Dafticus, being a husky, has no notion of the idea of a sedate walk...it's more like a hard pull all the time. So there we are, the Barrister and I, struggling over the ice, me being dragged along by Canis Dafticus, when Canis Feisticus lies down by the side of the road and begins rolling in Something Dead. (I'm not sure what, exactly, it was, but from the smell of Canis Feisticus after the rolling, I can assure you that it was definitely Very Dead, and probably had been for quite some time.)
By the time we got home, I was feeling really crummy. Whatever this Vicious Jungle Virus is, it hits hard and leaves you with a fever and aches and a stuffy head. So giving Canis Feisticus a bath was not exactly on top of the priority list. I rubbed her down with snow and let her in, hoping I'd gotten most of it. Luckily, the Vicious Jungle Virus had blunted everyone's sense of smell. Except mine. I could tell I'd gotten the worst of it off of her, but I could still smell it faintly on her fur.
I spent yesterday on the couch, dragging myself up to get soda and crackers for various invalids, keeping track of medication schedules, and fighting with The Chief ("Steam does too work, it will help your packed head and you will put your head over this bowl of hot water because I can't stand your whining any more!") but today I'm feeling better, and number one job today is giving Canis Feisticus a bath.
It's funny, isn't it, how kids remember things? You know, like in a couple of weeks, they'll be saying, "Hey Mom, remember that weekend when we were all sick and we snuggled up on the couch and watched movies and you kept calling Canis Feisticus Stinkyhead? Yeah, that was really fun, Mom..."
Yeah. That was really fun.
Showing posts with label Life with Dogs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life with Dogs. Show all posts
Monday, February 9, 2009
Friday, November 7, 2008
Snow
It is snowing here in lovely Minnesota...wet snow that is sticking to the bare trees and turning my neighborhood into a gorgeous white fairyland. I love the snow and I hope it sticks around. My dogs love the snow, too. Being 3/4 husky, they are dressed for it, with thick fur coats and soft, downy undercoats (that end up all over my floor in wispy drifts when it's shedding time...which is most of the year...). This morning, though, Canis Feisticus decided that she really didn't want to go out in the cold (it wasn't that bad...33 degrees isn't really cold in Minnesota) and the wet...I let the dogs out the back door and Canis Dafticus went bolting out into the snow and did a funny little leap and came down on his elbows with his butt in the air (this is dog for "play with me now!"). Canis Feisticus, on the other hand, stepped daintily out, sniffed the air, and turned around and came back in. When I finally convinced her that she really did need to go outside, she went, ever so slowly, ever so carefully, picking her feet up high and planting them back down reluctantly, as if she really didn't want to get them all wet and cold. I felt a bit sorry for her. How would I feel if I had to go and do my business in the cold and wet at 5:30 am?
Perhaps I will have to knit her some doggie booties?
Perhaps I will have to knit her some doggie booties?
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
The Pinnacle of Creativity
In a daring move, demonstrating that I am currently at the pinnacle of creativity, I have (dramatic music) invented a new knitting stitch! The stitch was created out of absolute necessity, and I'm sure it will take the knitting world by storm.
The new stitch is called Remove Ubiquitous Dog Hair, and is abbreviated RUDH. It is performed by gripping the offending dog hair between thumb and forefinger without losing tension on your yarn, and then yanking hard, with a few colourful words thrown in for good measure.
With this new stitch in place, the lace row on the wrap I'm making now becomes, K2tog (3x), K1, yo, RUDH, K1, yo, RUDH...and so on. It's quite exciting to be the inventor of a new stitch, you know.
Of course, there is always the question of what to do with the piles of Ubiquitous Dog Hair once I've finished a knitting project. In keeping with the spirit of my frugal upbringing, I'm considering the benefits of learning how to spin...dog hair sweater, anyone?
The new stitch is called Remove Ubiquitous Dog Hair, and is abbreviated RUDH. It is performed by gripping the offending dog hair between thumb and forefinger without losing tension on your yarn, and then yanking hard, with a few colourful words thrown in for good measure.
With this new stitch in place, the lace row on the wrap I'm making now becomes, K2tog (3x), K1, yo, RUDH, K1, yo, RUDH...and so on. It's quite exciting to be the inventor of a new stitch, you know.
Of course, there is always the question of what to do with the piles of Ubiquitous Dog Hair once I've finished a knitting project. In keeping with the spirit of my frugal upbringing, I'm considering the benefits of learning how to spin...dog hair sweater, anyone?
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Letting the Side Down
Canis Dafticus has allergies. He has been chewing on his presumably itchy feet for about a week and a half now. Last week I started him on Benadryl (you wouldn't believe how much Benadryl a dog can take, and it doesn't slow him down one bit!), but he had gnawed a very sore spot on one of his feet. It wasn't looking any better today, so I took him to the vet.
Talk about pathetic.
Canis Dafticus may look quite fierce--he is a husky/german shepherd mix, so he has a rather wolfish look to him, and he's quite large, pushing 70 lbs--but he (like many men I know) is a complete wimp at heart.
The whining began when I put him in the car without his beloved sister, Canis Feisticus. It went on, full volume, until he was safely back in the car and on the way home.
We put him in the car to go to the park, no problem, no whining, much excitement and tail wagging. Put him (or both of them) in the car to go to the vet, and somehow he knows. There must be something in my body language that says "VET" loud and clear.
Once at the vet, he dug his claws into the linoleum and refused to enter the building. He had to be dragged into the exam room, where he promptly hid under the bench I was sitting on. His full, bushy tail, which is usually curled in a lovely tight loop over his back was practically inverted, down between his legs so far it was covering up his nether regions. He peed when we lifted him onto the exam table. The vet knows Canis Dafticus quite well after being soaked on his first couple of visits--Canis Dafticus gets taken into the back room and examined on a grated table with a sink underneath, and has a yellow label on his chart that says, "Submissive Pee-er."
Once on the table with a vet assistant leaning over him to hold him still, he buried his head between my arm and my side and whined even louder. After a physical exam, an ear cleaning, and an allergy shot, Canis Dafticus was more than ready to go home.
I would much rather take Canis Feisticus to the vet. She's not a wimp. She "talks" to the vet in her howly way, and wags her tail at him and eagerly accepts a treat (hmmm....maybe Canis Dafticus isn't the daft one after all...). In short, she doesn't embarrass me. Or the rest of her gender.
Poor boy. I know he's scared, but he makes males everywhere look bad!
Talk about pathetic.
Canis Dafticus may look quite fierce--he is a husky/german shepherd mix, so he has a rather wolfish look to him, and he's quite large, pushing 70 lbs--but he (like many men I know) is a complete wimp at heart.
The whining began when I put him in the car without his beloved sister, Canis Feisticus. It went on, full volume, until he was safely back in the car and on the way home.
We put him in the car to go to the park, no problem, no whining, much excitement and tail wagging. Put him (or both of them) in the car to go to the vet, and somehow he knows. There must be something in my body language that says "VET" loud and clear.
Once at the vet, he dug his claws into the linoleum and refused to enter the building. He had to be dragged into the exam room, where he promptly hid under the bench I was sitting on. His full, bushy tail, which is usually curled in a lovely tight loop over his back was practically inverted, down between his legs so far it was covering up his nether regions. He peed when we lifted him onto the exam table. The vet knows Canis Dafticus quite well after being soaked on his first couple of visits--Canis Dafticus gets taken into the back room and examined on a grated table with a sink underneath, and has a yellow label on his chart that says, "Submissive Pee-er."
Once on the table with a vet assistant leaning over him to hold him still, he buried his head between my arm and my side and whined even louder. After a physical exam, an ear cleaning, and an allergy shot, Canis Dafticus was more than ready to go home.
I would much rather take Canis Feisticus to the vet. She's not a wimp. She "talks" to the vet in her howly way, and wags her tail at him and eagerly accepts a treat (hmmm....maybe Canis Dafticus isn't the daft one after all...). In short, she doesn't embarrass me. Or the rest of her gender.
Poor boy. I know he's scared, but he makes males everywhere look bad!
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
The Fun Police
Seems like it's been all doom and gloom for the last week or so...we need a bit of Fun...but don't let Canis Feisticus know, because she takes her role as The Fun Police extremely seriously.
Canis Feisticus hasn't always had this role...she used to pounce on butterflies, chase birds, and disrupt ants' nests. Several times she came inside brushing her face with her paw, and when I looked more closely, I could see hundreds of ants crawling all over her whiskers. But last year, when she turned two, she suddenly stopped acting like a puppy and started to take life more seriously.
Unfortunately, like many males I know, Canis Dafticus is a bit slower in maturation department. He still takes great joy in pouncing upon anything that moves, trying to get under the fence to the neighbors' dog (one of those fluffy little lap-dogs, which I am sure he thinks is a rabbit), and falling over from dizziness whilst engaged in the never-ending pursuit of his own tail.
But that's okay, because it gives Canis Feisticus something to do. If it appears, even for one minute, that Canis Dafticus is having Too Much Fun, along comes his sister to put him in his place.
Canis Feisticus has a number of tools in her arsenal. There is the grab-the-boy-by-his-collar-and-don't-let-go move, which is generally not too successful, as both dogs wear break-away collars. There is the get-the-boy-in-trouble-with-Mom move, which I detailed last week. And there is the most annoying howl-until-the-boy-stops-enjoying-life-so-much move, which is okay when they are outside, but gets a bit much at 6:00 on a Saturday morning.
Canis Feisticus doesn't limit her policing activities to her brother, either. Oh, no. If the rest of the family seems to be having Too Much Fun, she puts herself right in the middle of everything and begins howling. If the Chief decides to wrestle with the Barrister, or tickle Little Mouse, she's right in there, making sure nobody has Too Much Fun.
Too Much Fun, after all, can be dangerous for your health. Hell, I've had a psychiatrist increase my medication because he thought I was having Too Much Fun. It's lucky that we have Canis Feisticus to keep us all under control...otherwise we might all have to be medicated.
Canis Feisticus hasn't always had this role...she used to pounce on butterflies, chase birds, and disrupt ants' nests. Several times she came inside brushing her face with her paw, and when I looked more closely, I could see hundreds of ants crawling all over her whiskers. But last year, when she turned two, she suddenly stopped acting like a puppy and started to take life more seriously.
Unfortunately, like many males I know, Canis Dafticus is a bit slower in maturation department. He still takes great joy in pouncing upon anything that moves, trying to get under the fence to the neighbors' dog (one of those fluffy little lap-dogs, which I am sure he thinks is a rabbit), and falling over from dizziness whilst engaged in the never-ending pursuit of his own tail.
But that's okay, because it gives Canis Feisticus something to do. If it appears, even for one minute, that Canis Dafticus is having Too Much Fun, along comes his sister to put him in his place.
Canis Feisticus has a number of tools in her arsenal. There is the grab-the-boy-by-his-collar-and-don't-let-go move, which is generally not too successful, as both dogs wear break-away collars. There is the get-the-boy-in-trouble-with-Mom move, which I detailed last week. And there is the most annoying howl-until-the-boy-stops-enjoying-life-so-much move, which is okay when they are outside, but gets a bit much at 6:00 on a Saturday morning.
Canis Feisticus doesn't limit her policing activities to her brother, either. Oh, no. If the rest of the family seems to be having Too Much Fun, she puts herself right in the middle of everything and begins howling. If the Chief decides to wrestle with the Barrister, or tickle Little Mouse, she's right in there, making sure nobody has Too Much Fun.
Too Much Fun, after all, can be dangerous for your health. Hell, I've had a psychiatrist increase my medication because he thought I was having Too Much Fun. It's lucky that we have Canis Feisticus to keep us all under control...otherwise we might all have to be medicated.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Sibling Rivalry
Canis Feisticus and Canis Dafticus, who are litter-mates, have just turned three. In dog years, this means they are young adults. In truth, today's events lead me to believe that the sibling rivalry is only escalating, and that young adults or not, there are still growing pains to be experienced.
Like many three-year-olds, Canis Feisticus is becoming a tattle-tale. It started when she was quite young. Once a week, the fur-children receive a marrow bone to gnaw--one each, because we all know what happens when you play favorites with siblings. Canis Dafticus, being a bit of a pig, generally finishes his off in five seconds flat and then goes looking for more.
Often after giving them bones, I go to work in the studio, and after a relatively short period of peace, along comes Canis Feisticus. She wanders in, plops herself down in front of me, and stares at me until I acknowledge her. As soon as I make eye contact she howls. This is dog for, He took my bone, Mom. Sure enough, I follow her out into the kitchen, and there is Canis Dafticus with both bones. I get her bone back for her, and she settles down happily. This scenario is usually repeated several times until the bones become old enough that they are no longer interesting.
This morning, Canis Feisticus came into the studio, plopped down in front of me, and fixed me with her laser beam eyes. I said, "You haven't had a bone today. What do you want? Do you want to go out back?" I got up, intending to let her out, but she went right past the basement door and on into the living room, where Canis Dafticus was happily shredding a tissue. Which he knows he is not supposed to do. (I think.) Canis Feisticus plopped down on her butt and howled again: See what he's doing, Mom?
I took away the tissue and told Canis Dafticus off. And as I turned back towards the studio, Canis Feisticus settled down to work on her bone with a satisfied gleam in her eye, and I could almost hear her thinking, Got him in trouble again! Bonus points for me!
I'm a sister, too, you see.
Like many three-year-olds, Canis Feisticus is becoming a tattle-tale. It started when she was quite young. Once a week, the fur-children receive a marrow bone to gnaw--one each, because we all know what happens when you play favorites with siblings. Canis Dafticus, being a bit of a pig, generally finishes his off in five seconds flat and then goes looking for more.
Often after giving them bones, I go to work in the studio, and after a relatively short period of peace, along comes Canis Feisticus. She wanders in, plops herself down in front of me, and stares at me until I acknowledge her. As soon as I make eye contact she howls. This is dog for, He took my bone, Mom. Sure enough, I follow her out into the kitchen, and there is Canis Dafticus with both bones. I get her bone back for her, and she settles down happily. This scenario is usually repeated several times until the bones become old enough that they are no longer interesting.
This morning, Canis Feisticus came into the studio, plopped down in front of me, and fixed me with her laser beam eyes. I said, "You haven't had a bone today. What do you want? Do you want to go out back?" I got up, intending to let her out, but she went right past the basement door and on into the living room, where Canis Dafticus was happily shredding a tissue. Which he knows he is not supposed to do. (I think.) Canis Feisticus plopped down on her butt and howled again: See what he's doing, Mom?
I took away the tissue and told Canis Dafticus off. And as I turned back towards the studio, Canis Feisticus settled down to work on her bone with a satisfied gleam in her eye, and I could almost hear her thinking, Got him in trouble again! Bonus points for me!
I'm a sister, too, you see.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
The Tale of the Doggie Doorman
I wasn't always a Doggie Doorman. Or woman. Whatever.
Once I had dreams and aspirations of my own. I went to college. I went to graduate school. I had my future all mapped out, and I was going to be SOMEBODY (not sure who I had in mind...just somebody other than my meek, mousy little self.)
The less-than-stellar job market, motherhood and Other Events conspired against me, and now years after my triumphant graduation, here I am, secure in the knowledge that the only meaningful thing I do day in and day out is open the basement door so that Canis Feisticus and Canis Dafticus can go outside. Or inside. Or outside again.
Being a Doggie Doorman isn't all bad. There are some benefits *pause whilst I try to come up with some*. For example...*think, think, think*...one earns the undying gratitude of the four-footed ones, who repay my efforts with devotion, loyalty, and a penchant for tracking mud into the house at any opportunity. Which means I am also the Doggie Maid Service.
The Doggie Maid Service's responsibilities include but are not limited to scrubbing the floors free of muddy paw-prints and the greasy residue left over after the consumption of marrow bones, vacuuming up the fine drifts of hair which accumulate on the floor and couches during shedding season (which occurs about every five minutes), laundering the blankets that protect the couches from doggie indiscretions, divesting the walls of the grey shadow of dirt that accumulates at about dog-height, performing the always satisfying Poop Patrol, cleaning up when the rabbit/weed/dead animal/unidentifiable piece of garbage they managed to scoff down during a walk does not agree with their delicate digestive systems, and administering The Pink Stuff to soothe said delicate digestive systems. Which means I am also the Doggie Health Maintenance Organization.
The Doggie Health Maintenance Organization's responsibilities include cleverly disguising required medications in bits of cheese, escorting the dogs to their vet appointments, administering their monthly heartworm and flea prevention treatments, and The Trimming of the Nails. The Trimming of the Nails is an ordeal for all of us. Canis Dafticus has a sixth sense about such things. He knows, even before one has the nail clippers in hand, that the Horrible Event is about to occur, and he high-tails it to his crate, where he sits and watches accusingly through the grate in the side. It takes two of us to hold him and get the nails trimmed. And afterwards, he must be coddled and soothed. Which means I am also the Doggie Psychologist.
The Doggie Psychologist is required to deal with traumas such as thunderstorms, fireworks, The Trimming of the Nails, and The Dreaded Bath. Which usually results in me ending up just as wet (and hairy) as the dogs.
All in all, quite a large part of my day and my energy is taken up with caring for these dear fur-children of mine.
Not that I'm bitter.
What's a career compared to this?
Once I had dreams and aspirations of my own. I went to college. I went to graduate school. I had my future all mapped out, and I was going to be SOMEBODY (not sure who I had in mind...just somebody other than my meek, mousy little self.)
The less-than-stellar job market, motherhood and Other Events conspired against me, and now years after my triumphant graduation, here I am, secure in the knowledge that the only meaningful thing I do day in and day out is open the basement door so that Canis Feisticus and Canis Dafticus can go outside. Or inside. Or outside again.
Being a Doggie Doorman isn't all bad. There are some benefits *pause whilst I try to come up with some*. For example...*think, think, think*...one earns the undying gratitude of the four-footed ones, who repay my efforts with devotion, loyalty, and a penchant for tracking mud into the house at any opportunity. Which means I am also the Doggie Maid Service.
The Doggie Maid Service's responsibilities include but are not limited to scrubbing the floors free of muddy paw-prints and the greasy residue left over after the consumption of marrow bones, vacuuming up the fine drifts of hair which accumulate on the floor and couches during shedding season (which occurs about every five minutes), laundering the blankets that protect the couches from doggie indiscretions, divesting the walls of the grey shadow of dirt that accumulates at about dog-height, performing the always satisfying Poop Patrol, cleaning up when the rabbit/weed/dead animal/unidentifiable piece of garbage they managed to scoff down during a walk does not agree with their delicate digestive systems, and administering The Pink Stuff to soothe said delicate digestive systems. Which means I am also the Doggie Health Maintenance Organization.
The Doggie Health Maintenance Organization's responsibilities include cleverly disguising required medications in bits of cheese, escorting the dogs to their vet appointments, administering their monthly heartworm and flea prevention treatments, and The Trimming of the Nails. The Trimming of the Nails is an ordeal for all of us. Canis Dafticus has a sixth sense about such things. He knows, even before one has the nail clippers in hand, that the Horrible Event is about to occur, and he high-tails it to his crate, where he sits and watches accusingly through the grate in the side. It takes two of us to hold him and get the nails trimmed. And afterwards, he must be coddled and soothed. Which means I am also the Doggie Psychologist.
The Doggie Psychologist is required to deal with traumas such as thunderstorms, fireworks, The Trimming of the Nails, and The Dreaded Bath. Which usually results in me ending up just as wet (and hairy) as the dogs.
All in all, quite a large part of my day and my energy is taken up with caring for these dear fur-children of mine.
Not that I'm bitter.
What's a career compared to this?
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
The Dance of Seven Huskies
I just made the mistake of opening a can of tuna.
Being dogs, Canis Feisticus and Canis Dafticus have such finely tuned senses that they can tell the difference between the opening of a can of tuna and the opening of a can of tomato sauce. Tomato sauce generally evokes no reaction (unless you are simultaneously waving a bag of jerky treats and yelling, "Do you want a TREAT?"). But open a can of tuna and you've got airborne huskies.
And therein lies my mistake. For now, energetic or not, graceful or not, nattily dressed or not, I shall be forced to perform The Dance of Seven Huskies.
Act One: Flying Huskies
Canis Dafticus glides over the couch from a standstill in one graceful leap. He tears into the dining room, hits the linoleum, scrabbles desperately as he rounds the corner into the kitchen in a barely controlled skid, and comes to a stop at my feet before the can is half opened.
Canis Feisticus is a bit more reserved. She follows daintily, refusing to move any faster than a sedate walk, lest you think she's actually interested.
Much nudging and shuffling ensues as both dogs attempt to obtain the prime position in middle of the kitchen floor from which to observe the proceedings. Just in case I should decide to do something unusual, like upend the entire can on the floor. Not that it's ever happened before, but when you're a dog, it's all about hope.
Act Two: Oh, Feed Me or I Shall Perish
As soon as they realize that I'm not about to drop the contents of the can down their greedy gullets, Dafticus and Feisticus settle in for the wait. Canis Dafticus plops himself down in middle of the floor with a long-suffering sigh. He places his head between his paws and stares up at me with an expression that says if-I-don't-get-just-a-tiny-bit-of-that-tuna-I-shall-surely-perish. Canis Feisticus doesn't bother trying to look appealing. She's all about efficiency; she positions herself strategically at the entrance to the kitchen, so when I make my mad dash to the recycling bin, she'll be poised and ready to trip me up.
Act Three: The Dance of Death
As I lift my foot in an attempt to move from counter to fridge, Dafticus raises his head to check the location of the tuna and places one paw on my ankle. I shift my weight and as I begin to lower my foot, he rolls halfway over, gaze still riveted on my hand, covering the spot on the floor where my foot was supposed to go. In an attempt to avoid breaking his paw and my ankle, I twist precariously about and manage to place my own foot on a clear space just as Feisticus raises her head and places her paw on my other ankle. I lift my back foot and just as I'm about to put it down, Feisticus shifts herself under it and Dafticus lays his head upon the other foot. I flail my arms about in a pathetic attempt to regain my balance, wondering where all these extra huskies came from. As I attempt the final approach to the fridge, both dogs roll onto their backs, following my movements intently. I manage to complete my pirouette without killing myself or injuring a dog...but I still have to make it back to the counter. With a jar of mayonnaise in hand...
The Dance of Seven Huskies is performed at least once a day in my kitchen. It has yet to end with the tuna on the floor, although it has ended with me on the floor. More than once.
Being dogs, Canis Feisticus and Canis Dafticus have such finely tuned senses that they can tell the difference between the opening of a can of tuna and the opening of a can of tomato sauce. Tomato sauce generally evokes no reaction (unless you are simultaneously waving a bag of jerky treats and yelling, "Do you want a TREAT?"). But open a can of tuna and you've got airborne huskies.
And therein lies my mistake. For now, energetic or not, graceful or not, nattily dressed or not, I shall be forced to perform The Dance of Seven Huskies.
Act One: Flying Huskies
Canis Dafticus glides over the couch from a standstill in one graceful leap. He tears into the dining room, hits the linoleum, scrabbles desperately as he rounds the corner into the kitchen in a barely controlled skid, and comes to a stop at my feet before the can is half opened.
Canis Feisticus is a bit more reserved. She follows daintily, refusing to move any faster than a sedate walk, lest you think she's actually interested.
Much nudging and shuffling ensues as both dogs attempt to obtain the prime position in middle of the kitchen floor from which to observe the proceedings. Just in case I should decide to do something unusual, like upend the entire can on the floor. Not that it's ever happened before, but when you're a dog, it's all about hope.
Act Two: Oh, Feed Me or I Shall Perish
As soon as they realize that I'm not about to drop the contents of the can down their greedy gullets, Dafticus and Feisticus settle in for the wait. Canis Dafticus plops himself down in middle of the floor with a long-suffering sigh. He places his head between his paws and stares up at me with an expression that says if-I-don't-get-just-a-tiny-bit-of-that-tuna-I-shall-surely-perish. Canis Feisticus doesn't bother trying to look appealing. She's all about efficiency; she positions herself strategically at the entrance to the kitchen, so when I make my mad dash to the recycling bin, she'll be poised and ready to trip me up.
Act Three: The Dance of Death
As I lift my foot in an attempt to move from counter to fridge, Dafticus raises his head to check the location of the tuna and places one paw on my ankle. I shift my weight and as I begin to lower my foot, he rolls halfway over, gaze still riveted on my hand, covering the spot on the floor where my foot was supposed to go. In an attempt to avoid breaking his paw and my ankle, I twist precariously about and manage to place my own foot on a clear space just as Feisticus raises her head and places her paw on my other ankle. I lift my back foot and just as I'm about to put it down, Feisticus shifts herself under it and Dafticus lays his head upon the other foot. I flail my arms about in a pathetic attempt to regain my balance, wondering where all these extra huskies came from. As I attempt the final approach to the fridge, both dogs roll onto their backs, following my movements intently. I manage to complete my pirouette without killing myself or injuring a dog...but I still have to make it back to the counter. With a jar of mayonnaise in hand...
The Dance of Seven Huskies is performed at least once a day in my kitchen. It has yet to end with the tuna on the floor, although it has ended with me on the floor. More than once.
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