Important Earth Day Message

Leaves of an azalea which gets pissed on by Buster and Zeke almost every time they leave the back porch to go outside:

Leaves of an azalea four feet away which does not get pissed on by Buster and Zeke (or anyone else for that matter, as far as I know):


And the message here would be?

Something like this: Damn fucking dogs with their little hind legs and their little man-things and their azalea-killing pee-pee.

And also: Maybe for Earth Day I should just shoot them.

Warning: Cursing Is Involved

When I woke up this morning and was getting my coffee, I heard the most mournful sound I think I've ever heard. I went to the back door to see what I was hearing. It was a woman in a red dress, walking down the misty road calling out, "Buddy! Buddy!" But she was doing it so that the Bud syllable was a G on the piano, the dy syllable a G flat. I went and found the notes. It was so minor in key, so mournful in tune. She was walking swiftly, crying out for her lost dog, I suppose. The same word, the same notes, over and over again.

While I was at Gatorbone, I was in constant awe at how well-behaved and lovely Lis and Lon's dogs Buck and Daisy are. Buck and Daisy are both black labs and they are huge and gentle and loving and they can be in the same room as a wedding cake for twenty-four hours and not even think about eating it.

My dogs can't be trusted to be in the same room alone with the salads on the table for two minutes. Setting the table in my house takes two people- one to set it and bring out the food, the other to keep the dogs from eating the food while the table is being set.

I was praising Buck and Daisy to Lon and Lis and then I said, "No. I do not even want to discuss how great your dogs are. I can't handle it." And I can't. And my dogs act the way they do because I have not trained them to be different. They are spoiled and rotten and I've already cleaned up one poop and three pees today. I think Buck and Daisy would explode before they peed or pooped in the house.

See that tiny dog up there doing a perfect yoga pose? He weighs about what? Six pounds? And yet, he can get under our bed at night and scratch and the entire bed moves as if he was the size of a Great Dane. How can this be? And he jumps off the bed and then he whines to be lifted back up onto it and then he jumps off and scratches some more. I think I got about four hours of sleep last night and he was 90% of the problem. This happens nightly and WHY do we let him sleep with us? Because I have no baby to sleep with, I suppose, and when he gets chilly and snorgles under the covers and cuddles up to the backs of my knees I love it.

When Mr. Moon is out of town, the other dogs know it and they also know that I will let them sleep with me. Pearl doesn't care so much to sleep with me unless it's raining, although Kathleen said that Pearl slept with her for part of the night when she was staying here. But dogs love Kathleen. No. They worship her. My dogs wouldn't bat an eye if she replaced us in their home. When I got back from being gone for three days they were slightly excited. Like maybe someone had returned a piece of furniture they like to sit on. They get a lot more excited when Kathleen comes over and when Mr. Moon gets home. All I am to them is the woman who feeds them, takes them to the groomer, cleans up their pee and poop.

I call them all sorts of names. Motherfucker is part of most of these names. Cocksucking motherfucker is a favorite endearment of mine which I use frequently to refer to them. This could explain their ambivalence towards me. Perhaps. Do you think?

I am constantly trying to figure out how to get rid of one or all of them. Except for Pearl. Time is taking care of that on its own and she is old and sweet. But the rest of them. Damn those little cocksucking motherfuckers and their peeing and pooping and bed shaking and food-snatching souls.

And yet, if one got out and disappeared, I know I would be walking down the road, calling for him. "Zekie," I would call. G, G flat. I would be panicked, I would be freaked, I would be so scared. I know because this has happened. The last time it happened, I found him next door, snuffling around in the church yard parking lot. "Oh Zeke!" I said and I scooped him up in my arms and I wasn't thinking about how he pees on every vertical thing in this house and I wasn't thinking about how he tortures me at night. I was only thinking about how he feels, snuggled up to me under the covers when it's chilly. I was only thinking that he was my baby and he had been lost and now he was found.

Fucking cocksucking motherfucking dogs. They take our hearts and then gnaw on them as chew toys and then pee on our shoes and they don't even lay eggs.

God, I hope that woman found her dog. Her lost-song broke my heart as she walked in her red dress, fearing to find her pet dead on the side of the road, praying to see him alive, her Buddy, her friend, her cocksucking motherfucking dog.

Why I Have Four Dogs

I often mention my dogs in passing and when I do, it's to vent my frustration about something they do or will do or have done or are doing.
To hear me talk about them, you'd think they were the banes of my life.
Well. They are.
I used to be a cat person. I had cats as a single woman and then as a young mother-person and I suppose I've had dogs for almost that long too but still, I don't really think of myself as a dog person. Dogs are too much trouble. They require constant supervision and they have needs that are expensive. They constantly want to be let in and let out. I seem to spend at least a quarter of my day responding to my dogs' demands. They have trained me well.
I am a dogwife as much as I am a housewife or a wife-wife.
So why do I have four dogs? How did this happen and why do I allow it to continue?
There are four dogs in this house and there are four stories associated with how we got those dogs and why we can never get rid of them.


I'll start with Pearl. She's what I call my "real" dog in that she's bigger than a breadbox and she looks fierce and she has a short, lovely brindle coat. She's a boxer and we actually went out and bought that dog as a present for the family one Christmas. She was a cute, tiny little bundle of joyful licks and kisses when we got her and we've had her for thirteen years now. Which means she's getting old. And I do love Pearl. She grew up with my children. Lily was ten when we got her, Jessie was only seven.
But from the get-go that dog was a mess. It took about six years to housebreak her. I was broken long before she was. And when she got the chance to run, she ran like the wind. Once she ran down to the local little league field and joined in a game, running the bases joyfully until someone managed to get hold of her and we could retrieve her. She was the bad dog of puppy class; the dog all the other dogs were afraid of. She was big and dumb and sweet and she finally turned into a fine animal and we do love her but she's getting so old. No matter how full her food bowl is, she kicks it until I put a few more kibbles in it. And if I just get tired of the whole routine and put all the food up, she looks at me with a face of such sorrow at the ignorance I have displayed by misinterpreting her signals that I have to harden my heart against her. She's deaf now, and I don't think she can see very well and she spends half her day wanting in and out of the house and a quarter of her day pawing her food bowl and a quarter of her day standing under some philodendron leaves so that they just barely touch her back.
She's old, she's odd, and she drives me insane and I really don't know what I'll do when she dies.



Now this is Buster. Buster was in a litter of pups that was born from Queenie, Best Dog Who Ever Lived. Queenie was a yorkie-poo and came to live with us sort of by accident but we soon realized that having her in our home was one of the biggest blessings we'd ever received. Hoping to further the genes of such an animal, we mated her with a toy poodle man-stud and she had four babies. Buster was the third pup born and he was HUGE. We actually sold Buster off into slavery when he was about six weeks old but soon after we let him go, Queenie got murdered by a car and we were so emotionally wrecked that we decided to see if we could get her son back. The people who had bought him were not loath to let him go (we should have suspected something then) but did demand the full price back for him as well as all the money they'd spent on food, toys, a crate and whatever else they could think of to charge us. We cowboyed up and paid their ridiculous asking price and got the boy back.
To this day I do not know why. He barks all the time, he, too, demands to be let in and out fifteen times an hour and he serves no purpose in life except for that one time when he killed a nest of baby mice.
And he's a real good snuggler.
He's grown to be twice as big as both of his parents put together and I still don't understand that. Some sort of genetic quirk, I suppose.



This is Dolly, Buster's sibling. She was the runt of the litter and the one we originally kept. Dolly is the least trouble of all the dogs. She lives mostly to have her belly scratched. Of course she wants to be let in and out all the time too but she doesn't make me crazy about it. She's more polite than persistent. And she's our singing dog, possessing as she does, a fine soprano voice that she raises in song whenever someone she loves comes home.
I'm not sure how smart she is, which is saying something when compared to the rest of our dumb beasts. Let me just say this: My friend Lis told me this morning that when it was time, in her black lab's opinion, for her to get up, the dog brought her her slippers. Now my dogs? If they brought me my slippers because they wanted me to get up, I would call the Vatican because it would be an unprecedented miracle. Oh, my dogs think. It's just that they think things like, "I believe I'll shit in front of the fireplace now." Or, "I don't think I'll poop outside because I might get my tushy wet." Or "I think I'll try and kill Zeke because suddenly, I hate him."




And this is Zeke. We got Zeke from Mr. Moon's sister. She had paid the big bucks for him because he's a real-true Yorkie. Soon after buying him, though, she discovered that she was deathly allergic to him. She was the recipient of a kidney transplant and her health, always tenuous, had to be protected and so she tearfully had to get rid of him.
Which is where we came in.
We took the dog and now we'll have him forever because Dee Ann died a few years ago and Zeke is a living, breathing reminder of her and the love she had for all creatures.
Zeke is a fine animal. I can barely call him a dog. In fact, sometimes I look at him and think, "This is descended from the wolf?" and no, I can't wrap my head around that one. He's small and he thinks he's bad and he's a mess. His one, real, true goal in life is to get his entire head and body into a human's mouth. He tries to hump Dolly and she, being about six times bigger than he is, completely ignores him. He constantly tries to get the other dogs to play with him and sometimes they do and then sometimes, as I said, they spontaneously decide to kill him instead and someday, if we're not around to reach into the middle of the gnashing teeth and raking claws, they will.
I'm sure this is some sort of pack behavior- trying to rid the pack of the weak and unfit or something- but it's scary when it happens and he spends a few hours under the kitchen island until everyone has calmed down and then he comes out and starts biting at their ears again, hoping for some more play time.
I'm telling you, these dogs are NOT smart.
In fact, since I started writing this, I have gotten up at least seven or eight times to open the back door for them to let them in or let them out. And right now, excuse me, it's time to do that again. Buster is barking that bark which means, "Let me out because there is a monster outside and I must attend to his demise."
Mr. Moon and I frequently look at each other and say, "WHY do we have all these dogs?"
And we know why we have them so the more accurate question would be WHY do we KEEP all these dogs? and for that, we have no reason.
I personally enjoy having Zeke sleep at my feet. And if he were my only dog, I would probably groom him daily, dress him in tiny outfits and carry him around in my purse. Luckily for him, that's not the case. Luckily for me, too.
I feel certain that all the small dogs are going to be with us for at least another ten years. Pearl, who is getting quite old for a big dog, is not yet at the stage where we need to start asking the hard questions but will be soon. I can tell. Besides being deaf and half blind, she is starting to stumble. But she still gets frisky with the other dogs, she still runs and plays. She is in no pain that we can tell, and she eats like a horse. So for now, she's fine.
And I know that when these damned animals die, it's going to knock me for a loop, even the ones who are not Pearl. Because as much as they torment me and create chaos, poop, pee and utter frustration in my life, they are a part of my life.
And when I need them, when I really need them to snuggle with because whatever is going on in my life requires the warmth and comfort that only another living being can offer, they are here for me.
I am not fooling myself in believing that they love me. I have often thought that if Mr. Moon and I disappeared and another family took our place, they might be confused for about fifteen minutes but as soon as that food bowl got filled up, they'd be perfectly content with the new laps to sit on, the new humans to torture.
And really, they all love HoneyLuna best. Well, except for Zeke who has a complete and utter passion for Miss Maybelle.
And the appear to adore Mr. Moon.
Now me? Sometimes they can barely bring themselves to get up and bark when I get home.
They may not be smart but they know I feel a bit ambivalent about them.
To say the least.
But those are my dogs. The weird-ass creatures who share my life here in Lloyd.
Pearl, Buster, Dolly and Zeke.
Descendants of wolves, cousins of coyotes, replicas of stuffed animals.
My furry children.
The ones who will never fucking leave.

The Dreaming Life in Late July

Sitting in my office in the afternoon heat
A fan blows air my way
It's noisy, but can't compete
With the chirring of the crickets outside
Trying to stir up the storm they think is coming.
The day before my birthday
It's Sue's birthday today,
That bucktoothed girl, gone to Heaven.
I work beneath a small statue of the Virgin
Some of Sue's ashes wrapped up and tucked away
In the little votive below it.
I think of her today and miss her terribly
My birthday twin
My sad friend
But I know she's fine
Where she is.
My boxer dog sleeps right in front of the fan
And has a dream that makes her growl and make
Small, strange barking noises
My other dog, disturbed, gets up and goes to
Pearl to investigate.
"She's dreaming," I tell him,
"She's okay."
I look around at all of this
This life, this dream of my own.
And suddenly, for no reason,
Here in the late afternoon heat
Of the last part of July
Under the bruised gray sky
I am too.