The Dog Park

Initially, we bought an English Bulldog with visions in our head of our lazy, lumpy hound laying idly on the couch all day, only moving to begrudgingly trudge to his food dish. In our naivety, we didn't realize that putting an 'Olde' in front of 'English Bulldog', turns the sluggish pooch into a hyperactive, attention-hungry, hihihihilovemelovemeloveme assault on the senses. We do love him so much, but it has been a learning process. Expectations rarely match reality.

With me being pregnant out to here (envision my arm fully extended away from belly), the husband working, in school full time, and doing clinicals, and a Noah discovering the world is amazing (in a danger around every corner kind of way), Dumpster has been somewhat neglected. I can't wrangle his bulk well enough to make walks safe, so Justin has to steal 10-15 minutes a night to run him around in the back yard. We're trying to make life fair for him (and we continually remind him that other dogs as endearingly offensive as himself have to sleep outside in the cold instead of on a fluffy, warm couch [what's left of our fluffy, warm couch]), but my first born, human child takes precedence.

On Saturday, as a treat, we loaded up the family and took Dumpy to the dog park. We'd never tried this before, so we were somewhat unprepared. Dumpster didn't seem to care. He LOVED it. There were at least 12 other dogs there running around, and he could not get off the leash fast enough to go make friends. This is problem number one with our beloved bully: he thinks everyone in the universe wants to be his best friend, so he just strolls right up and introduces himself. (In the same way that a monster truck strolls up to a sedan in a demolition derby.) Someone had brought a herd of little yorkies, who were incredibly well-behaved. They trotted nobly by their master as he strolled around the perimeter of the park. Until Dumpster went to say hi that is... Just picture a big fuzzy white bowling ball, and a bunch of terrified, yipping, bowling pins.

The other problem with our Dumpy is he thinks he is exactly the same as every other dog. He thinks he is just as big as the Great Dane. He thinks he is just as fast and tireless as the hound. He believes himself to be as well-groomed and well-mannered as the little yorkies. He ran and played more than any over-sized bulldog probably ever has. I would love to see the self-image Dumpy has of himself. I imagine it looks something like this: 

                      

In reality, once we got him home, this is how our bully looked for the rest of the day... and even part of the next day: 

Not to mention the smell. Dumpster had at least ten other dog's drool on him, not to mention his own delightful bouquet. Imagine wet dog, mixed with raw trout, and a touch of a tummy ache. Voila, Ode de Dumpy.

All Nighter

To deal with my wicked morning sickness I am using a combination of Promethazine at night, Zofran in the morning, anti-nausea preggo drops, and PSI wrist bands. With all of these remedies combined I still feel nauseous most of the time, but thankfully I'm only throwing up about once a day now instead of six times. For some reason I still don't feel like clicking my heels with delight, but I am trying to be grateful for the blessings I have. Like a new growing baby.

The Promethazine causes extreme drowsiness, which is why I take it at night. I tried taking half pills during the day, and ended up drooling into my keyboard for long stretches of the workweek. Last night I forgot to take it. And no sleeping occurred. I was awake as a chihuahua on espresso. Thankfully, (read deeply embittered sarcasm in that word) Dumpster was restless most of the night too. My tossing and turning was accompanied by the grunting and snuffling of a bulldog shaped like the world's largest sausage trying to squeeze himself under our bed. Like trying to stuff a salami in a mail slot. Then he got an itch and scratched himself right up against our bedroom door so it thunked against the wall at machine gun fire tempo. Then he found his bone and tossed it across the room for himself a couple times. And then, I will not share with you the awful noises and smells he made.

The moral of this section of the story is: although bulldog puppies are preeminent amongst God's adorable creations, at some point they grow up, and then, it's like owning a biochemical weapon with a tongue. He is an assault on all the senses.

I am now debating with myself if I should endure some more nausea and stop taking my night drugs or continue on in comatose bliss, less sicky.

It concerns me that I can't sleep without this drug now. And it also frightens me that if I'm so wigged out by it, what the baby might be feeling. Any intelligent comments on this dilemma would be greatly appreciated.

The Cup Game

We used to have animal planet and no children. I watched a lot of gazelles being eaten by lions, super fishermen using themselves as pirannah bait, and stupid pet tricks. In some ways I feel my son has saved me from a mind-numbed fate. There was one show called "It's Me or the Dog" with a British dog trainer named Victoria. Victoria could take an untrained junkyard dog with neurological issues and have him sipping tea from a porcelain cup and peeing in the toilet... with the door closed... and washing his paws with little rose shaped soaps when he was done.

Victoria never met Dumpster.

Dumpster is an Olde English Bulldog, and a living testament to his name. He reminds everyone who meets him that once his kind was used to herd bulls, primarily by latching onto their throats and dragging them into a pen with a righteously indignant 'Woof'. He is a purebred, but we can't breed him. We took care of that a few years ago in hopes that he would mellow out enough to stop eating our apartment like it was made out of ginerbread and peanut butter. A tally of what this dog has consumed would include: two couches, three dining room chairs, several feet of drywall, three choclate chip cookies, a string of Christmas lights, inumerable shoes, and about 18 remote controls. Honestly, it is like the remote control graveyard in our basement. If Dumpy barks too close to the TV, the channel changes.

Dumpster weighs approximately 80 pounds, 90% of which is centered in his shoulders and head, giving him a battering ram look. If the orcs broke Grond trying to smash down the doors of Minas Tirith, Dumpster would be a good substitute. And then, once inside he would lick all the Gondorian soldiers to death. Despite his ferociousness toward remotes, he really is nothing but a big sweetheart. BIG sweetheart. With claws that he can't seem to control.

There was a bully on "It's me or the dog" who was similarly sized to Dumpster and played very rough. Victoria suggested a new kind of play for this dog that discouraged tugging, jumping, and maiming. She called it the cup game. The idea is, you place down three cups, one with a treat under it. Slide the cups around to mix them up, puppy tries to guess where the treat is, and when she figures it out, happiness ensues. Excitedly I got my cups and a little treat, set everything up, and called for Dumpster.

He bounded into the kitchen, stepped on one of the cups, and gave me a giant slurp across the face.

Okay, no plastic cups. I got out real cups, showed Dumpster the treat (this heated things up real quick), showed him how I was 'hiding' it under a cup, mixed them up, and then let him at them. At first things seemed to be going well. He sniffed vigorously at each cup. Then he sniffed the floor around the cups, under the table, and his own backside. I felt sorry for the big dummy. I removed one of the cups and let him try again. He was equally confused. Somehow mommy just had a treat and made it vanish. No fair! With a shake of my head, I removed another cup, showed him the treat again and put the cup down over it. He sniffed circles all over the kitchen, ran headlong into a dining room chair, and then started sniffing off into the living room.

I stared at him with astonishment on my face. My dog is too dumb for the cup game! One cup! There was only one cup to work with, and he couldn't handle it. In shock I lifted the cup and allowed Dumpy his treat.

So we are sadly back to tugging, jumping, and maiming as our primary form of play. Now that I think about it, though, maybe if we put a remote control under a cup, we would have better success...

And if anyone needs to buy a us a present, a Best Buy giftcard is always welcome. Or a new remote, we generally buy Logitech. Dumpy finds it has a nice battery acid bouquet.

(We don't make a habit of putting clothes on Dumpy. He would just eat them. The hat was a gift, and it stayed on for about 5 seconds.)