But It's a Dry Heat

Archive for the ‘Dogs’ Category

Horse Eats Hound

Yes, the vacuum is running.

And, no, the greyhound isn’t budging from his spot on the carpet.

In fact, his head is up is because he saw me with the camera and wondered what was going on.  In the absence of the camera, the end result would have been a roughly greyhound-shaped dirty spot on the carpet.

He also does this with the lawn mower, so he isn’t allowed outside when I’m cutting the grass.

On the other hand, he’s wary to wet-himself-afraid of nearly everything with a heartbeat. Even rabbits, yes rabbits.

Of course, Wonder Horse was quick to exploit the hound’s neurosis.

Once upon a time, before heading out for a mid-afternoon walk, the hound and I would stop by the barn to visit the horse. I’d bring along carrots for both critters. We’d meet the horse at the gate and there I’d give a carrot to the equine and one to the canine, then another to the equine, and so on.  The greyhound would eye the horse very warily, but tempted by the carrots, stay at my side.

Then one day, the horse, in one of his Professor Snottypants moods, banged his hoof on the metal gate, making a delightful racket. The hound leaped back, startled. At this point, you could see the wheels turning in the Wonder Horse’s brain. After a pause, he banged again. Dog leaped in the air, and strained on his leash, trying to get as far from the horse as possible. Horse smirked and banged again. And thus was the demise of carrot sharing at the gate.

To this day, when the horse sees the hound approaching, he lifts a foot, poised to start hammering on the gate. I have to drag the hound, his long legs braced and feet sliding through the sand, to get anywhere near the barn.

The hound, the predator, is deathly afraid of the horse, the prey animal.

Slaughterhouse Kirby

Saturday morning at Casa de Kirby. At the obscenely early hour of 6:30, the greyhound hops up from his pile of bedding on my husband’s side of the bed and starts making slobbery snorting noises. A few minutes later, my husband crawls out of bed and feeds the early morning chow hound.

I stay in bed until around seven, when it becomes impossible to ignore the sound of the shrieking Wonder Horse. (If I could understand horse, I’m sure his ranting would be R-rated.) Get up; put on whatever’s on the floor and head out to the barn to feed the horse and clean up his paddock. The day has begun.

While I’m doing the morning garden chores, my husband walks the greyhound. They’ve returned by the time I come back in the house.

“What’s that?” I say, bending down over a red streak on the (more…)

Scars

I still can’t draw people.

Not very well, anyway. I’m starting to think it’s some kind of weird psychological hang-up, because I don’t have the same problem with animals. Human proportions, for some reason, don’t make sense to my artist’s brain. My people always end up with odd anatomy or looking stiff and lifeless.

My current Work in Progress features a scarred, half blind hero and Six:A.M.’s “Skin” is his theme song. One of several angsty-pangsty songs, anyway. He’s wonderfully emo and fun to write. Since I can’t draw people, I opted for another one of my original characters. This is Cheddar the pitbull, from an another unfinished project. Cheddar belongs to one of Regan O’Connell’s  (The Music of Chaos) neighbors and she sometimes dogsits him. He is so named because he once ate a pound of cheddar, including the plastic packaging.

Click on image for a larger version.

Murder Most Foul

Today, on the very day that my Cyber Monday purchase–two gopher traps–shipped, I find my nemesis in the yard, D.E.A.D, dead. Yes, ding-dong, the wicked rodent’s dead.

Friends know that as a rule, my garden is a welcoming place to wildlife. Heck, this year I even called off hostilities against the paper wasps. (It turns out they are great allies in the war against tomato worms, which, as a rule, I also don’t kill. I just pluck ’em off the plants and chuck ’em over the fence.)

But my garden is my life, in darkest times the bright spot that keeps me going. (And my dark spots are abysmal, think Laurentian Trench.) There is no coexistence with an animal, no matter how cute, that is laying waste to my organic Prozac.

As this is war, I first dug trenches and (more…)

Race Cars, Not Dogs

In which I ensure that I never sell any books to anyone in the greyhound racing industry.* (*No, I’m not calling it a “sport.”) Like I give three shits.

You would think, given the proliferation of casinos and other forms of gambling, that greyhound racing wouldn’t exist at all anymore. Sadly, there are still a few pathetic fools who spent their money at the dog track, meaning there are still thousands of dogs being bred and fed to the gristmill of racing, every year. Obviously, people who work directly in the industry will defend its practices, claiming that reports of cruelty aren’t typical (they are) and that their dogs are feed caviar and steak every night.

More distressing are the turncoats in rescue groups who support and apologize for this corrupt and inhumane industry. They are the ideological equivalent of (more…)

I’m Magical. I Made Food.

This is comic gold.  Especially for dog people.

Packing all of your belongings into a U-Haul and then transporting them across several states is nearly as stressful and futile as trying to run away from lava in swim fins.

Casa de Kirby made the move across this big nation twice.  Our dogs, who shall forever be known as the greatest dogs ever, enjoyed the entire adventure.  Of course they did.  They didn’t have to worry about finding a rental housing with two dogs, one quite large.  They didn’t worry about starting a new job in a strange city.  They weren’t bewildered by strange regional vernacular.  I.e., the practice of calling a pickup truck a “rig.”  Que?

Me?  My ulcers had ulcers.

(Pictured: Our current grey and his birthday present, Mr. Squirrel.)

Fifi, Is That You?

This is clearly a case of what happens when you give a dog access to the Internet.

To ‘Your Retail Store’:

Today I went into your store, and I was appalled and disgusted that you blasphemed Almighty God Jesus Christ and His Most Holy Nativity Christmas by selling from your store shelves a filthy pornographic lamp that said “Christmas” Story on it. REMOVE THAT PIECE OF FILTHY, PORNOGRAPHIC BLASPHEMY FROM YOUR STORESHELVES AT ONCE!

The blasphemous object in question being a lamp shaped like a leg. Yep.  A lamp.

My mom once had a dog who like to hump the throw cushions on the couch.  That dog never developed a lust for legs, but if it had, I imagine this lamp would’ve been well loved.