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Dog People

Dog people are a special breed not usually recognized by the CKC/AKC/UKC.

They usually have crates in their living rooms.

They keep messy houses, but their kennels are spotless.

They can always find a show catalog within an arm's reach.

And they have kids who know more about the birds and bees when they are five than most people know at 40.

Dog people will drive 400 miles; spend $100 on gas, $200 on a motel room and $150 on meals to bring home a 25-cent ribbon.

Dog people drive trucks, vans, and motorhomes equipped to haul crates.

They can never be reached on weekends, unless you happen to be at the same show.

They have trouble getting to work on time but can be at ringside by 8:00 a.m.

Dog people will give up a $150,000 home in the suburbs to move to a shack on 10 acres so they can have a $150,000 dog kennel.

Dog people have children who grow up believing "Bitch" is just another household word.

Dog people have lush green yards and never buy fertilizer.

Dog people pay the mortgage ten days late but NEVER miss a closing date for entries.

Dog people would rather be audited by the IRS than investigated by the AKC.

Dog people use dog food bags for trash and trash cans for dog food.

Dog people talk on the phone for hours to another dog person in a language known only to dog people.

Dog people have parents and family who think they've lost their minds, neighbors who think they're strange and doggy friends who think they're terrific!!

If I Didn't Have Dogs

  1. I could walk around safely barefoot in the dark;

  2. My house could be carpeted instead of tiled and laminated;

  3. All flat surfaces, clothing, furniture, and cars would be free of dog hair;

  4. When the doorbell rang, it wouldn't sound like the SPCA kennels;

  5. When the doorbell rang, I could get to the door without wading thru four or five dog bodies who beat me there;

  6. I could sit how I wanted to on the couch without taking into consideration where several little furbodies would need to get;

  7. I would not have strange presents under my tree....like dog bones, stuffed animals and have to answer to people why I wrap them up;

  8. I would not be on a first name basis with a vet;

  9. Most used words in my vocabulary would not be: potty, outside, sit, down, come, no, and leave him/her ALONE;

  10. My house would not be cordoned off into zones with baby gates;

  11. My purse would not contain things like poop pick up bags and dog treats;

  12. I would no longer have to spell the world B-A-L-L and F-R-I-S-B-E-E;

  13. I would not buy weird things to stuff into "kongs", or have to explain why I'm buying them, or what a "kong" is;

  14. I would not have as many leaves INSIDE my house as outside;

  15. I would not look strangely at people who think having their ONE dog ties them down too much;

  16. I would not have to answer the question why do I have so many dogs from people who will never have the joy in their life of knowing they are loved unconditionally by something as close to an angel as they will ever get. Who else has a friend who considers you the MOST important thing in the whole wide world all the time.

    Author Unknown

Vasek Tummy Operation

*RING**

I look up from my dinner. Who would call the Breeder From Hell at suppertime? I check the caller id. It's a local call. No mercy. Had they called from different time zone, I might have considered commuting their sentence...

"Yes." Hello is too good for this loser. This should be the first hint.

"Yeah, is this the lady who has Boston's? Someone gave me your number...I'm calling about a stud."

Uh huh. This loser doesn't know my name, but wants to use one of my studs? I'm just about to pick up the whistle I keep on hand for obscene callers, when I hear words I hadn't expected.

"I have a stud. I thought you might want to use him."

But of course! Whatever was I thinking? I put down my plate. Time to trade in my salad for some fresh meat.

"You do? Please! Tell me more about him."

"He's got papers. We're charging $75 but we might take a pup if there's a good one in there."

If my plan is going to succeed, I must first win his friendship.

"Oh my goodness, I could never sleep at night having paid you so little. I wouldn't dream of paying less than $125."

"Really?"

"Absolutely. Actually, some people charge $150 for studding their Bostons." I hear the skin on his cheeks snap into an idiot grin.

"Ok. But for you I'll charge $125, though, ok? When do you want to use him? Got anything ready now? We'd really like to get some pups outa him."

"You mean he's never been used before?"  I let a long moment of silence pass before continuing, my voice grave.

"I hope you've checked him for T.E.S.S."

"What tests? He's got his shots.

"No, I said TESS T - E - S - S."

There's a little hesitation in his voice now. "Tess?"

"Testicular Ecstatic Seizure Syndrome." I whisper it into the receiver.

"Huh? What's that?"

"Breeding fits. Kind of like a seizure, except it hits them in the rear first.  They sort of lose control. It's an awful thing to see. Awful thing...You mean nobody told you?"

"er....no?"

*sigh* "They never do. You're lucky you talked to me then, eh? I may might have saved your dog from a convulsion or worse..."  I let that sink in for a moment. First you herd them into the tunnel, then you turn on the light... "But there's a couple of tests you can do to check for it... easy stuff."

"Yeah? tests?" (He's coming in like a bug to a zapper...)

"You can do them yourself. First you get a female that's ready for breeding, bring your stud in and watch what happens. You have to watch really close...but keep him on a leash so you can get him out of there if you have to."

"Ok"

"Watch your stud real close, and if he starts to chatter his teeth a little, well that's a danger sign. The first thing to start him off in a breeding fit is that teeth chattering thing... are you writing this down?"

"Ok"

"Next thing to do is watch how excited he gets. If he starts scrambling around and won't listen to you, then that's another danger sign. If he does that, get him outa there fast. Let him settle down for a few days. Maybe a week. Then try again. If he still does it, well, he's gonna need an operation."

"An operation?" I can hear the profit margin calculations being adjusted.

"Oh yeah, you can cure TESS real easy. Just get your dog in right away to the vet for an operation."

"You sure? I mean, operations can be kinda expensive..."

"Not as expensive as buying another dog, eh? Besides, if anybody gets even a hint that your dog has TESS, they won't use him. No way. Who wants to waste time on a dog that dies before the job gets done, eh?"

"I never thought about it that way. You got a good point there...."

"Yup. So, this is what you do. You go to your vet and tell him you want him to do a Vasek Tummy operation. Write that down...Va-sek-Tum-my

"Yup, got it. Ok, thanks."

"Wait, for crying out loud, that isn't all!"

"No?"

"If your vet gets any idea that you want to be studding your dog, he's not gonna do it. So, no matter what he says, tell him you don't ever want to stud that dog. NEVER."

"Huh?"

"And don't breathe a word about the TESS. For sure he won't do it then."

"Why not?"

"Vets are funny that way. If they find out you want to fix up a dog with TESS for breeding, they won't let you do it. So they won't do that Vasek Tummy operation."

"Oh. Ok. Now I get this."

"Good. Hey, and good luck, eh? Be sure to call me back and tell me how it went. I like to know about vets who do good Vasek Tummy surgeries. There's lots of people like you out there."

"Thanks. Thanks for your help. I'll be sure to do that."

"No need to thank me" I take out a steak knife and carve another notch in the idiot stick. "The opportunity to help others is the only thanks I need."

Sneak-a-Pee and Sneak-a-Poo Breeds

Alive & Kickin':
Dog Duty: First odor of business

I've got a thing for Chihuahuas. There's just something about the little yappers I like. Maybe it's the fact that at 5 to 10 pounds, they're fully grown and still look like puppies. Perma-pups to be exact.

That's the good news. The bad news is these little squirts are direct descendents of the Sneak-a-Pee and Sneak-a-Poo breeds, which most likely migrated from the puppy mills of Utah to my house.

The breeds were aptly named because perma-pups' little stomachs, intestines and bladders can't be taxed for very long. So, sneaking around and hiding their little presents in out-of-the-way places became a very important evolutionary trait. Especially after the man of the house slipped in a little puddle while trying to pick up a little pile.

Soon after the incident, my three little darlings began leaving their presents in other isolated spots, like . . . my house slippers. I must admit, finding that one in the middle of the night did more than give me a warm, fuzzy feeling.

Sneak-a-Poos also instinctively know how to camouflage their little piles within the design of the hallway carpet. The offering, once stepped in, is rarely noticed until it's been tracked from here to eternity.

After retracing my steps one day -- armed with a portable Bissell -- I was fascinated by how many places I went before wondering where that all-too-familiar smell was coming from. And finding it embedded in the crevice of my sneaker's sole was no surprise. You'd think I would know by now to look there first.

Another sure sign that perma-pups have been busy is when one decides to do the heinie slide across the floor or on the sofa. With their keisters placed squarely on the ground, tails curled upward, Sneak-a-Poos point their back legs and toes toward the ceiling and go for a drag.

Any surface will do.

My youngest one has been seen using the concrete sidewalk outside as toilet paper. Then again, she also eats rocks and other Sneak-a-Poo treats left behind. Evidence of this can be traced to the pungent halitosis permeating from her mouth after a particularly excessive binge. And she's the kissy one.

This perma-pup has yet to figure out that what she eats makes her a little queazy at times, causing her to waffle back and forth from the Sneak-a-Poo to the Sneak-a-Puke breed. While she holds it down pretty well, at times she tends to pass on dinner.

All in all, at my house we have learned never to be surprised where the next little present will turn up. My favorite find while cleaning recently was the Chihuahua artwork, sculpted with great care and extraordinary skill (I suspect standing on tippy toes while negotiating electronics and speaker wires.), high upon the wall behind the TV. Enough said.

Published in the Asbury Park Press 9/03/03

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