Update (A Day In the Life of Dids)

Sorry for my radio silence. I’ve been wickedly busy and rather than just call it in, I like to take a little bit of trouble with my updates, since some of you seem to like coming here and I want to make it worth your while.

A quick update based on past posts—I am pain free due to a new medication called Simponi and, as a result, have returned to fencing and archery and other activities. Also, the asshole raisin two doors down died (or was killed, but not by me) over the winter and has been replaced with a nice Aboriginal family who are not even remotely interested in being friends with the Fragrant Missus and I. It’s okay, I don’t take it personally; if I were them, I wouldn’t be friends with me either, just on principle.

The Three Didiots continue to amaze with their unique blend of stupidity and neurosis. Scooter never fails to disappoint. He spent all weekend trying to catch a fly that got into the house. He’d be standing around looking stupid as usual, and then race across the room, snapping at something invisible. Yesterday morning while dressing for work, I discovered the fly crawling across the bedroom floor, so I knew it was done. I called Scooter over and pointed it out. He didn’t know what to do—he sniffed it, licked it, spat it out, pawed at it, circled it…he did everything except eat it, which I thought was the point. Apparently not. He ate it when I told him to, but then he gave me a look of extreme dissatisfaction, as if to say, “I didn’t like the texture.”

Freak. I swear if he could talk, he’d sound like Bobcat Goldthwaite.

Dieter has taught the other two how to sing. When the Fragrant Missus and I leave the house in the morning, we can hear the song of their people, lamenting their loss and abandonment. It is clearly audible all the way to the garage, although I expect it only lasts as long as they can hear the car engine. Then they get down to the real business of napping, chewing on things, wrestling, and licking the varnish off the hardwood floors.

With the arrival of summer, they are spending a lot more time outside. Aside from the weather, one of the exciting backyard attractions is the Kitty Next Door. She is a lovely, long-haired ginger creature, and her appearance in the neighbour’s yard makes all three of them absolutely mental. 

There used to be a building downtown that advertised 25 cent peep shows. Of course, I never went near the place, but one can imagine the sordid scenes within—a bunch of loser assholes, plugging the machine with quarters and wanking mightily to whatever they see though the hole in the wall.

This is very much the scene when KND shows up; all three of them immediately abandon what they’re doing (wrestling, sniffing poop, grazing) to stand peering through the narrow gaps in the fence while Kitty grooms herself or lolls about luxuriantly in the sun. And although they make a lot of noise and jostle for the best view, she ignores them utterly. And Nipper is in on it, too, because if Nipper was a person, she’d be Little Boo on Orange Is the New Black, played by Lea Delaria.

One can almost hear the dialogue:

Dieter: PUSSY!!! PUSSY!!!

Nipper: Oh, yeah, baby. Work it!

Scooter: *whines anxiously and shifts on his front paws*

Nipper: Hey, kitty—I got a bone. You wanna see my bone?

Dieter: I got a bone, too. I chewed the end off.

Nipper: (looking at Dieter) What?

Dieter: I chewed the end off the bone.

Nipper: You don’t really get this flirting thing, do you?

But by then, Dieter is distracted by an ant on the sidewalk, which he is sniffing, and then he’ll say something completely random like, “Why is France so far away?”

Scooter: What’s France? Is it near the park?

Nipper: Who gives a fuck about France? The pussy is licking her pussy!

And then they crowd around the fence and get all excited and growly, and really, the only thing missing is the slot for quarters. And because they are terriers of one description or another, their attention is laser fine and constant until KND either goes inside or goes away.

And lately, I’ve had to tell Scooter to stop nailing Nipper in the ass on a more or less regular basis. Humping isn’t always an indication of dominance with dogs—sometimes it’s a way for dogs to say, rather clumsily, “You still like me, don’t you?” He never used to do that before Dieter came along. Scooter has always been anxiety-prone, but since Dieter joined us, Scooter is uncertain as to whether or not Nipper still likes him (she does).

Dogs—they’re like every boyfriend you ever had in high school.

Scooter Pot Pie

Scooter

An Open Letter To the HillbillyTwo Doors Down

Dear Asshole Raisin,

Why aren't you in some kind of assisted living, eating Kraft Dinner and sitting in a pool of your own urine? You used to have a wife, who nagged and yelled at you with a voice like the maddening whine of a dental drill; what happened to her? I haven't seen in her in over a year. Did you finally snap and smash her in the head with a shovel, which you then used to bury her late one night under the porch? Maybe she died of bitchiness. Or maybe she left your wrinkled old ass, which wouldn't be surprising, since all you ever do is sit outside in your lawnchair, listening to country music and horking up great glistening gobs of lung butter which you spit onto the ground. Yessir, there's nothing more relaxing and/or appealing for my wife and me during our time in the garden than having to listen to you choke up a football of pulmonary mucus in between Taylor Swift and Kenny Chesney. Yum yum.

I'm sure that having to endure the agonizing decay of your own body while you're still in it makes you a touch cranky. I am not completely devoid of compassion and might be moved to sympathy for you, if you weren't such a miserable antedeluvian cunt. Maybe things were different in your cross-eyed corner of the world, Jethro, but around these parts, we're pretty good neighbours. We keep the lawn cut in the summer, we shovel the walks in winter, we park in our own garage, we keep our socializing tame and move the outdoor parties indoors past 11:00 p.m. Our car is not a massive throbbing penile substitute that can be heard three blocks over and our dogs are kept indoors. They do not bark, and when they do, they are promptly brought into the house.

So why all the hostility, Gramps? Why call the cops on us to complain about the noise when there were four of us sitting around the firepit, talking. No music, no yelling--it was a conversation, not a party. But you called the cops, who, when they arrived to investigate, weren't sure that they were at the right address because there was no disturbance.

And today, we came home from a hard day at work to discover that someone had complained to Animal Control about us having four dogs in the house, when the law only permits three. You want to bet that I called the bylaw officer to discuss the complaint, and yanno what she said? She said she visited the house today, saw three dogs, all of whom are licensed, and she was going to close the file. She also told me that the "complainant" was not willing to fill out a witness statement. So you know what that tells me, you fossilized fuck? It tells me that you feel entitled to bitch long and loud about things that don't fucking concern you, but you lack the balls to put your name on a complaint.

So here is how it's going to go from now on, Pa; the first thing I'm going to do is call the City and tell them about the handmade "No Parking" sign you have nailed to the tree (which is City property) in front of your house, despite the fact that you don't own a vehicle and you have three parking spaces in the back. The second thing I'm going to do is make my own goddamned call to Animal Control and have them seize that black, unlicensed cat of yours who comes into my yard and shits in my garden. And finally, you primodial prick, I'm going to report your backyard as a fucking biohazard. Don't worry, nothing will happen, except possibly a passing moment of embarrassment. That's assuming you have the wherewithal to be embarrassed when the Health Officers show up to find you sitting in a yard surrounded by discoloured clods of crud freshly disgorged from your bronchia.

It's on, Raisin!

Love and kisses,

Us

Meet the Dids

The Fragrant Missus and I don't have kids. Well, that's not true. The Fragrant Missus actually two children, a daughter who is hard-working, bright and funny. She also has a son who is...well, none of those things, but that's a tale for another day.

In the absence of children, the Fragrant Missus and I have three dogs. And since they are dogs and not kids, we refer to them as "the Dids". Or, most recently, "the Three Didiots". I despair of them, both as individuals and a group, but they are, for better or worse, a large part of our lives, so you might as well meet them. And what better place to exact my revenge vent my spleen introduce them than here on my blog! It is called Douchebaggery Abounds, after all, and they are capable of the highest levels of canine douchebaggery.

Did Number One: Scooter Pot Pie.

Meet Scooter. Scooter is a six-year-old wire-haired fox terrier cross. Like the other dids, he is a rescue from the Edmonton Humane Society, and came to us as a three-month-old puppy in September, 2008. He is about fourteen inches high at the shoulder, bow-legged, light-boned and scruffy. Physically, he's goofy looking. He is also very "sensitive". He is terrified of thunderstorms and the pressure cooker. He is also the pack's "hall monitor"--if one of the other dids are doing something he knows they shouldn't, he'll let us know. A good friend of ours once described Scooter with resounding accuracy as "that kid in class who would ask, 'Were we supposed to have a test today', just when it seemed the teacher had forgotten all about it."

I seriously think Scooter is gay. You only have to see him prancing through the tall grass (or the short grass or along the boulevard or anywhere he goes, really) to know that this dog is a little "light in the loafers". Also, watch him eat. One day, I'm going to videotape Scooter lingering over his kibble and post it on YouTube with an appropriate voice-over. The other two bolt their food down like they've never seen it and will never see it again. But Scooter is more refined; he takes a few kibbles and chews thoughtfully and deliberately, savoring the complexity. Then he pauses to survey his surroundings, because "Ze light; she changes every second, non? Eet ees tres magnifique!" Yes, if Scooter was a human, he would be some effeminate French asshole, critiquing international films and "high art". He'd wear a fucking beret or some shit.

As a dog, though, Scooter is the best. Despite his propensity for getting up on the dining room table and passive aggressively pissing on the bathroom floor when he is disgruntled ("I should not have to tell you what ees wrong, hein? Eet should be obvious to you, Two-Legger!"), Scooter is quite clever. I have taken him to three Agility courses and he does very well. He appreciates words, and when I talk to him, he cocks his pie-shaped little head to one side and listens intently for the one word that will indicate what the hell it is I want. He is sweet and gentle and just wants to be friends with everyone and everything, including cats, hamsters and the field mice that occasionally come into the kitchen. He is very compliant and, despite his overall timidity, lacks the behavioural issues that plague the other two Didiots. We know that when shit has gone wrong during the day, Scooter wasn't involved. But he would dime them out in a red-hot minute.

Did Number Two: Nipper T. Biscuit

Meet Nipper. If Nipper looks guilty in this photograph, she probably is. Nipper is a four-year-old corgi/Jack Russell Terrier cross. She is sturdy, short, curious, confident and fiercely intelligent. Whereas Scooter isn't particularly interested in exploring his environment, Nipper is an intrepid explorer and problem solver. We had to get a padlock for her crate, because she learned how to undo the latch. Sometimes, you can actually see the gears turning in her brain as she figures out how to get around an obstacle or get at that toy she wants. One day, I watched as Scooter circled the crate where a juicy bone waited inside. He pawed at the sides with no effect and went around the front to where the door was closed but not latched. He couldn't quite figure out how to get at the bone. Nipper was also watching from the couch. She got down, crossed the floor, opened the crate with her paw and then went back to the couch. It blew me away.

Unfortunately, the intelligence that makes Nipper such a joy to be with also gets her into plenty of trouble. If we fail to provide her with something to do, she creates her own fun. And fun, in Nipper's mind, involves getting into the garbage and/or recycling, and spreading it from one end of the house to the other. You can almost hear her saying, "I can't believe you guys were going to throw away all this cool stuff!" Items that Nipper has destroyed in the past few months include bellydance cds belonging to the Fragrant Missus, a box of Cards Against Humanity and my hearing aid. She also ran right throughthe nylon wall of the bughouse in the backyard. It had been up less than an hour, and Nipper wrecked it.This resulted in her being referred to as "that fucking burrito-shaped twutplunging shit-tube furbag." I actually called my dog a cunt. To her face.

She spends a certain amount of time in her crate, pondering why she's there. Nipper's YouTube video would consist of her in her crate with Eric Carmen's "All By Myself" as the soundtrack.

I will admit, though, Nipper is my favourite. Despite her many and frequent transgressions, she is my constant pal. I miss the days when I could take her to work. I was going to say that if Nipper was a human being, she'd be a sensible-shoe-wearing, talkative intelligent lesbian. Then I realized I was describing me. Oops. But I do adore her and she seems bonded to me, too. When I fell on the stairs last August and couldn't move, Nipper came and sat by me and wouldn't leave my side until the Fragrant Missus arrived to take me to the emergency clinic. I just wish she'd stop eating my stuff.

Did Number Three: Dieter Schnitzel.

Also known as Dieter the Delayed, Dieter is the latest addition to the pack. He is a one-and-a-half year old schnauzer/terrier cross. He is, as you can see, very cute, which has saved his life on more than one occasion. He is blissfully free of the intelligence that is characteristic of the other two dids. When you look into Dieter's eyes, there's nothing there. I swear, if you listen closely enough, you can hear the white noise between his ears.

Fortunately, he's kind-hearted and sweet and craves affection. In the words of Harvey Fierstein, "(He) just wants to be loved, is that so wrong?" But somedays, loving Dieter the Daft takes some effort. He's a compulsive licker; he'll lick you, he'll lick me, he daily licks the perimeters of the kitchen and living room, sometimes more than once. Dieter's motto is, "When in doubt, lick it." 

Although he is better now, he used to be a door-dasher, and would take off up the street, always a few feet out of reach. He simply would not come when called, even when treats were offered. Dieter is the kind of dog who needs to be persuaded that obeying orders is in his best interest. His defiant phase seemed to last a Really Long Time. We still don't let him off-leash at the dog park--it's not that he isn't properly socialized or has ever in any circumstances exhibited aggression towards people or other dogs. He's just a bolter and he won't come back if he doesn't want to.

He has also picked up Nipper's bad habit of chewing shit that doesn't belong to him. And when you yell at him, he just looks at you, like, "What?" The Fragrant Missus wants to introduce him to Agility, but I dunno if he has the brains to get it right--I fear he'll be one of those dogs that stops to crap on the course halfway through and then wander off to sniff stuff. Seriously, we're talking about the dog who walked into the wall of the bughouse THREE TIMES.

I don't know what Dieter would be like as a human, but it probably involves medication and a hockey helmet.

So these are the Three Didiots. If you're in the area, come on by and meet them! Or take a moment to say hi to them in the comments! I promise to read the comments to them if you do. They love (eating) mail!