the only originality left to us is the Truth
Oh-oh-ohOHoh, oh-oh-ohOH, oh-oh-ohOHoh. . .
Anyways! The webpage of the ever-eloquent Erin Etheridge (The Fierce Beagle. Check it out, there are very good reasons for why she gets paid to write) inspired me to give the old-fashioned book report on the many bits I read. Now, mind you, a good deal of what I read would be waved off by the snooty literary elite as poorly-written rubbish, but what can I say? I like to know what’s selling well.
Savvy is not a dainty doggy. Her tail alone shames Godzilla, so when it comes to describing the destructive force that is the Savvy-copter, “giver of life” and “builder of homes” do not spring to mind.
And yet she is–through the incredible power of her stinky poo.
We live in a condo so our “backyard” is really a shared green. Savvy loves chillin on the deck, but she loves lounging in the grass even more. So I have one of those crazy reinforced steel cables that I attach to the indestructible pine pillars (after she bent the metal stake that was designed for up to 120pds of disgruntled doggie, I checked with the Homeowners Association to make sure the pine was truly indestructible for anything weighing less than an elephant) that enables her to roam around along the outside of our deck without risking her running off after a rabbit. (As a note for my PETA friends, she is supervised while on the tether and the cable is less than 15′, which is no longer than a retractable lead). She usually spends about 30-45 minutes browsing the lush blades of greenery, checking the rain gutter to make sure the chipmunk she terrified weeks ago has not returned, and just meditating the scent of pine needles strewn around the shrubs. When she is sufficiently satisfied that all is well, she marks a few spots. . .and takes a monumental dump.
I always pick up after Savvy. Always, always, ALWAYS. But in instances like this it may be just a few minutes until I do because I’ll first take her off her tether so she can come back up on the porch and will sometimes let her in the house if she sits at the door because that means she’s hot and wants to go into her crate for a nap. Savvy was hot and wanted a nap today, so her poo remained uncollected for several minutes while I took Savvy in, settled her down, and gave her an ice cube to nom before sleepy time.
When I finally returned to the poop, a bright pink bag pulled up to my elbow like a surgeon’s glove, the targeted sample was already being collected. Flies fled before I’d even crouched down to reach the brown lump, but those cowards weren’t a surprise. The two wolf spiders, however, were.
I’m not a fan of spiders. They skitter right below ticks and just above crickets on my list of the top three most disgusting creepy crawlies. Two within springing distance (they jump! I swear!) gives me the heebie jeebies. And yet I couldn’t pull away! I just sat there and watched, holding my breath–partially because of the smell, but also because I didn’t want Spider Bob and Spider Edna to notice me.
The flies quickly returned, greedily trying to lay a few more eggs. A particularly fat one with shiny reddish eyes stuttered its way towards Spider Bob. Poor fly didn’t even see it coming, and I didn’t really see Spider Bob going, which elicited a squeal and some brisk omg-get-it-off-me shivers, but Spider Bob was apparently happy with just one victim. Spider Edna was still waiting patiently for her meal, but I had reached my limit of creepies for the day. I blew a gust of breath in her general direction and she disappeared.
Picking up such a pile of poo is a two-handed job, so I was forced to make myself vulnerable by sheathing both arms elbow-deep in the pink plastic. The feat usually takes two passes, but I almost dropped the entire load when I got my second surprise of the day: a genuine dung beetle stared up at me from the stinking filth, his shiny carapace mottled by the processed remains of Savvy’s breakfast. His mouthparts were circling furiously. I think he was chewing.
Ew.
“Seriously?!” I queried aloud. Mr. Dookie Beetle seemed to shrug as he bent back to the sticky remnants.
I poked him off with a stick and retrieved the last bites, er, bits. Next time Savvy wants a nap, she’s gonna have to wait. I can’t trust Mother Nature to leave off the poo.
For those of you who have met Bandit, you already know how well her many nicknames suit her. For those of you who have not had the privilege, a brief history:
She gained the nickname of “Kamikaze Kitty” when she was still but a fluff ball because she would hide amid the foliage of my mum’s potted plants and wait–sometimes for over half an hour, I timed her–until some poor victim roamed too close. When such a target came into range, the Kamikaze Kitty would spring like some strangely-clawed flower to attack the hapless human. Landing just a few quick rakes with her thorny paws, she would then disappear like so many clumps of dandelion fluff in the wind. It was a terrifying display of tactical maneuvering for one so young.
We can’t keep desirable food in normal storage areas, because Bandit can get on top of anything and can also open most cabinets (and even some doors). Her first, and, dare I say, most ballsy encounter with human food occurred when she decided to ninja a crusty piece of bread from the toaster. She paired this with the steaming cup of coffee which just happened to be sitting nearby. Why is this so “ballsy,” you may ask? Because the toast and coffee belonged to none other than my father, later known to kittykind as the Warden. He is the original Major Dad.
There are numerous other stories, but suffice to say that Bandit is patient, cunning, and will slyly steal whatever her icy heart desires, whether that be the prime seat on the leather recliner or a quiet escape from a room previously dubbed unescapable.
Traveling back from a visit in Kentucky the other day, it was my supreme burden to tow both Bandit and Savvy with me. Yes, in the same car. To say Bandit disdains Savvy’s very existence is an understatement. She periodically sits outside Savvy’s crate and growls at her (with an air of disinterest! It’s the strangest thing, watching Bandit lounge on her side and blink lazily at the empty air above her as she growls a deep, rumbling threat low in her throat. If Savvy makes a single sound, Bandit’s head will snap around to stare down the doggy adversary, but so long as Savvy listens quietly Bandit almost seems to be singing the bass for a war hymn to a class of confused fifth graders.) So when riding together, Bandit gets dibs on the front passenger seat and Savvy is relegated to the back.
Hubby and I had dropped off Savvy at a local vet’s office to board her for a few days. (We were attending a very important wedding and I frankly didn’t feel we would have the time to give Savvy the attention she needs each day to be a happy, healthy dog.) After packing up the car for the trip home, we drove to the vet’s office to get Savvy. Bandit waited patiently in the car, biding her time (I should note here for animal activists that I leave the car on, AC blaring, whenever I leave my animals alone in the car for even the briefest time). Savvy came out, thrilled to be back with her family and even more thrilled at the mention of “car ride.” She jumped in the back seat and waited to be buckled in.
Meanwhile, Bandit had stealthily perched herself near the shoulder of the driver’s seat and was watching for an opening through which she could make a jailbreak. Hubby and I know her well enough to body block all such gaps, but she’s persistent nonetheless. Savvy sees Bandit on her little perch and leans forward to push her nose between the seats. Bandit was surprised by the canine’s boldness, that’s the only way to describe the expression that crossed her face, but that particular expression soon twisted into something else! Bandit’s shoulders tensed in absolute horror as a slobbery, stinking pink tongue lolled from Savvy’s mouth and smeared slime across Bandit’s meticulously groomed face. The car door was still open, offering a tiny chance of escape for the accomplished Bandido, but if she tarried the canine might steal another slovenly kiss.
Bandit had finally encountered a risk that overwhelmed the reward of “making off like a Bandit.”
The Kamikaze Kitty fled to the safety of the front seat, far from the saliva-drenched tongue that panted joyfully from Savvy’s smiling maw. I spent the next three hours trying not to tease Bandit as she groomed her muzzle and licked her wounded pride.
As a child, if I stayed up late enough on the weekends I might catch a few minutes of the show Married: With Children. Mind you, it was truly only a few minutes before my mother would catch me and turn away from the show (looking back the Bundees probably weren’t Mum’s ideal role models for a young girl, even if Kelly’s wild and often scant clothing intrigued me).
Still, the exposure was enough that I soon knew the lyrics to the theme song: “love and marriage, love and marriage, go together like a horse and carriage.” I understand the jest of what the lyricist meant, but after being married for over six years I can’t help but point out that the comparison of two (married) people being perfectly suited for one another in the same manner as a horse and carriage makes me wonder: which spouse gets to be the sweating beast of burden, and which gets to be dolled up in black lacquer with velvet down-pillows? Moreover, who is appointed to pull the load, and who takes the luxury of easily gliding along behind?
In the beginning, there was Bandido.
She was meticulously clean, aloof and independent, and her kisses were special–saved only for those truly deserving of such a sweet morsel of brief acknowledgement. Hubby and I looked upon the Peanut Butter Bandit as she drowsed in a sunbeam-bath and we saw that it was good.
And then I was tempted.
Bandit is the perfect companion for a sedentary afternoon. She masterfully navigates her way around my cluttered desk to wink golden scrutiny in my general direction. Targeting a lap, she easily compacts her furry limbs into a purring loaf to nestle warmly between arms wielding both book and coffee. But what could this cotton-ball-pawed creature know of the outside world? She is far too independent to be leashed and led down sidewalks and gravel drives. A hike along a dirt path through the woods is simply out of the question; Bandit is far too aware as a hunter to ever leave herself so exposed in a realm that still smells of predation.
A dog! The idea appeared as an obvious solution. A dog is the perfect companion for long walks through the woods, strolls around the block, afternoons of frisbee in the park.
I mention the idea to Hubby; he agrees that it would be wonderful, but we both decide that we should wait for a time until our finances are such that a canine companion would receive appropriate care.
We waited and I researched. Small breeds are cute, but I felt larger breeds would do better keeping up on long (five mile plus) hikes. So many choices, so many opinions; the information was nearly overwhelming and often contradictory. I chewed my lip and took my notes. Bandit napped and generously left scraps of my legal pad kitty-free for my human scribbling.
Nearly a year later, we had the money and the decision: we placed a deposit with a reputable breeder for a female German Shepherd pup. The rest is history. Actually, scratch that, the rest is still more of a mystery. How on earth did all those books I read, all those sites I perused, neglect to emphasize a very VERY important fact: raising a puppy is nothing like what the books describe. Bandit shrugs that, somewhere between leaving white trails of fur on my lap and scrubbing the perfect triangles of her ears, she tried to tell me that dogs are–in her own words–”NO GOOD!”, but I failed to hear her warnings. Or I’m too stubborn to believe them.
Paradise is not lost, but to keep up I’m forced to quickly learn an entirely different language as I try to bridge the gaps between the humans, Savvy, and Bandit.