Early this week our dog killed a bunny.
Chop asked me last night why I hadn’t blogged about it, and I laughed—busy with work, blah blah. But the truth is, I’m still just so freaking disturbed by it.
He had taken her to the store (she loves the car) and on the way back in, two bunnies were bounding on the path. To our great surprise, she managed to grab one. Chop says she dropped it right away, but it was a baby (not much bigger than my hand, and I have tiny-Burger-King-commercial hands), and it didn’t make it.
By the time I got outside, it was in it’s death throes (seriously, so disturbing). So I picked it up (baby bunnies? soft, warm, cutest things alive) and we carried it to the backyard to bury it.
The rest of the evening was spent with me looking at the dog and thinking “bunny killer!” — I know she didn’t mean to, and I know it’s in dog’s nature, but still… tiny. baby. bunny. Pregnant-with-crazy-hormones over here doesn’t do well when cute little babies die.
Presently she is sleeping harmlessly on her bed, no hint of a killer in her cute puppy face, glad that it’s no longer blazingly hot and humid.
While the Chop and I love our new house, the dog is not adjusting well, lol. The people at her daycare say it’s behavioral… basically she’s a teenager who has been moved away from her friends and she’s acting out. How, you might wonder, does a dog act out? She defecates in the basement.
Yeah. It’s awesome. I found it the morning the cleaners were coming to clean the basement carpets, so fortunately I got it picked up, sopped up (pee and poo, fabulous) and was waiting for the carpet cleaners to do their thing all day. They did and the carpet looked great.
I scolded her, the Chop and I watched her like a hawk, we tried to close off the basement and yet, last night, she managed to sneak down and pee down there again. Deep sigh. Upstairs is all hardwoods, but the basement is finished with carpet and none of my animals have ever had carpet in the house, so maybe that’s part of it? I dunno.
For now we’ve invested in a door stop to allow only the cats downstairs and are hoping she quits being a shit biscuit soon. Until then, she has to be crated when we are gone and at night. Idiot teenager!
Yesterday I took Regina to get a couple of her vaccinations updated and amazingly, the vet declared her at “her perfect weight.” (This is only significant because last summer they shamed us by saying she was five-ten pounds overweight and it was our fault. It turns out if you use the “cup” that comes with your dog’s food, it’s not actually a cup. It’s more like a cup and a half. Who’d have thought?)
Anyway, sadly for her this didn’t matter as she stood there on the exam table, shaking like a leaf, her tail tucked up into her nethers. Our dog is terrified of the silver table. We think it’s because she’s so scared of getting her nails trimmed, but who knows. She’s a pansy. The vet is standing there telling her she looks great, look at that waist, blah blah and she’s thinking, “I hate you. Stop touching me. Don’t talk to me. I WANT TO GO HOME.”
Plus when we left the house and I opened the car door for her, the ice that had crusted above slid down and sliced open the back of my fingers. That, of course, also terrified the dog. (Although it could’ve been partially the cursing.)
So things she’s scared of: ice falling from car doors, tall silver tables, the baby gate (um, I threw a ball, she chased it, the gate fell on her head, lol—it was plastic!), Petco (nails) and the driver’s side back door of my Jeep. I have no idea why, but she refuses to get in the car that way. We always have to be on the passenger side.
We’ve ruined our dog, lol.
My parents are coming next week, so the insane weekend of cleaning starts tonight (sigh). Fortunately I finally broke down and bought the Furminator, hoping that de-shedding the three furballs would help cut down on vacuuming.
And can I just say: oh my god, where has this thing been all my life?
I’m sure you’ve seen the Furminator ads on TV or online—and I’m here to tell you, it actually does work. It’s freaky.
Sunday morning we woke to find Regina had an open sore on the top of one of her back paws. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a cyst that she had licked raw. Lovely, all around.
We had a fun trip to the emergency vet, where we learned that sometimes young dogs get these sort of cysts and that if it doesn’t go away on it’s own, she’d get to have surgery. But for now, ointment, antibiotics and.. drumroll please.. an Elizabethan collar. And yes, that is what they called it on the receipt.
She calls it hell.
It’s kinda cute though.. she reminds me of Laura Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie, lol.
One of the best parts of our little jaunt to the Cape was that Regina could frolic on the beach and wear herself out.
One of the not-the-best, but still OK parts, was that we had to take her with us everywhere. (Information I did not have prior to renting this place.) This was irritating simply because we had her crate and she would’ve been fine for a couple of hours… but fortunately, Ptown is incredibly dog-friendly, and not only did we wear her out on the beach, we wore her out walking around town.
And she met dozens of new friends, had biscuits fed to her by the handful and praise lavished upon her goofy little head. In short, they all loved her and she them.
Readjusting to reality has been tough, to say the least.
This was on our last morning, when we were leaving.
She was bound and determined to go back to the beach.
Oh, also, does anyone have any good recommendations for futon matresses? We don’t have the space for a full bed in the second room (hi, bookshelves and cd racks galore), and we don’t want a crappy futon that everyone will despise.
So in general, the new family unit is functioning quite well. Izzie has no problem hanging out and being within a foot of Reggie, so long as Reggie doesn’t attempt to lick her.
Also, the three seconds of weird barking was not appreciated when the Porkchop was playing the guitar, either, lol.
Ellie, on the other hand, is coming around slowly. She’s back to pooping on the bathroom floor (weird thing to be happy about, but hey, we didn’t want to have to worry about bowel obstructions, thanks), she comes out a few times a day, mainly for wet food and isn’t running away from the gate when Reggie comes to sniff.
She’s found that Izzie’s hiding spot under the table is very handy for observing dog movement.