Wilbur.
June 19, 2008
We have a dog named Wilbur. I adopted him as a single woman. I rescued him from the streets. When he’s bad, I threaten to take him back to the hood where I found him. I think he understands what I’m saying. He’s spoiled, but that’s what happens when a single woman adopts a dog. He ruled the roost.
As you can imagine, this behavior hasn’t been going over so well with my husband. There is a slight power-play going on in our house. Wilbur thinks he makes the rules; my husband thinks he’s the man of the house. It’s fun.
A few months ago, we finally banned the dogs to their own beds in our room. Previously, they had been “sneaking” into the bed with us. A 130-pound Bloodhound and a 75-pound mutt. Ridiculous. That’s like four people in a king-sized bed. My husband and me pushed to the edges, with nary a cover to keep us warm. Two spoiled hounds dead center, with covers and pillows galore.
The other night Wilbur sauntered over to my side of the bed and gently put his head on my arm. I thought he needed to go out or something, but he just kept sitting there. Eventually, I thought something was wrong with him, so I rolled over to tell my husband I was concerned. Before I opened my mouth to utter the words, Wilbur was up on the bed. Sinister little devil.
Wilbur planted himself smack dab in between us, and my husband conjured up yet another nickname for the poor mutt. “That cock blocker,” my husband exclaimed, “I was just about to put the moves on you.”
“Yeah, right,” I replied, “I’ve seen better moves at a sixth-grade dance.”
And Spade came back with another great Spade-ism, “I’ve seen better moves at an Asian massage parlor.”
Another romantic evening at the Rose household.
Slobber.
May 29, 2008
Before we adopted our dog, Ruga, I didn’t really know a lot about Bloodhounds. I grew up with dogs, but had never had a Bloodhound before. My husband had one in a former life and said they were great family dogs. I was a little concerned about Ruga getting along with our other dog, Wilbur (AKA Spoiled Bastard), but crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.
We found out about Ruga through the Southeast Bloodhound Rescue. They told us she was in Roane County, GA in a shelter. She was emaciated and worn down…had obviously been living on the streets for a while. She was due to be euthanized the next day, so my husband literally ran for the border to get her.
Ruga is one big (and I mean big…130 pounds big…we fattened her up like the rest of the family) ball of love. She doesn’t have a care in the world, that dog. She is laid back and carefree. Her face is a wrinkled up mound of skin and her eyelashes are to die for (Spade calls them her mascara).
She steals your heart in an instant…and can clear a coffee table off in an instant too. Bloodhounds are large dogs with even larger tails. One swoop of the tail and that’s all she wrote.
When Ruga sniffs food on the table, her nose is literally sniffing the food. Never leave food unattended. A few weeks after we got her, she was in our neighbor’s yard helping herself to items on the BBQ grill. Lovely. The dog was living on the streets for God’s sake, give her a break. If you were eating pebbles all day and suddenly spied a chicken leg, you’d scarf it down too.
Ruga’s ears deserve a post all their own. They are long and silky for about five minutes after a bath. Then they’re in the food bowl, or in the mud, or dragging on the floor. They pick up dirt better than a Swiffer.
And, finally, there is the drool. This is something someone should have warned me about (especially considering my OCD condition). Bloodhounds are apparently notorious for their drool. Ruga can have drool hanging from her lips to the floor, thicker than a rope. You can imagine what happens when she shakes her head inside the house. Slob-o-rama. The slobber lands everywhere. And if you’re not there to wipe it up immediately, it just dries up for later discovery. I could spend half my Saturday on a slobber exploratory mission. You know you have turned a corner in life when your weekends become one big treasure hunt for slobber and slung baby food particles.
All this to say, I would not trade Ruga for anything in the world. She is amazing. She’s one of the best cuddlers I know (she’s the size of a human, so I guess she would be). She does this thing we call the Ruga Dance that cannot be described in words. She lets Wilbur rule the roost, but knows she is the true princess. Bottom line, Ruga rocks. Go Ruga, Go Ruga.
Scooting.
April 16, 2008
Calling all dog owners and warning all dog owner wannabies. When your dog does that adorable little scooting thing across the floor…run…run far away. It turns out there is nothing adorable about it. Scooting is a sign of jacked up anal glands (also called anal sacs). I’ve had dogs all my life, but never one with an anus that needs so much attention. Our dog Wilbur has apparently lost the ability to deal with his hindparts on his own. He now requires a monthly trip to the vet for the “procedure.” When it first started happening, my husband and I thought we could resolve the issue at home. A pair of rubber gloves and some Vaseline and voilá. Well, it didn’t really go as planned. Wilbur panicked and my husband almost lost a hand. So, off to the vet we go. And $12 later, he’s all fixed up. The best $12 we spend every month.
