The future is so bright...

We've got to wear shades!

Like father, like son?

Some say that pets can often resemble their owners.


















This got Max and I debating who Charlie looks more like.















Of course, we never came to agreement. So, we've decided to turn this controversy over to a panel of impartial experts.

Your thoughts?

Who let the dog out?

Mom, before you send me to my kennel for life, please hear me out.

You’ve left me no choice but to hijack Mac. Day in and day out, for hours on end, I lay at your feet while this strange, boring, white thing occupies prime real estate on your lap. I think you really need to examine your priorities in this matter. It’s not like Mac does anything for you. Can Mac fetch a ball? Does Mac ever come running to greet you in the morning? Seriously, I am tired of being overshadowed by this thing.

Now that I finally have your undivided attention, I’ve got a few bones to pick with you.

I didn’t think I’d ever forgive you for shaving off my golden locks. First, had it not been for my well-endowed ears, you could have mistaken me for she-who-will-remain-nameless, the lowly feline that also occupies my space. I mean, really, how could you? You had me shaved during cold, damp JANUARY, for goodness sake. I have important business to attend to outside. And, being furless during a German winter doesn’t make our walks together any more productive. Now that my hair is finally starting to come back, let me just say this: DON’T! Don’t ever think about having me shaved again. I won’t bear the humiliation without serious repercussions. Remember, you still have a few pairs of $120 dollar dance shoes that I haven’t destroyed.

We also need to discuss the food situation at home. Stop making me perform on command for treats. I’m not a circus animal; I’m your dog. After two years, I should have earned a little respect from you and dad. Dinner is a supposed to be a pleasurable experience and not the time for you to bark commands at me. It’s bad enough I have to eat dry bits of processed whatever, while you dine on real food. Do you honestly believe that bag of dry dog food actually tastes like lamb and rice? I have to eat that crap when all day long I’ve smelled what’s simmering in the crock-pot. Don’t think I don’t know what you and dad are having for dinner. And, by the way, stop chastising me for begging for your food. After all, if you were facing a lifetime a Science Diet, wouldn’t you beg for something else, too?

Lastly, mom, I think we need to re-think the seating arrangement in the Mini. When you strap me in the back seat, I feel claustrophobic. There isn’t enough leash to allow me to poke my nose out the window, and you know how much I love to do this. Besides, why do you and dad always get to ride in front seat? Look at me. I’m a classy, front-seat kind of dog, not Driving Miss Doggie. I think it’s time you took the back seat and left the driving to dad and me.

I know that you and dad say this in sarcastic jest, but sometimes it really is “hard to be Charlie.” By making the concessions I’ve outlined above, we’ll all be happier—and by "we" I mean me and those fancy dance shoes.

Think about it.

Today's burning question

Preventing dog flatulence...suggestions?

I'm a bad Mommy!

You all remember my adorable cocker, Charlie, right? Well, times have changed and he's not so adorable anymore. This is because I didn't know enough German to figure out how to find a doggie groomer for the little guy. After two months, his hair became very matted without a proper shampoo, cut, and style.

But last week when Charlie and I visited friends at the American air base in Kaiserslautern, I learned of a place that could make my pooch posh once again. And like every other small business in town, the owner spoke perfect English. You can imagine my relief that she understood, in addition to a hair and nail trim, Charlie's needed his anal glands squeezed as well. I wasn't exactly sure how I was going to pantomine THAT request if she didn't understand.

Charlie stayed all day at the doggie salon, but the owner couldn't get his locks lovely once again. She had no choice but to give my fellow a buzz cut instead. Here's the "after" shot:



I'm none top happy, but neither is Charlie, who left a little present to show his displeasure. I think this was his way of letting me know that without his warm, natural, coat, long walks during the German winter would be out of the question. Yes, it's time to buy Fido a fleece.

Attention Deficit

Charlie hates my new Mac, seeing it as a rival, yet another thing to take my attention away from him. Whenever I pull out my computer I get this look from my dog.

And when sad puppy eyes don’t work, he decides to get in my face.

This morning Charlie was particularly needy. I woke up early--a futile attempt to squeeze extra minutes into the day, working my way down Egan’s blogroll, searching for new reads to add to my dwindling list. But as soon as I reached for the computer, Charlie started barking.

“Not now, nut job.” I said.

“Bark, bark bark.” The dog is relentless when he wants attention.

This is the sort of morning when I especially miss my husband, who has been in Germany all month, transitioning to his new job, and narrowing the search for our new abode. If Max were here, home with me, I could blog to my heart’s content. He would take Charlie out for a morning walk, so I could do as I pleased. Then once my guys returned, Max would bring me a cup of coffee, so I wouldn’t have to leave the bed.

I haven’t had coffee in bed all month. Come to think of it, I haven’t had anything in bed the whole month—except for a whiny dog and tolerant MacBook.

Fortunately, there is a steaming cup of hand-delivered coffee in my future. Max returns of Sunday, and Charlie and I will both be so relieved to have him home.

Gone to the dogs

Marriage doesn’t only affect two-legged creatures. My dog Charlie just had his name changed, too. His veterinary records now read “Charlie Mahmoud”. I realize it didn’t matter to Charlie what the vet’s office called him, but it did to me. However, it struck me as just a tad funny that my American Cocker Spaniel, who will also be moving with us to Germany, now has an Arabic name. Talk about the impact of globalization, huh?

My cat's fettish

Meet Daisy--one of our two "bad children" (Charlie being the other). Daisy is fascinated by running water. No matter how many bowls of fresh water I leave for her, Daisy insists on drinking from a running faucet. And when the jacuzzi tub is running--forget about it! I have to barricade the door.

Great Balls of Fire!

After a recent phone conversation, I think I might need to start taking Charlie to a new veterinarian.

Since bringing my little guy home from his "procedure," Max and I have had to pay close attention to condition of Charlie's private area. And quite honestly, I am just about through with having to look at my dog's testicles... err ...um, or lack thereof.

After two or three days of monitoring the little round, red sac at the end of his incision, I happen to notice that it had suddenly changed shape. I called for Max, who I hoped would be more of an expert in this area.

"Honey, is it just me? Or, does this thing look a little more droopy than usual?"

Max held Charlie up on his two back paws in order to get a better look. At this more upright angle, that which had seemed perfectly round now looked more like a protruding pinky finger. We both gasped at the site of Charlie's strange new appendage.

Even though the vet's office should have been closed, I dialed the number in desperation and handed the phone over to Max, who looked as though I'd handed him a pistol instead.

"What if someone's there? What am I suppose to say?"

"Tell them what it looks like!!" I declared with the most agitated of spirits.

He begrudgingly took the phone, and to our surprise, the receptionist answered the call. Max began to pose the question at hand.

"Hello, we brought Charlie Mandy in to be neutered on Monday and...well... um... Hold on. I think Diane can explain this to you better..."

Chicken shit. Max handed the phone over to me.

Still in shock over what I was seeing, I had a hard time describing Charlie's problem to the office receptionist. I finally blurted out that there was something wrong with my dog's balls. And in response, the receptionist quickly transferred me over to a veterinary technician.

The voice on the other end of the phone seemed less than thrilled to be taking a call at 5:30p on a Friday.

"Hello, this is Gwendolyn. How can I help you?" The words might have been right, but her tone was anything but customer-service friendly. Still, I wasn't going to be intimidated. My poor Charlie had developed this strange-looking deformity. I needed to make sure he was normal. Taking a deep breath to calm my nerves, I began to described this most delicate of problems.

"It's my dog's balls. They are no longer round..."

"Do you mean his testicles?" Gwendolyn interrupted.

Sure, get all medical on me, Gwen. I can handle the lingo. After all, I watch ER.

"Ok...his testicles, then. It seems as though they've changed shape"

"Ma'am, we removed his testicles on Monday."

Gwendolyn wasn't being helpful, perhaps getting a little impatient with her hysterical client. But at this point, I was also getting annoyed by Gwendolyn's attitude.

"Yes, I KNOW you removed them. Look, all I am saying is that what was left has changed shape. It's hanging down really, really low."

"Has he been playing with it?" Gwen asked.

"Well, not all the time," I responded. "I catch him licking it once in a while, but that's nothing unusual."

I couldn't believe I was having a conversation about my dog's now-absent testicles. Still in this situation, you have to leave your inhibitions behind and go for the straight talk.

"Is he eating?" Gwen probed?

"Would you be eating if you'd just lost your reproductive organs? No, Charlie's appetite is not what it was last week. But he's acting as though he feels ok."

"Ma'am, it sounds as though everything is alright. But you can bring him in tomorrow if it will make you feel better." Gwendolyn promptly hung up the phone.

I stood there with phone in hand, not sure whether to feel angered or embarrassed. I turned to Max, my constant barometer, who simply shrugged his shoulders and walked into another room.

The next day, I still had nagging worries about Charlie's defunct appendage, wondering whether I should take him back to the vet. But the sad truth was that I didn't want to face the office staff, and particularly Gwendolyn.

I guess you could say, I just didn't have the balls.

Top Ten Reasons Why My Dog is Driving Me Nuts

10. Finds baths and ear cleanings offensive
9. Doesn't take "no" for an answer
8. Scatters 20 stuffed toys around moments after I put them away
7. Has decided that he owns a queen size doggy bed
6. Already mastered the art of selective hearing
5. Jumps on furniture as if he's part mountain goat
4. Only sits on command when treats are involved
3. Won't pee outside when it rains
2. Thinks cat litter is a delicacy
1. Still has two more months before he can be neutered

And this little puppy went...

When I bought Charlie, my Cocker Spaniel puppy, it was an impulse purchase. I hadn't walked into the Pet Pad with any intention of buying a dog. Yet somehow I ended up with my boy. Charlie was the most active dog in the store, more interested in gnawing on the hands of would-be owners and running around like a madman off his meds.

Probably for this reason, Charlie's price had been reduced by the time I ambled in to the pet store. He'd overstayed his welcome, showing up on clearance because he'd been around longer than the average puppy. He was the blue-light special, priced hundreds of dollars less than the other pups.

I asked the sales clerk to pluck him from the cage so I could spend a little time with him. Sure, Charlie was feistier than the tiny Maltese with pink ears (my second choice), but he had personality. I liked him instantly. Never mind that I hadn't owned a dog in 15 years or that I knew nothing about this breed. It didn't matter that two cats shared my condominium, that I traveled frequently, or that having a dog would cramp my lifestyle. As Charlie chomped my hands with his sharp puppy teeth, my eyes welled up with tears. This little doggie needed a home.

When I started to blog about the taming of this shrew, a fellow blogger, Monica, appeared out of nowhere with two words--Cesar Millan. I'd never heard of Cesar Millan, a dog psychologist on the National Geographic channel. The fact someone would choose dog psychology as a career path was alarming to me and provoked images of snake charmers and dead pet channelers. But despite my misgivings, Monica's earnest words caused me to check Cesar's program out.

Today, I am hooked. I lose sleep because, with Charlie at my side, I feel compelled to watch every episode of the Dog Whisperer that I recorded on TiVo before I go to bed. I'm not actually applying any of Cesar's lessons, nor have I secured the title of "pack leader" from my dog. I watch to see dogs that have far worse behavioral problems than Charlie. This way, Charlie and I can revel in our superiority.

Max joined in our Dog Whisperer addiction, only his motives are pure. He wants to train Charlie to be the best canine on the block. His goal required a trip to Pet Smart recently, because according to Max, Charlie's unremarkable collar was the source of his troubles.

"He needs a new collar, one that sits higher on the neck and possibly a choke chain." Max proclaimed. "Then when we walk him on the leash, Charlie won't pull away all the time. And, when I go to correct him, he'll notice."

I just didn't see Max's idea working. Still, I accompanied him to Pet Smart, spending two hours choosing the dog's new collar. After returning home, we walked Charlie with his new gear. I didn't see much of a difference. Charlie still pulled, insisting on running ahead, panting for air like he'd been walking in Mojave Desert.

Max was not discouraged. "He just needs more practice."

Call me Tammy Wynette, if you'd like. But, I stand by my man and do what I can to follow in his crazy plans and grand schemes where appropriate. The next day when time came for Charlie's walk, Max was not home. Like a loyal soldier, I hooked Charlie up to his new harness to begin our mile-long journey around the neighborhood.

But Charlie wasn't moving. I turned around to witness the little guy stubbornly sitting on the sidewalk, with other end of the leash in his mouth, and his teeth gripping it away from the collar as if to give himself some slack.

I tugged; he pulled. Charlie refused to walk with the new collar, and no amount of trickery on my part would dissuade him. In a girlish and playful voice, I began my attempts to coax the pint-size fiend.

"Come here, little boy. Do you want a treat?"

Charlie looked away.

"Aww, Sweetie. Don't you want to go on a walk with mommy?" I begin to prance away in hopes that he'd chase me, but Charlie remained firm.

As I ran out of ideas, I also started to lose patience.

"You are not the boss of me, Pooch!" I growled. "Come here NOW! Don't make me come get you..."

But, in response to my growing irritation, Charlie was unphased. He simply turned, with leash in mouth, and walked me back to the house. Like any good master, I obediently followed.

Cesar would be so proud.

Like Mother, Like Son

Cute. Devilish. Clumsy. Sweet. Exhausting. Naughty. Happy. Destructive. Silly. Stupid. Bright. Stubborn. Talkative. Loathsome. Careless. Laughable. Innocent. Guilty. Fun. Picky. Gluttonous. Forgetful. Obedient. Moody. Playful. Growing. Glowing. Messy. Calm. Wild. Lazy. Persistent. Carefree. Disruptive. Insatiable. Clever. Disobedient. High-maintenance. Charming. Bad. Good. Protective. Friendly. Cooperative. Impatient. Cheerful. Inflexible. Lovable.

The new additon

I've gone and done it now. Max and I brought our unnamed puppy home today. This little cocker spaniel joins my ever expanding family. I am sure that Daisy and Rascal will not be thrilled with their baby brother, but hopefully with time they will be friends.

I'm looking for suggestions for names. The 10-year old that I am watching started calling him "Charlie". Any other ideas before the name sticks?

Another man

I met him today. I say Max has some serious competition, but he'd just call it puppy love. I think it could be the real thing, however, and might just bring this fellow home with me.
Thoughts?

And the winner is...

Katie left this little prize at my bedroom door this morning. I suppose this was her way of showing love for me. She did seem quite proud of herself, having slewed Godzilla with her bare paws. However, I've decided to be a re-gifter. The frog is still sitting outside my door as a present to Max, who comes home this evening from a business trip. Max doesn't know it yet, but it's his job to dispose of the little green creature. I am sure it will be an honorable burial.

Despite its appearance, Katie's victory was short-lived. Today she goes back to my sister, her rightful owner. It's hard to feel too sorry for Katie, who will now live in a huge house, with a big yard, and two adoring children. The only thing missing to complete the lovely picture is a white picket fence. Knowing my sister, June Cleaver extraordinaire, it's only a matter of time.

I tried helping my sister by taking the cat, but my situation is changing. Daisy and Rascal (Max's cats) move in on July 4th and Katie, to no one's surprise, doesn't do blended families. After all folks, you see what she did to the frog.

Speaking of blended families, I'm thinking of adding a new addition to the Mandy household, only this time, one that barks.

Tomorrow, I am off too Hawaii for a 10-day vacation, and then, on to San Diego for business. I'll be carrying along my trusty, wireless IPAQ. Hopefully the break will give me much needed time to write and catch up on your blogs, as I soak up the sun and sip on Mai Tais. Don't hate me.

Survival of the fittest

It might as well have been a battle between King Kong and Godzilla, both destructive and fierce. Only the location wasn't New York; it was my condominium. And Katie, my soon-to-be ex-cat, played King Kong.

The steamy evening started peacefully enough. I headed to my fourth-story patio and opened the sliding glass doors to let a warm breeze usher forth. I thought of Max, who had traveled this week to the West coast. I missed him. Ordinarily, I'd be mixing drinks at that very moment, recapping the day's events or contemplating our upcoming Hawaiian vacation. Ah, yes--Hawaii.

"Just two days to go," I thought to myself with the broadest of grins. "Two days to go..."

Lost in my daydreams-- sights of dazzling sunsets and sweet smells of papayas, pineapple, and mango--I hadn't noticed that Katie had made her way out to the patio. When I finally did notice, she was running around wildly. I'd never seen her playful.

"How cute!"

But moments later, her cuteness turned into the positively terrifying. She ran back inside on the heels of a little, green frog, desperately trying to escape Katie's de-clawed paws.

"EEEEEEEEEEK!!!" I shriek better than any Fay Wray ever could. I don't do Animal Planet on television, and I certainly wasn't having it in my house.

As Katie and the frog played their little game of cat and mouse, I looked on in absolute terror. What was I going to do? I was not about to touch the frog. It might be poisonous. I might get warts. I just had a manicure.

Their battle took them to my bookcase, which mostly houses photographs and an assortment of vases and pottery. Framed photos came crashing down as Kate trampled over everything in her path. Miraculously, the frog eluded her in the increasingly difficult obstacle course.

I would have felt admiration for the little creature, if I hadn't been in such a panic. Where was Max when I needed him? How dare he leave for California!

In a moment of genius, the frog hopped underneath the bookcase, amidst the wreckage that had once been tastefully-arranged accessories. Try as she might, Katie could not get her paws under the bookcase and at the frog. It was a stalemate.

I used the few quiet moments to place a call to my hero. I interrupted his business dinner.

"Max, you have to come home, right now. There is a frog in the house," I screeched.

"What?"

"Katie chased a frog into the house. I don't know what to do," I repeated myself, increasingly annoyed by my boyfriend's lack of superhuman intuition.

I heard a chuckle on the other end of the phone.

"It's not funny. I don't know what to do. A FROG IS IN MY HOUSE AND UNDER MY BOOKCASE!!!!!!"

Why wasn't Max getting the seriousness of this situation? Did I really have to spell it out for him?

"Sweetie, if you're too afraid to scoop the frog up and take it outside, why not just take Katie out and shut the door. I'll get the frog tomorrow, ok?" His calmness and patronizing only annoyed me even more.

"It won't mess on my carpets?" I don't know a thing about frogs other than the obvious--if you kiss them they turn into a prince.

My prince offered his last bit of advice, getting me off the phone as quickly as possible.

"Sweetie, I'm in a meeting. I'll call you later." Fay Wray was stranded with her pea-size versions of Godzilla and King Kong. What was I going to do?

Rather than take Max's advice, I opted to leave Katie and her green little adversary alone on the top floor of my condo. I locked myself away in the 3rd-floor bedroom.

As the night went on, I heard more pouncing and crashing. Curiosity wasn't getting the best of me, however. Katie and the frog would have to battle this out for themselves. It was a Darwinian game of survival of the fittest between two worthy adversaries.

And may the best creature win.

Cat Tales

$57 ...as in U.S. DOLLARS?

Ordinarily, 57 dollars would be a paltry sum--about how much I'd spend sampling martinis at my favorite lounge. But instead of fanciful martinis, I just spent this sum and some change at PETSMART on advanced-formula, hairball-reducing cat food, odor-control kitty litter, cat-specific stain remover, and some sort of gel to run on Katie's nose to reduce the hairballs.

AM I A SUCKER, OR WHAT??

Katie and I haven't called it quits... just yet. Although I often wonder how a break-up conversation with Katie might go.

I imagine that if Katie could speak she'd probably sound like Eartha Kitt. Sultry, deliberate, and oh-so manipulative, Katie's very tone would let me know who was really top cat in our household.

"Darrrrling," Katie would purr, "this new brand of cat food is purr-fectly dreadful."
"At $13 a bag, it better not be dreadful. At this point, I'm spending more on your food than I am my own." I'd respond.
"But, I'd purr-fer something a little fresher," Katie would counter. "Sushi-grade tuna or salmon might be nice. I know that you frequent that little sushi place around the corner. I can smell it on your breath."
"Katie," I'd sigh. "The only tuna you'll be seeing is in a Fancy Feast can, and only then as a once in a while treat. Besides, it's your own fault that we've started this new diet. I found another hairball this week."
"I have no idea what your re-purr-ing to."

Katie would deny that she has any odious bodily functions if she could. I mean, really, the way she buries her little box treasures, you'd think it was hidden gold coins. But having opened this can of worms, I decide to break the news to Katie about our shaky future together.

"Katie, I don't know how to say this... but if this new diet doesn't work, I might have to give you back to Christina."
"Oh, now you're just being catty," Katie responds without as much as a blink.
"No, I am not. I am being honest with you."

Suddenly, Katie stops purring. She looks me dead in the eyes. "I'd like to see you try," she says. "After all, I'm the one with 9 lives."
"What did you just say?" I ask incredulously.
"Look, I'm not just pussyfooting around this time, Batgirl. But I am not the one going back to Christina's house. She's your sister. They are your nieces. You'll go."

I hardly believe my own ears. Who does Katie she think she is anyway? Then, in a split second, Katie's demeanor changes. She begins purring and rubbing up to me.

"Darrrling", she says as sweetly as she can, "Will you brush me? Will you rub my paws."
"Oh, alright."

I really am a sucker.

Attack of the Hairballs

I've faced the harsh reality of cat ownership not once but twice in the last week. Katie, a lovely, longhair tuxedo kitty, has been coughing up hairballs. Eww!!! As if this wasn't bad enough, Katie found the choicest of locations to deposit her hairballs.

A few days ago, I came home and discovered the first hairball on my bed, more specifically on my $900 sheets. You may be laughing now, but I literally thought I would pass out and die with the discovery. Fortunately, the hairball came up easily and the sheets, though precious to me, are washable.

After having a few days to come to terms with one hairball, I was dismayed to discover a second nicely hidden on my expensive, black oriental rug. Just as I did with my first hairball I took a moment to compose myself. Then, I phoned my sister because she is Katie's previous owner.

"I don't know if I can do this." I said without so much as a greeting
"What happened?" Christina asked.
"It's another hairball--at least I think it's a hairball--this time on the dining room rug." I said obviously exacerbated with the situation.
"I'm sure it's just a hairball," Christina said reassuringly. "Have you tried rubbing Vaseline on Katie's lips to prevent them? Those little tablets just don't work."
"Vaseline on her lips? Are you serious?" I started to get upset again.
"Look, I told you we would take her back if need be after the house sells," Christina offered though obviously disappointed.

I'm not sure what to do. I took Katie conditionally because my sister, a mother of two young girls, is stressed out with trying to sell her home at the moment. But, I also know my brother-in-law does not want Katie in their new home. I was just trying to keep peace in their household with this adoption.

But, here is the point. I have a new home, too. Christina works from home and has more time to devote to things such as hairballs and placing Vaseline on Katie's lips. I, on the other hand, I start back to school this summer and have both a full and part-time job.

What do you think? Do I return Katie to my sister? She's hacking again and I sense I'll find another hairball in my future. Also, do you more experienced cat owners have any tricks for preventing hairballs?

Hooked

I think I've finally been hooked into a committed relationship-- with Katie the cat. How do I know? I've been spending time browsing the stores, not for that perfect spring outfit, but for a self-cleaning, odorless litter box and a cat door to be installed on the door leading out to the garage.

Have I lost my mind? Don't answer that, please.

My new roomie?

...it's my sister's cat, Katie. She's asked me to take her. I agreed to a trial run. Katie has been with me about 3 days. And, so far, we are cool with each other even though I never thought I was a cat person.

How long before I know whether this should be a permanent arrangement?

Words of widom and experience needed, please!!! I am a virgin cat owner.