Happy Birthday, Dear Puppies!
Happy Birthday, kids! You’re a week old today. You still don’t have names, because I am old fashioned and superstitious about naming puppies. I think it’s bad luck to give them call names before four weeks – a holdover from my Grandmother’s policy on naming dogs. So, for now you are ‘Boy’ and ‘Girl’, but it’s said with the utmost in affection and love.
Already, you show signs of individuality.
Girl, you’re a placid sleeper, preferring to be on your back, your fat little tummy basking in the glow of the heat lamp. Nursing, however, is a different story. You’re still restless and almost aggressive, insisting on finding your own nipple, dammit, without any help from me. So, I let you be, and you pick out the one you like, and latch on like a furious little leech. You get angry if the milk doesn’t flow quickly enough, rejecting at least two nipples before you find the one you like. You are growing by leaps and bounds, having gained a full 5.4 ounces in a week. Your coat is sleek and seal dark, with a few well spaced flecks of golden red. I love you for your determination, and your fighting nature.
My little Boy, you are sweet and steady and calm. You sleep curled in on yourself, preferring always to be tucked into your mother’s side. You nurse at whatever nipple I place you at, dropping off contentedly when you drift off to sleep. Your eyes are starting to open, just a tiny little bit, and you don’t complain when I pick you up to weigh you, unlike your screaming, furious sister. Your weight gain has been slower, although fairly steady. In a week, you’ve gained 3.5 ounces. You’re not just lighter than your sister, you’re smaller overall – shorter in body length, and more compact. You’re a lovely shade of silvery fawn, with a deep wide chest and adorable little white feet. Everytime I pick you up, I kiss you on the nose.
You’re both too young for cake, and I am, as I said, too superstitious to celebrate just one week of life, but I’ll drink a toast to you both this evening, and rub your little tummies before I tuck you in for bed. Logic might tell me not to get attached to you already, but hearts don’t always listen to logic, do they?
Pictures below the cut, or the full set is here.
Michael Vick's jury trial began today and….
It doesn’t look good for the defense!
In Which I Realize I'm a *CRAZY* Dog Person
As Hope wrote in her GollyLog Blog a while back, there comes a day when you wake up and realize “I’m a dog person”. Me? I hit that point quite a while ago. In fact, I probably realized it the day in Grade Four when my teacher asked what I’d done on the weekend, and I replied “I helped my Gran get her bitch bred”. I still remember my discomfited teacher telling me “not to use that word”, and my puzzlement over just what word she meant. Bitch was never a dirty word in our house, and the statement “She’s a grand bitch, that one” was pretty much the highest compliment I could imagine my Grandmother giving.
Being a dog person doesn’t bother me – in fact, I’m rather proud of it. There still exists a fine line I’d prefer not to cross, and that’s the line seperating me from the crazy dog people of the world. Don’t make me define that for you, either – you all know what I’m talking about. The crazy-nutjob dog people – the ones who you look at, and think to yourself “Shoot me if I ever get that bad”.
This morning, I had an epiphany of sorts – the realization that I was treading dangerously close to no turning back, “gonna find me in a trailer with my corpse gnawed by the 47 dogs I owned”, “carry my dog in a purse under my arm like Paris Hilton” crazy. It was really, really that bad. Read more →