Tuesday, July 30, 2013

Choose Your Own Adventure Sleepy-Time.


Ugh***.  I am not at all a morning person.  Not even with 1% of my being.  We're talking negative percents.  Black holes of percents.  I loathe mornings.  But we've covered this before here.  Conversely, we've covered that The Mister is totally a morning person.  Other than the implied "I'm kinda cranky with him when he wakes me up*," however, I don't think we've explored that combination.

  • If you choose to come along with me on this sleepless adventure, keep reading.
  • If you're going all "meh, that sounds stupid."  Well then, I don't really know how you got here in the first place.  Also I'm cranky, so bugger off.
Last night, I was faced with a challenging conundrum:  The Mister has got the sniffles.
If you have a significant other, who you also share a bed with, you may see my concerns.  We have two sleeping-appropriate spaces in our home; our bed, and the futon in the guest bedroom.  While a nice futon, it does not compare to sleeping on an actual mattress.  This is not astounding information that's blowing anyone's mind, I'm sure - it's just the nature of a futon.  But when faced with a sniffly husband, you must choose the lesser of two evils:
  • If you choose to sleep next to a man who is going to loudly sniffle snot all night, go to A.
  • If you choose to sleep on the futon, go to B
A.  Lights out, "G'nite, I Love You's" have been uttered.  Yet, you cannot sleep because it seems that your spouse's nose is set on a timer that coincides perfectly with your "just on the edge of falling asleep" feeling.  Right as you hit that precipice, the SNRRRT! erupts inches from your ear.  You make it a half hour like this before grab your pillow and head for the futon.  Nice try- gold star for wife effort.  Go to B.

B.  It's too late and you're too tired to bother with making the bed up properly.  You grab a collection of pillows and blankets and just make a cocoon on the futon.  At least you don't have to share your blankets with anyone.  That's nice, right?  The cat hops up on the futon and insists your one free arm pet him for the rest of infinity.  If you stop, he nips you.  So you scratch his head absentmindedly until you slip into dream land.  When you wake up, you realize you fell asleep with the cat pinning your arm down at an unnatural angle (think Mayhem in that one commercial where he plays the cleaning maid who falls down the stairs backwards), and your shoulder is JACKED right the eff up.  


You'll consider amputating your arm by gnawing it off before the pins-and-needles effect wears away.  But you lose the opportunity when the dog's "there's a people who is awake" ESP goes off and he bounds into the guest bedroom hoping that you'll get up and feed him at 4am.  Because he is, like, starving.  Even though you fed him more kibble than you should have last night.  And then gave him a bunch of treats at bedtime.  And he took an old hamburger out of the trash while you were at work yesterday.  When you tell him to knock it off and go back to bed, he takes this as an invitation to squeeze onto the little futon with  you and the cat.  You get to uncomfortably go back to sleep after only 30-35 minutes of refereeing the battle for bed-space between the dog and cat, so you've got that going for you.

Twenty-ish minutes later, 5am -or as your husband refers to it "morning"- rolls around.  You hear his alarm go off from the bedroom across the hall.  Grumbling and rolling over, you also hear him hit snooze.
  • If you are the type of person who hits snooze anywhere between 3 and 1000 times, and thus sets the alarm for a full half hour prior to when you actually HAVE TO get up, go to hell C.
  • If you are the type of person who likes to have uninterrupted, REM cycle-inducing sleep right up until you really truly have to get out of bed, go to D.
C.  Hmm.  Maybe if you lived by yourself, but you're not just waking YOU up every 10 minutes (FYI, you can't make yourself go back to that dream with Eva Mendez, and a proper REM cycle takes 20 minutes), you're waking up your spouse, the cat who decided this is an appropriate time to request he be let outside by scream-yowling at the back door, and the dog who is now acting like he is so food-deprived that his stomach is digesting itself.  I love you husband, and so I am grateful that my morning state of alertness doesn't allow my mouth to function properly, or you would have heard me yell "I WILL END YOU" instead of just making incoherent grumpy mumble-noises.  In any case, you resolve to be in charge of cooking dinner for your wife tonight, because it will make up at least in small part, for her tired**, and also because you know she loves you so very much, even though she just straight hoed you out on a blog post (she couldn't think of anything else to write about).  -THE END-

D.  You know where it's at, sister-friend.  Not that it matters.  Because your significant other's alarm has been going off for the last half hour.  Once he finally gets up, you've got exactly 20 minutes to snuggle into the actual bed instead of the futon, until your alarm goes off.  Just for sh*ts, because you're already exhausted so why not, you decide to hit snooze on your own alarm just to see.  Apparently your phone is set to snooze for only 5 minutes.  A window of time that could not be more useless.  You forgive your phone, though, because it's still way better than that hooker, Siri, your husband totes around (Soon, Siri.  Soon.)  

You get ready in a daze by throwing on the first clean piece of clothing you see (making sure it's a dress because that's only one piece of clothing and then you don't have to try and "match" it to anything else).  Then trudge downstairs to throw some oatmeal in the microwave and feed the 'emaciated' dog.  Fifteen minutes later you realize that your usual morning routine of checking e-mail and facebook is not holding your attention properly because you're that tired**.  You have 10 minutes left before you have to leave for work.


  • If you keep on with your morning routine of internetting, go to E.
  • If you start to think crazy thoughts like, "I could go back to bed for 10 minutes," go to F.

E.  You open your regular bookmarks in your browser.  You can't quite make yourself laugh at your usual webcomics. But there's a new video on Harto's channel, so that's kinda fun.  You wake up 3 minutes later and have no idea how the time passed while your eyes were closed like that.  You just blinked, right?  You decide to set an alarm on the computer just in case, and lay down on the bed with the laptop at your side to go through your Facebook updates.  Go to F.

F.  You know this is a horrible idea.  It's only going to make you more tired.  But the pillow looks so fluffy you wanna die. You set an alarm on your computer for the exact moment you need to leave the house to still be on time.  You lay down on your bed with the computer at your side.  You are instantly asleep.  Two seconds later the alarm goes off.  You didn't set like, a program or anything on your computer, you just googled "free alarm clock online," which is a new thing to you.  Thus, you were wholly unprepared for the horrific noise this website would deem an alarm, and fall off the other edge of the bed trying to escape its screeches in your face.  

Picking yourself off the floor, you have the wherewithal to congratulate yourself on not instinctively shoving your computer off the opposite side of the bed- as your husband would probably get upset about that.  Grab your keys, purse, and a water bottle, and get into your death-trap of a Ford Explorer.  As Dora roars to life in much the same manner that you roared yourself awake a mere 30 seconds ago trying to escape an alarm clock, you have the brief realization that you are not fully awake, and thus probably an unsafe driver.  But you're not awake enough to care.  You slowly pull out of your driveway and hit the trash can out for collection on the curb.  The ensuing light "bup" noise terrifies the ever-living crap out of you, and after righting the trash bin and shakily getting back into Dora the Explorer, you drive to work fully awake and alert.  You are the perfect driver, hands on 10 and 2, eyes on the road, checking the mirrors every 3-5 seconds, using blinkers.
I'm sorry, trash bin.


After arriving at work, your adrenaline goes back on strike, and you find yourself sitting at your desk staring at a leaf on the sidewalk outside the window until your coworker asks if "everything's okay with you?"  This is when the realization that you FORGOT TO DRINK COFFEE hits you.  Thankfully, you have five dollars cash and a coworker who is about to go run errands.  She happily agrees to snag you a giant latte while she's out.  Half an hour later, what looks like a big-gulp of coffee is in front of you on your desk, and you are able to return to a state of somewhat normal human functioning.  As you while away the work day, you hope your husband, whom you love very much, cooks you dinner.  -THE END.-

How does your morning Choose Your Own Adventure end?  
What options are you usually faced with?
Tell me in the comments!

*I will be the first person to admit that this is a horrible understatement.

**I know I'm griping a bunch about being tired here.  And I know that there are people out there who are more tired than me.  They handle it far, FAR better than me.  AND super kudos to them, but this here is my blog.

***I totally made a second blog post last week.  Apparently I forgot to hit "post."  Whoops.  But this one is funnier, so we'll go back to that other post on Wednesday.

Monday, July 15, 2013

When the Cat's Away, It'll Come Back the Very Next Day.

I have nothing of real substance to share today.  That's fun right?

The Mister is on a quick work trip to Mexico at the moment.  I find these opportunities to be very "when the cat's away the mice will play" moments.   Even though I have plenty of responsibility of my own, something about him not being here to keep me acting like a reasonable adult has lead to me resolving to pull some night-owl design (aka staying up past 3am to doodle instead of keeping normal adult hours... which is, let's be honest, when I do my best work), and sleep in like crazy tomorrow, and also I'm making a batch of cookies.

Said cookies will be gone by the time he gets home tomorrow night.  I have no shame about this.

Except we're out of milk.  So you better believe I just paused the writing of the blog post and went to the gas station to get a gallon of moo juice.   Did I mention that earlier today I thought "I should see what happens if I put my hair in foam rollers."?  No?  Because this is apparently what happens.
the derpiest photo of myself on the internet.  so far.

Yep.  I would suspect though, that a chick in her PJs with half a permed-head, is probably typical clientele for the Speedway this late at night.  (edit from after when I went: yeah, I was not the weirdest looking person in there by far.)


Meanwhile, the groundhog is back.  Remember when I blogged about that little fuzzy jerk last year?  Okay so we trapped him, and relocated him.  And I thought "ha.  I win.  That's the end of that."

Then I looked out the kitchen window a few weeks ago to see another groundhog pulling a pea-plant out of my beloved garden by it's roots.  I rage-faced about that long enough to set another trap.  Caught and evicted him, and I thought "ha. I win.  That's the end of that."

I wash my hands of this tom-foolery.

Two days ago I let Addie and Mac out into the yard a ended up having to sling Addie over my shoulder to carry a very ecstatic hound dog* back into the house when she tried to dig her way under the shed after yet a THIRD groundhog.

Sooooo I reset the trap.

This morning I let the dogs out before I went to work.  I open the office at this job, so it was early. The sun had just finished coming up over the trees, I had been awake for only the mere 28 seconds it takes to roll out of bed and open the back door for the dogs, and I was wearing only boxers and an oversize t-shirt.  I was not wearing a bra, socks, shoes, or glasses, but I did still manage to fuzzily see that Addie's white-tipped tail shot up into the air as she trotted faster than her usual lumber-trot toward the wrong corner of the yard.  I had to break-neck run out into the yard to catch Addie, and yet again sling all of her 50 pounds over my shoulder to carry her, squirming and wiggling* away from the very angry, very snarly raccoon.  (full grown and pissed.  not like last year's cutie patootie little one.  or maybe the same one all grown up?) Thankfully in these situations, Mac is more than happy to just go back inside the house and pretend that nothing is out of the ordinary.  Because 5:30AM is too early for him, too.

Really, any time of day is too early for me to deal with this kind of crap.

For lack of any better ideas (as my brain was not yet functioning), I just opened the trap and let the nasty dude run off over the fence.  Ugh.

I know that logically, this is three separate groundhogs and a racoon I'm dealing with.  But it just makes me think of this:
Anyone remember this cartoon?  Been stuck in my head all day.

Do you have a garden? 
How do you keep it safe from varmints?
(we've done fencing, the liquid fence spray, mothballs, and a ring of cat crap -thanks Bubba- around the perimeter.  So far, no dice.)
Do you cohabitate?  What do you do when you're left to your own devices in your home?


*98% of the time, Little Miss Addie Pants looks like this:
Oh yes, she's figured out the bed now.  God help us.
the remaining 2% of her time is split between eating foods, and getting more excited than Honey-Boo-Boo on go-go juice over a raccoon.
Seriously though:  Someone adopt this puppy.  She needs a forever home without another dog so she can monopolize the bed properly.  Mac and her share poorly (aka they try to covertly kick each other off the sides)

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

And the rocket's red glare/ the bombs bursting in air/ gave proof, through the night/ that our {RED} flag was still there.

We had a weird 4th of July.

Scratch that.  Actually we had a fairly typical-for-the-midwest 4th of July; we packed the pups in the car, headed up north to the in-laws' lake house, and lazed around on a pontoon boat.
Also there were a LOT of dogs at the lake house.
Pictured here: The Mister, teasing Remmy, Mac, Bear, Cooper and Dixie with breakfast sausage. 
And this is still not ALL of them.

The night of the 4th, we discovered poor Miss Addie-Pants is not a fan of firework any more than Mac is, and so instead of watching our lake-neighbors attempt to blow off all their fingers by lighting off crappy roman candles, we had a movie marathon with the dogs all snuggled up next to us.  Went to bed somewhere around midnight.  Yeah, we party hard.

honestly, I don't really feel like we missed anything.

But around 1:30AM on the 5th of July.  Well, that's when it got weird.

The in-laws' lake house is located at the end of a street.  Meaning if you keep driving down that street past our house, you end up in the lake.  Generally speaking, if a car pulls up that road, it's probably someone we know coming to visit.  We weren't expecting anyone at 1:30AM, so when we could see the headlights and heard a car engine working really hard, we knew something was up.

The Mister and I trotted downstairs and went outside to investigate.  Turned out a nice, elderly man had come down our road, saw he had taken a wrong turn somewhere, and when he tried to u-turn, had ended up putting his van half-way in the ditch that runs along either side of the road.  It's a narrow road, and in the dark, The Mister and I could both see how easy it would be to make such a mistake.

Unfortunately, this ditch is a drainage ditch, so it's too swampy at the bottom to be able to stand in there and push a car or a van back out.  This gentleman needed a tow truck.  For the sake of the story, let's call him Fred.

We offered to call one for him, as Fred and his walking-cane wandered around the van in disbelief, apologizing for ruining the grass in the ditch (we were not upset about the grass).  He asked instead of a truck, if we could call his friends - who he had been trying to drive out and visit when he ended up stuck in our front yard.  The Mister obliged, and ended up talking to the man's friends on the phone, trying to give directions on how best to take the side country roads out to where we were located.  The friend asked The Mister "has he been drinking?"

Hey there, red flag, how's it going.

And thus started the downward spiral of bad news/ red flags for this gentleman who wound up in our ditch.  Or I guess maybe it started when he got stuck in the ditch.  But up until that point, the Mister and I just thought this was going to be a quick conversation with a tow truck and then we could go back to bed.

Two minutes after we called Fred's friends (who said they were on their way), two squad cars showed up.  We still don't know who called the police.  They asked if Fred had been drinking.  Fred replied that he'd had just one beer.

dramatic re-enactment.

I know working as a college administrator does not qualify me as a cop, but I do know from that experience, when someone tells you they've only had just one beer, they've actually had at least eight, and are just hoping you believe the one beer story when you smell it on their breath instead of asking them to walk a straight line.

So The Mister and I walked back to the front of the house in order to give the cops some space and let them do their thing.  Fred was super cooperative as they lead him away from his van to the squad car, and gave him a breathalyzer (he blew a .17).  They loaded him in the car, explained that his van was getting towed, and he was being taken to the nearest hospital for a blood test to confirm the breathalyzer results.  Fred remained cooperative and apologetic about the whole thing.

I would estimate Fred somewhere between 180 and 220 pounds.  
I know that's a big window, but remember it was dark.  
In any case, Fred was DRUNK.

Right before the first squad car left with Fred, his friends pulled up.  Disappointed is not a strong enough word for how Fred's friends looked.  They offered to stay with his van and use the money he gave them to pay for the tow (if they couldn't cover the cost of the tow, the van was getting impounded).  They came over and apologized to us for ruining the grass on the side of the ditch (we still didn't really care about the grass).  They also explained that this was, unfortunately, not Fred's first experience with DUI charges.

The tow truck arrived a few moments after Fred was whisked away to the hospital, and that's when Fred's downward spiral got down-right STEEP.  (The Mister has some photos on his phone.  When he gets home tonight I'll ask him to send them to me, so I can share here.)

I don't know how to format this in story-form without it getting very long-winded, so here's what happened:

  • Fred had taken his van's keys with him to the hospital, so the tow truck driver had to try and pull the van out of the ditch while the van was in park.  With the van unable to turn it's wheels, he tore up the grass/ rocks in the ditch something awful (we started to care a little bit about the grass then), but more importantly, he DESTROYED the bottom of that van.  It's driving approximately nowhere for a looong time.
  • The police ended up having to go and fetch the keys from Fred at the hospital, because without them the van's wheels were angled in such a way that the winch on the back of the truck was pulling the tow truck into the ditch with the van instead of pulling the van out.  All of this extra time and effort resulted in the tow truck cost coming out to exactly six dollars more than Fred had given his friends to pay out.  So the van was getting impounded.

Which ended up not mattering, because when the keys showed up, they also came with some information...

  • Fred had a warrant out for his arrest in the next county over.  He skipped a court appearance in regards to his involvement in a whole bunch of larceny.  
  • Fred's van was not... Fred's van.
  • The plates on the van that was not Fred's, didn't match up to any vehicle.  Anywhere.
  • And the icing on the cake that's going to land Fred in prison for a VERY long time - Fred had a bottle of yellow nail polish in his van, which he had used to paint over the "year" sticker on the license plate to make it look like it was not expired.  Fun fact: that's a felony
That sticker up in the right hand corner is what we're talking about here.

So.  That's the story of Fred, 
aka why The Mister and I didn't get any sleep the night of the 4th of July, 
aka why the grass is all torn up in front of the in-laws' lake house 
aka remember kids don't drink and drive.

Do you have a weird story about a run in with the law/ 
a non-law-abiding citizen?  
Share in the comments!

Monday, July 08, 2013

Big Booty


Things are a bit of a mess here at KpQuePasa headquarters.

First for those who wonder, little Miss Addie Pants is still with us.  In an unfortunate/ fortunate turn of events, the poor little dear split a nail last week, right up to her nail bed.  It was pretty gross looking, and after a quick trip to the vet, Addie came out with 1 less toe-nail (it'll grow back), a bootie to wear until it heals, antibiotics to keep any bacteria she walked in from making her sick, some medicated ear-drops for the double yeast infection the vet caught while we were there, and a resolution that the Mister and I will long-term foster her, because we didn't want to put her back in the shelter while she was being treated... and because she's turned around so much we couldn't bear for that progress to back-track at all.  Who saw that coming. You can all smugly smile and nod right now, because that seems to be everyone's reaction so far... but we really didn't see that happening until it did.  *le sigh*


Anyway, while Addie's been bopping around our house in her bootie, something out in nature bloomed, so my nose hasn't stopped running like a leaky faucet since last night sometime.  The kind of senseless nose-running that makes you want to put a tampon up your nose to end the senseless torrent of sniffling.

But that's not really what's buggin' me.  Bugging.  Get it?  Because MOSQUITOES.  Sometime over the weekend all the mosquitoes hatched.  All of them. Ever.  And they were all like "hey, let's go bite that gal over there, she looks tasty."
I want this so hard.

I would say I'm exaggerating, but then... when was the last time you woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't go back to sleep because your feet itched so badly you wanted to cry?  *My best Seinfeld impressionHey guys, what's the deal... with these mosquitoes? Am I right?  
Because seriously those bugs are not only out in force, but the bites seem to be effecting me more than mosquito bites usually do - swelling much more into almost welt-like proportions, and itching so badly I have sincerely debated shaving them off on purpose.*  I BLAME GLOBAL WARMING.   AL GORE WAS RIGHT.


Of course there isn't a Walgreen's open at 2AM, and of COURSE we didn't have any anti-itch stuff in the house.  So a quick Google search for home bug bite remedies by the light of my phone ended in me, at 2AM, slathering toothpaste on my feet and then covering them with bandaids, so the toothpaste didn't smear on the bed sheets.  And then I put on socks, because mint-scented, bandaid-covered feet just looked ridiculous, and mismatched (I picked them out of the sock drawer at 2AM in the dark) socks clearly help.


After weathering that weekend of itchy feet (there were bites on the soles of my feet even!  how does that happen!?  smarmy little jerks), and convincing myself I must have West Nile Virus after all of that (or just a headache caused by the muggy weather), I stole outside to pick some raspberries out of the garden for my lunch today.  Immediately I was swarmed by the little harbingers of plague.  


Mumbling obscenities like the father from A Christmas Story, I swatted around my face.  I killed one (out of 100).  I was triumphant.  I held it's little corpse in the air as an example to it's peers and shouted "HA!  KISS MY ASS, MOSQUITOES!"**

The mosquitoes, apparently, heard that not as an insult.  But as an invitation.
Long story short, here I sit, writing this post, trying with all my might to concentrate on typing this instead of scratching the three GIANT mosquito-bite welts on my booty.  Yes welts.  With an S, signifying there are multiple bugs that took me up on the offer. There are so many bites on my ass that I almost don't notice the one on my eyebrow that has swelled enough to make me look like Sloth from the Goonies.  We'll go ahead and call that a silver lining.



What's your worst bug-bite encounter?
Any good home-remedies that I could try? 
(the Mister got sick of my whining last night and went out to get me hydrocortizone cream, but it's just not cutting into the booty-bites like I need it to.)

*I've never done it on purpose before, but that doesn't mean I've never done it.  I know I'm not alone, have you ever accidentally shaved your legs and gotten a mosquito bite by mistake?  It hurts, but then... one less mosquito bite to itch, you know?
**My French, pardon it please.  I only wanted to retell the story as honestly as it happened.

Monday, July 01, 2013

The Holiday Hound


Didn't have anything planned for the weekend.  I can't even tell you what kind of rarity that is in the McD household.  It just doesn't happen.  I was very much looking forward to doing nothing except mow the lawn and catch up on laundry.  Which is one of those realizations you get that you're like, a real grown-up now.  All excited to mow the lawn.  What - when did that happen.  Ugh.

The Mister took me out to breakfast Saturday morning, so we could map out our to-do list over my life's-blood: A cup of joe.  I checked Facebook on my phone while waiting for the mug to cool down enough to drink, and I saw a list pop up.

The SPCA needed help with some dogs - the shelter was stuffed to the gills and needed short-term foster homes for a few of the pups in order to get some things done on their own very important to-do list.  The list was names of dogs who needed someone to pick them up and love on them for a week or so.

Fostering isn't really something The Mister and I have been super gung-ho about in the past.  Mac is a very good dog, and our house is fairly small.  It would be hard to be able to commit to bringing another pup into that space and working with them - training and manners and getting the balance right in our household again.  We've thrown the idea around here and there, but in the end, we both recognized it just wasn't something we could make happen, particularly when the timeline is so variable - you never know when/ if your foster dog is going to find a new home.  And we have heart-strings.  You know where I'm going with that.

Still, I saw that list and looked up a few of the dog names through the Petango site that the SPCA lists their adoptable pups through, and a dog named Addie struck something in me.  So across the little table in the diner, over our eggs and bacon, I asked The Mister what he thought.

"Do it."  (aka: more moments to add to that list of "I 100% married the right dude for me.")

I called and they put our name down for Addie.  We took a few hours to clean the house and get Mac's old crate out (so she had a den-space), and then we went and picked her up.


Here's the picture of Miss Addie-pants (Which is what we took to calling her almost immediately.  You can go ahead and imagine us saying it in a high, sweet, baby-voice that I would usually mock others for using.  Because we totally do that) which is posted on her Petango profile.  And when they walked her out from the back of the shelter to us, that picture is exactly what she looked like, but with a little more forlorn, and a little less vigor.

As I filled out the paper-work and The Mister squatted down to try and offer her a cookie/ pat her head, the volunteers at the shelter gave us the limited background they were privy to:  Miss Addie came to the SPCA from a project called the Rescue Waggin, which takes dogs with lower adoptability, but high pet potential* out of kill-shelters that have low adoption rates, and finds spaces for them in shelters with no-kill policies and high-adoption success.  She'd been at the SPCA for a while, and was exhibiting signs of depression - sleeping almost all day, not being very social with other dogs or people, low confidence.  

You could tell from the way she looked at The Mister - uncertain, out of the corner of her eye with her head hung low and sad - that every word of this was the truth.  

It took us a bit of coaxing to get Miss Addie to walk with us from the shelter exit to the car - we didn't want to push her, we wanted her to come to the conclusion on her own that we were okay people.  We got her home and let her check out the whole back-yard.  Sat with Mac on a leash next the garden so she could get used to the idea of another dog without having him rush her at her face.  We let her check out the house and meet Bubba - she made a tentative sniff and decided he was fine but not worth exploring.  Bubba decided the same about her (we breathed a sigh of relief - our biggest worry was how Bub would react).  

And then she wandered, head hung low, over to the corner by the door, lay down on the tile floor, sighed and looked at us as if to say "well, okay"  in a very Eeyore sort of way.

We gave her space and affection, and in just the few days she's been staying at Ché McD, Addie has opened up into another dog entirely.  We're celebrating the small successes that have come around:
  • She wags her tail and holds it high when we talk to her.
  • She will take treats from us, and be at least mildly excited about it.
  • Last night instead of hiding in a corner of the crate, she slept on Mac's dog bed -which is at the end of our bed, in the bedroom.  (We brought in a second bed for Mac to sleep on, of course.)  
This was Mac's "if she sleeps down there, I guess there's no where else for me but here, right?" attempt.  He has always been such a "glass is half full" type of guy.
I still think he liked his first {co-ed!} slumber-party.
  • She ate/ showed interest in her food.
  • She picked up a stuffed toy from Mac's toy chest and sat with it for a few moments, looking very pleased - a revelation in the idea that toys exist, and are for her.
  • When our alarm clocks went off this morning, she put her two front feet on the bed and wagged her tail at us, as if to say "Good morning peoples.  I slept well!"
  • Before I left for work, I let her into the backyard with Mac for business, and she took a brief run - the first sign of any desire to play on her part - then turned around and gave me a look like she'd had some kind of epiphany about what a joy such a short gallop could provide.
Little Miss Addie Pants** is coming around, and I'm so happy we get to be a part of that.  Possibly my favorite thing of this whole weekend though, is how quickly Addie decided that The Mister is her favorite person.  I think, sometimes, The Mister gets discouraged when I'm around critters, because 90% of the time, critters will prefer me over him.  But not Little Miss Addie Pants.  She waits for him.  She follows him.  She makes a point to sit in the same room he's in.  She did this when he came home and wagged her tail when he came in the door.
It's the man-people!  I like him best.  Maybe he will pet my ears.

Addie makes a powerful case for the power of a foster home.  Because look at this face.  She just wants a people to call her very own.  Thinking of adopting or know someone who is?  Maybe you could help her find her very own people.  Here's what I can tell you about Miss Addie Pants:


  • She is shy, but comes around with time patience.
  • She is polite.  Ridiculously polite.  Gentle.  (maybe this is just the difference between boy and girl dogs, but she actually puts her tongue out to accept a treat from you as gently as possible, as opposed to Mac's crazed "OMG GIMME BACON!" mad-grab style)
  • She loves being outdoors as much as possible.
  • She's an adult dog who seems to understand that the out of doors is for business.  She has yet to have an accident inside.
  • She's on the low end of the active scale.  I have a feeling once she figures out the joy of sitting on a couch instead of the cold, hard ground, we'll be hard-pressed to ever get her back down.
  • She's a hound mix of some type - though she's been very quiet so far (I'd love it if she got comfortable enough with us to let us hear her talk), her nose is always going, and like many hounds, she's not afraid to put her paws up on a table or a counter to check a smell out.  We've been gentle in reinforcing this as unwanted behavior, because as much as we don't want to encourage it, we both think it's far more important at this point to cement with her that we're not to be feared.
  • She's patient.  The poor dear had some ear-mites when she came to us.  Not a big deal, and very treatable.  While I'm sure it's a bit uncomfortable for her, she's very patient with me as I put drops in her ear and massage it around.  She sat still when I gave her a quick bath(she's VERY soft to the touch now), and she let me brush her last night even though I could tell the sensation was a foreign concept to her.
We'll be hosting Miss Addie Pants until next week sometime, but she remains available for adoption through the SPCA of Southwest Michigan.  You can get more information on that process through the website here.

and meanwhile she'll get plenty of rest and relaxation while she waits for her forever people.


*Highly adoptable dogs:  Puppies that look like golden retrievers or little fluffy balls of cute.  High energy dogs who will rush the cage and give puppy-dog eyes to passer-by at the shelter.  Dogs that make a point of tugging at your heart strings.  Miss Addie-pants, while she is a fantastic dog, is calm and shy, and also an adult; people just don't tend to look as hard at such dogs, but Miss Addie deserves the attention.

**Everytime I wrote "Little Miss Addie Pants" I turned to her and sang "little miss, little miss, little miss Addie Pants" ala the Spin Doctors.  She likes it.  I can tell.