For as long as I can remember, I have wanted a pet dog. For years as a child, I badgered my mother about us getting a dog, to no avail. They were too expensive, too time consuming, too much of a tie, too much of a responsibility; they would need walking, and injections, and food, and accessories, and they wouldn’t stay puppies forever… The list went on and on, but I still gazed forlornly at the adorable puppies in ads for bog roll — wanting one of my very own (a puppy, not a roll of toilet tissue).
As an adult, I saw the logic in my mother’s argument and the groveling ceased. Instead, I consoled myself that when I had a home of my own, a dog would feature prominently as a member of my newly-formed micro-family. I built a rosy image in my head of doting on my canine companion and being of sufficient financial stature to own maybe not just one, but several. Like an expectant mother, I had names picked out and pedigree breeds carefully selected. I envisaged adorable scenarios and would gently try and talk K around to the idea of becoming a dog-owner, in preparation for the future.
Well, this week has firmly pissed on my party. Dog-owning relatives jetted off to the other side of the Earth this week, leaving their pooch in our care for no less than four weeks. At first I was pleased, almost excited even — after all, I got to play at being Dooce for a while and blog about “my” dog and its (mis)adventures.
Unfortunately, whilst Blurbodoocery have a cultured (if ever-so-slightly eccentric) hound that listens to Einstürzende Neubauten and practices Opus Dei rituals in their basement, here sits a dog with attachment issues, severe claustrophobia and manic depression.
She has spent no less that five days spring-boarding from 30 second bursts of psychotic elation to howling and sobbing for hours on end in the most gut-wrenching of fashions. She is completely traumatized by closed doors, working herself into a lather within 0.25 seconds of someone leaving the room and pulling the door behind them.
However, don’t go feeling sorry for her or calling the RSPCA just yet, I have a sneaking suspicion that she’s cottoned-on to our dog-rearing inexperience and has us all firmly wrapped around her little paw. Five “bathroom” trips outside the back-door in less than two hours, sometimes just to sniff her own turd? Yup. Tucked into a blanket at night, not once but three times because she gets up for a wander and then looks all cold and sad when she goes back to bed? Yup. Given treats because she has twigged that we think she looks adorable when she gives you not one, but two paws? You bet! Constant cuddles, sympathy and attention because being British (the animal-loving nation that we are), we would rather see Grannies being robbed than see a cute doggy-woggy-woo pine? Of course!
To top off the humiliation of having to admit we are being cunningly manipulated by a lower life form, we are having to cope with the invasion of dog smell — everything absolutely reeks of stinky dog.
To combat this, particularly in the kitchen, my mother has installed an industrial-sized “Air Freshener” applicator that jettisons lemony freshness into the atmosphere every 30-odd minutes like crop planes dousing fields in pesticides. The resultant affect on ones’ senses is similar to that experienced when having Toilet Duck rammed up your nostrils with a motorized food mixer.
However I think Dooce can be forgiven for not mentioning this:
After all, what with Chuck being male, I very much doubt he has “doggy periods” that require silly underwear and canine panty-liners.
A full-time wheelchair user since 1998, Claire lives in an adapted bungalow in England with her Partner of 10 years and their two dogs: 
Hey Claire! Thanks for linking to my site. Yours is great and i’m jealous of all your pictures and flowers and stuff — I am an enormous technotwit and can’t even get my live links to look purdy. Kudos, girl.
“The resultant affect on ones’ senses is similar to that experienced when having Toilet Duck rammed up your nostrils with a motorized food mixer.”
Brilliant! It had me snorting painfully on my coffee, as I read it; the image of that one will stay with me for a while I think.
Is that dog really wearing a sanitory towel? That’s amazing — it’s a new one on me — can’t say I’ve ever seen that before. She looks like one of these really expensive “highly strung” dogs, but it just goes to show, even the poshest dogs sniff their own poo. I have heard even the queen goes to the loo, but I don’t believe a word of it. She most probably has a lady-in-waiting who does something discreet with jewel encrusted calipers and a funnel or something.
Your baby photos are gorgeous! And congrats on your OU success! I’ve had a bit of a snoop around you see. Thanks for visiting me! I’ll be back to visit you.
Well it really just depends on how you raise the dog. Some dogs are badly mannered because of a fairly on the dog owner’s part to train them properly. Those detachment issues could have been solved with simple training back when he was a puppy…
and… yeah… my dog had that diaper thing for a while but that’s because he was half paralyzed. XD Just because you have a diaper doesn’t mean you’re high strung! (Just a response to the commenter before me)
But oh well, dogs are worth all the trouble that you have to go through. Training… food… everything. It’s worth it all.
Don’t mention those blasted timed sprayers…grr..
Jem and I had to spend a night or 2 in a room with one of those..how many times did it wake me/make me jump before it got twatted? Too many..:)
We had a dog..but after the housefire we decided that since we were all working, it wouldn’t have been fair to get another. Lovely, yes..but a lot of work.
Guinea pigs, rabbits, budgies…even house trained GPs..yes. Easy to look after. Easily amused. When Jem and I move, I know Jem wants a cat…and I can cope with that..:) Even if it’s as psychotic as my brothers cat and launches at you when you open doors.
To ProblemChildBride: Hey PCB! Been reading you for a while (hilarious blog, don’t sweat the WordPress — she’s a beast tamed with perseverance), nice to see you here
Yes, she’s a Weimaraner, a German breed of gun dog… The kind of dog where her mother knew her cousin a little too well, if you catch my drift… As these pictures show, it’s the sort of breed that’s so “well bred” they all look near-identical, maybe that explains the mental health issues
And yes she’s in season, so the dog does indeed where a sanitary towel in her drawers! (Changing it every few hours is such a joyful experience)
The queen uses a funnel? Wow, interesting theory… I wonder if its something like this?
Ah, the Baby Photos… Why thank you… The gallery is a bit broken at the moment, but I hope to get it back (and with more pics) soon.
Many thanks for dropping by, glad you had a giggle…take care x
To Demoness:
Fair enough, although may I just add that this post was written with tongue-firmly-in-cheek… In anycase, she is not my dog, we are merely “doggy-sitting” for a short time. I think in terms of training, it’s not really our place to set new boundaries, particularly whilst she is unsettled in a new environment.
I don’t think PCB was suggesting that, in fact I quote:
was actually the point she was making… Plus, technically, she’s not in a diaper (the dog, not PCB) — she’s simply in season, not incontinent.
I’ll take your word for it
Thanks for dropping by…
To Karl: Oh I know, those timed fresheners are awful — they even startle the dog!
Cats? Psychotic? Never! I have a massive phobia of cats (including nightmares — no joke!) Definitely not my thing! But you’re right, dogs are lovely… I protest/jest about Jessie, but she’s adorable really…
I was just looking at the generated gravatar and dammit if that isn’t exactly what I look like!
How did you find that Shewee thing? It’s brilliant, I think — it’s either a brilliant thing to carry in one’s handbag, or a disgusting thing, I can’t make my mind up. It would have to be rinsed after every use for pong issues. That’s OK if you’re peeing in the woods with a babbling brook nearby, but what if you just don’t want to sit on public toilets; if I saw a lady rinsing one of those out in a public wash-hand basin, I might think washing my hands was sort of pointless at that point. Mind you, they say pee is sterile and the Vikings used to wash their hair in their own urine to bleach it.
What a concept though! I might have to look into them — off to see if you can buy disposable ones.
LOL… Classic!
Well, according to the SheWee website, you can choose to either dispose them or wash them (even in the dishwasher, no less!) They come in their own little sealable bag too, so you could seal them up and wait til you got home to wash them, I suppose?
As for where I found them… A gender-bending female online acquaintance enlightened me to their existence a few months ago… If only I could remember what started the conversation in the first place…
Edit: I never knew the bit about Vikings washing their hair in urine… Were blood-shot eyes a visual characteristic of Vikings as well as bleached hair? Surely that must make your eyes sting, no? Then again, I’ve never really felt the urge to pour piss in my eyes to find out…
… And that’s why we like you, Claire.