So... What HAS been happening?!

This feels a bit like when you run into an old friend, or schoolmate or coworker. They say “Hey! Long time no see. What's new?”. And you try and think back to the last time you saw them and try and come up with a concise summary of important events.

Then your brain is overstimulated and they're standing there staring at you. So you say the first thing that pops in your mind.

And upon leaving the awkward social interaction, your brain actually starts functioning and you come up with a laundry list of things that are new.

Luckily, I don't have anyone staring me in the face looking for an answer, so I have all the time in the world to spell it out. In detail. Well, moderate detail. I don't need to bore whoever might be reading this from the get-go.

You're welcome.

I think the last time I posted was shortly after my boyfriend moved in... So... what has been happening??

I bought an apartment – my first giant debt. It made me quite nervous. Terrified, really. Truth be told, I vomited a lot during the purchase process.

It's actually a very small debt compared to other peoples' mortgages. I once had someone say “THAT'S not a mortgage”. The way it was said seemed like it was meant to be a dig. A financial version of “mine's bigger”. But in the worst possible way. It's not an RRSP. It's debt. You don't WANT it to be big. Right? Just me? Okay, so anyway!

We got a dog! It took a year after moving into the apartment (no restrictions on height, weight or breed) for it to finally happen. I spent so much time and energy scouring rescue agencies looking for the right dog. My boyfriend was fucking Goldilocks about it.

It got to the point where I was like “if you don't stop poo-pooing EVERY dog I show you, I will make the decision myself”. He didn't much like that. But... then his brother went on vacation and left his dog with us. An 80 lb lab/pittie cross. And the biggest cream puff, lazy dog you ever met. He was so happy to have her with us – he kept saying "Wow - this isn't so hard". Meanwhile I bit my tongue "yeah... sure... all dogs are THIS easy!".

By the end of that week, when he would leave for work on a Saturday morning, I'd hear “Bye – I love you”. And when I looked up. He was looking down. At the dog.

A week later we had Whiskey on a one-week trial. She's great. She's crazy. But I think she warrants her own post.

A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down

Here is the second installment of Heather vs Hot Dogs. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, go here. It may or may not help your understanding of this post.

My elementary school used to include swimming lessons as part of our PE class during the last month of school (when the weather could be warm enough to use the neighbourhood outdoor pool). On the last day of our lessons we had a picnic; we were instructed to bring our own hot dogs and buns to the picnic so they could get grilled up on the portable barbecue.

The thing about swimming for me is that it is an activity that leaves me ravenous. I knew this even as a young child. The morning of my last swimming lesson, my mom was packing my lunch and she asked me if I wanted one hot dog or two. Automatically, I said two; Mom was skeptical and said "But they're really big, are you sure?". I assured her that I was sure and that I would eat both hot dogs; she packed both hot dogs.

After swimming, we all piled out of the pool and into the park; I brought my lunch to my teacher. She looked skeptically at the lunch my mom had packed and asked if I was sure I wanted two hot dogs, they were really big after all. I assured her that I was sure and that I would eat both hot dogs; she grilled both hot dogs.

After getting my lunch back, I pulled up a piece of ground and started eating. I started out with gusto; I was going strong and two hot dogs were no match for me. Why anyone doubted the eating ability of an 8 year old girl was beyond me. That is until I got most of the way through the first one. With the first one firmly in my gut, I felt very full; I thought I just had to walk it off, make room for the second one. I started walking around the park, but the more I walked, the more nauseous I felt.

I was stumbling around the park, looking sick and carrying a hot dog. After a bit more stumbling, I started feeling really, really sick; I went into the bathroom, sure I was going to vomit. I walked into the stall and stared down at the toilet, willing myself not to throw up. Once I gained composure I took in my surroundings; I stared death in the face when I realized I was still carrying that blasted second hot dog.

I felt nauseous at the thought of eating it, I felt stupid for being so adamant that I could finish both hot dogs. I couldn't very well admit defeat, apparently something I've never been good at. I decided to put the hot dog in it's place. And I did. I flushed that bad boy down the toilet.

Since I was just a kid and didn't understand basic concepts such as indoor plumbing, I didn't break it up into small pieces and flush them one or two at a time. No, no. I literally flushed the entire hot dog down the toilet. I realized mid-flush that it may have been a mistake, but I went with it and down it went. I breathed a sigh of relief and skipped out of the bathroom with new found enthusiasm one can only get from narrowly escaping death's grip.

My teacher saw me shortly after, saw that I had no lunch left. She asked me if I had finished both hot dogs, I smugly replied that I had.

As our little conversation was wrapping up, another student came running up to the teacher and asked if she knew how to get parks people to come down; she asked the student why she thought the park ranger was required. The student replied that one of the toilets in the girl's washroom was clogged and was flooding the entire bathroom.

I guess it didn't go down as well as I thought.

Me: I was kidding - learn how to take a joke! EliseArt: Aw, Heather, I missed you!

Judging by my title, I think the Simpsons quote email has gone on too long. Or maybe not long enough. Anyway, I'm going to try and get more posts done in June, but since it's only 3 days until the end of the month, I'm going to have to post things without pictures and without a point. Enjoy.

I moved into the place I live in ... 5 years ago this July 1st. Happy Anniversary! When I first moved in it was shortly after having lost my poor puppy to illness; I wasn't ready to own another animal. So when the ad said "no pets" I didn't really care. But when I had my interview, I wanted to see how serious the landlord actually was, so I asked "The ad says no pets... how do you feel about a cat?" He said "You have a cat?" and I said "No, but I was thinking I might want to get one, one day". He assured me that no furry animal would be living in the house and gave me a list of reasons. I accepted this by giving him my damage deposit and saying "I'll take it!".

Stompy and hubby were always on the landlord to let them get a dog. When I moved in they approached me on the subject. I told them my situation and explained that I might be ready for an animal "some time soon". They started asking me to talk to the landlord and bug him to see if he would let me get a cat or dog. I knew his stance (partially because he told me at the interview, but also because he would complain to me about them constantly bugging him about getting a dog) so naturally, I never bugged him about it.

So Stompy moved out and new people moved in. Every so often I hear a yappy little dog upstairs barking its fool head off. It's not often, so I know that the dog can't possibly live there. I figure, he must be visiting with his owners, right? Makes sense.

Today I was getting out of my car and happened to look up and saw the cutest little white kitty. On their porch. Cats don't usually visit with their owners, do they?? I wonder how long it'll take the landlord to see or hear about the cat.

 

P.S. I probably spent more time linking things in this post than writing it. Cheers to being a devoted blogger!

P.P.S. Therefore, please don't call me on typos or incorrect grammar. Thanks!

What's your head's excuse?

Despite being an absolute sweetheart, Sab was notoriously aggressive towards other dogs. As a result, he didn't know how to play like a normal dog (since he had never played with one before). Thus, I had to create games for him to keep in occupied and stimulated. This may be one of many installments on this subject.

One game we played (let's call it "Run & Chase"), was a 3-player game (i.e. 2 people; 1 dog). We usually only played this game when K was around. Basically, I would get him all riled up and ready to play; getting him riled up usually consisted of me smacking him in the face and goading him on.



Once he figured out what was happening, he'd get excited and start playing (i.e. biting); at which point, "Run & Chase" would start. K would hold him down while I started running (and goading him all the while).



I would run clear across the field. When K decided that I'd run far enough, she would let him go and he'd run after me. She'd give me an ominous warning of "He's coming!!!". At which point, I'd start looking over my shoulder for the impending doom; once he got close, I'd turn around and stop; bracing myself for impact.

The game always played out the same way; he would barrel towards me and at the last minute he would deke out of the way, slow down and then attack me.





We'd play and then I would hold him and K would run across the field calling to him; when she'd get far enough away, I'd let him go. He'd run, chase her, attack her. Then she'd hold him; I'd run, call for him, he'd chase. You get the idea.

The first few times we played this game, while I watched him run directly at me, I would consider the possibility that he wouldn't deke. I would lose confidence and would side-step him. On more than one occasion, I side-stepped and he deked in the same direction; one of us ended up hurt. Eventually, I learned, and began to trust, that he would deke and wouldn't hit me.

This one time, we were playing and, as per usual, Sab was barreling towards me.













I mentally coached myself not to sidestep him, as I did every time we played the game. At one point I realized that he wasn't going to stop or deke out of the way. Unfortunately, it was milliseconds before impact.

Sab's head/chest height was roughly mid-thigh level, so when he hit me (and ran right through me) he literally swept me off my feet.



After that I had to contend with a 100lb dog licking my face and jumping all over me while I tried desperately to regain my breath after having the wind knocked out of me. Meanwhile, K was on the other side of the field laughing her ass off.

Big thanks to EliseArt for providing the illustrations!

How I met my friend

I had the best dog in the whole wide world. Yeah, sure, everyone says that, but for me, it's actually true. His name was Sabastian and he was awesome.



Just look at him!! Who couldn't love that dog?! He was a 100+lb rottweiller/german shepard cross. He was big, but also a big sweetheart. I loved him and he loved me. I had him for about 10 years before I had to put him down, and those were some damn good years we had together.

I, literally, have hundreds of stories I could tell about him and my blog won't be complete unless I tell at least one, but I'm having a really hard time narrowing down a really good, really representative story about Sab. I guess I could start off by how I got him. (And I'll write the really good, really representative post another day).

I got him when he was just over a year old, but I'd known him for about 6 months by that time. I met Sab through a punk-ass kid that ended up being a friend of mine. Oh, high school, how I miss you. I met this kid, (who actually went by the name of Flea) through a friend of my brother. My brother's friend, ended up letting Flea move in with him and this is when I met Sab.

Flea, didn't work; he was on welfare and made getting drunk and high a priority over feeding his dog. Me and K would buy Sab food, because he was starving to death. Literally. We took him to the vet at one point and he weighed in at 44lbs. (His healthy Post-Flea weight was 98-105lbs, but he chunked up to a whopping 115lbs at one point).

I would beg Flea to give me his dog, I was even willing to pay for him... how much do you want for him? $100? $200? $300? How much for your dog??? But he wouldn't budge. He "loved" Sab and wouldn't get rid of him. Some stuff happened and Flea ended up having to move back home and wasn't able to take Sab with him. I jumped on it: I'll take him!

The deal ended up being that he would stay with me for one month, after that, Flea would get him fixed and he would take him back. I knew this would never happen, so I agreed.

Two months later, I saw Flea and he said to me "I can't afford to get him fixed. So, I guess he's your dog now" and I said "Dude, he was my dog a month ago".

And that's how I met my best friend, and how our 10 year friendship started. (miss you Bubby!)

I'll write an actual post about him shortly, complete with pictures (fair warning, EliseArt!). I just had to get this one up... you know, because of obligations (thanks, Gorm!).