So not only do we have 16 kids in this house, but three dogs, two turtles, two fish and a rabbit. I love my kids, but I mostly put up with the pets.
Dallas is our eleven year old Goldendoodle…who has the personality of Bette Midler. She’s an old broad who can do just about anything she wants and get away with it. Dallas and I love each other in the way that old roommates do. We don’t always hang out but we “get” one another.
Dixie is a once in a lifetime kind of dog. She’s intuitive, intelligent, kind and completely lovable. Honestly, I adore this animal. She sleeps next to the child who’s ill. She instinctively knows when I’ve had a hard day and sits silently by my side. She smiles. She’s always patient. And when we have a new baby she is by that pram day and night. As far as dogs go, she walks on water.
Then, there’s Whitney.
A malti-poo. Bought for Kemper because my husband never says no. That animal is a devil. She’s schizophrenic at best and demon-possessed at worst. Anyone who comes to our home is instantly charmed and hoodwinked by this academy-award-winning dog who feigns love and adoration for anyone except those under this roof. She pisses on our floor constantly and has even pooped in one of my shoes. I really can’t stand this dog.
Don’t write me nasty emails about it. Trust me. She’s wicked.
This week, I was especially shocked at Whitney’s nastier than normal behavior. She was nippy at the kids, growling constantly. Yipping all night long. I walked into her little room and saw her drowning her face in the water bowl and then flicking food all over the floor. I had this vivid picture of Old Yeller’s “hydrophoby” scare and for a moment thought for sure if this dog didn’t kill itself within the week that maybe it was time for her to meet her Creator.
Then she began collecting small toys and gathering them into a corner of the pantry. Soon she was stealing every beanie baby and webkins she could find. On top of her newly possessive mood and ferocious attack mode, she was now a kleptomaniac. Daly Kay was worried about Whitney’s mental stability and I told her the dog therapy budget for the month was $0.
Daly Kay called our vet who has been kindly caring for our menagerie for the last 23 years. After a brief description doc made a diagnosis (thankfully – over the phone…) and said it was false pregnancy.
Are you freakin’ kidding me? As if one mother six weeks post partum in this household isn’t enough, now the dog’s whacked out thinking she’s had a baby and she’s an emotional wreck????
As we speak, Whitney is sitting on a little nest of towels she’s made, loving on her 13 various stuffed animals. Thankfully this whole ruse should last only a week or so and she’ll be back to her normal wenchy little self without the added risk of nips and all night whining.
For all my sarcasm in this post, I really do adore most of the animals in this home. And I love all the kids. I never knew that a dog could suffer such trauma based on a false pregnancy. All I know is there’s only room for one whacko in this house right now and I am completely filling that slot. Get over it quick, poochie.