I am not only referring to similarities or differences of the physical kind, although those do exist. Ripley and Sean could be made from the same mold. They both have barrel chests, slightly oversized bellies, and really skinny chicken legs that make you wonder how they actually support their comparatively massive trunks. Samson, on the other hand, is much leaner and more gazelle-like. In form he is decidedly unlike my husband, and yet Sean has been known to run in a similar manner that also makes him seem lighter than air (it should be noted that Samson doesn’t end up breaking his ankle sliding into third base in the first Softball game of the season; unlike my better half…Sam knows that even at 10 months he is much too old for that).
It amazes me how our pets become little microcosms of ourselves. Take eating, for instance. Ripley, taking after her mommy, will eat whatever you put in front of her even if she is not hungry. Although she has just wolfed down a bowlful of kibble mixed with sweet potatoes, that won’t stop her from sneaking toward the cat’s dish as we head downstairs…or from head-butting her brother out of the way when someone offers a treat. Likewise, I have been known to put away half a meatloaf and still have room for a King Size Snickers a half hour later. Bizarre! Samson eats more like his dad…i.e., when he’s hungry, never planned, never thinking about it. But when it finally hits him, he practically inhales his meal. Unfortunately, both of them also ingest a great deal of air when they eat, which becomes painfully apparent to everyone later on. I know, Honey. It was “the dog.” Sure.
I will acknowledge that I am much more like my dogs than Sean in my tolerance for bad smells. My first clue was when Ripley was about 7 months old. My husband greeted me at the door as I came home from work and I could tell something was horribly wrong. What first hit me was the incredible odor, as if our little princess had released an entire intestine’s worth of gas in a 5’ X 5’ box. The next thing I noticed was my husband holding a bandana over his mouth and dry-heaving. I shut the door behind me and closed my eyes. To listen. To learn.
“[gurp] Ripley [gag] had a little [glurg] accident in her [gorp] crate!”
[monotone] “Did you clean it up?”
[horrified, bewildered eyes opened wide behind the horizon of the bandana] “Wha? [gyak] No! Er, um…[gowk]…I just got home!”
Rather than face the possibility of two messes to clean up, I relieved him of his duty and went to investigate the carnage. OH, THE HUMANITY! Ripley had virtually exploded – by my estimation, at least several times – into her crate. It looked like the aftermath of the Battle of Carthage right there in a 24” X 36” battlefield. I couldn’t even believe the task that was before me. Fortunately, the force of her mushroom cloud was not great enough to reach her brother’s crate, but it was bad enough. We lost four toys and a bone that day. Rest their souls.
And even with all this, the smell did not bother me at all. Not unlike my dogs themselves, who will rub themselves in squirrel poo for pure pleasure, or eat cat dung like it was candy, I was almost oblivious to the stench as I scrubbed and hosed. And it did occur to me as I listened to Sean’s retching…how can the same man who seeks out news footage of terrorist beheadings be brought to his knees and virtually incapacitated by a little diarrhea? I don’t get it.
Sean has been further traumatized by such things as rock and yarn vomit (which he stepped on), yakked up kibble (which Samson ate right there in front of him like it was mashed potatoes and gravy), and various mystery spots on the couch or floor which appear out of nowhere (hand goes down to couch cushion for leverage…hand hits cushion…hand hits warm, slimy mass…husband shrieks like a 4-year-old). Probably the worst are the occasional chocolate pudding piles in the lawn that catch him off guard. I keep telling him to wear shoes and do NOT walk near the fence without looking down. But he just doesn’t listen
Hey! What do you know? I guess he is more like the dogs than I thought!
It amazes me how our pets become little microcosms of ourselves. Take eating, for instance. Ripley, taking after her mommy, will eat whatever you put in front of her even if she is not hungry. Although she has just wolfed down a bowlful of kibble mixed with sweet potatoes, that won’t stop her from sneaking toward the cat’s dish as we head downstairs…or from head-butting her brother out of the way when someone offers a treat. Likewise, I have been known to put away half a meatloaf and still have room for a King Size Snickers a half hour later. Bizarre! Samson eats more like his dad…i.e., when he’s hungry, never planned, never thinking about it. But when it finally hits him, he practically inhales his meal. Unfortunately, both of them also ingest a great deal of air when they eat, which becomes painfully apparent to everyone later on. I know, Honey. It was “the dog.” Sure.
I will acknowledge that I am much more like my dogs than Sean in my tolerance for bad smells. My first clue was when Ripley was about 7 months old. My husband greeted me at the door as I came home from work and I could tell something was horribly wrong. What first hit me was the incredible odor, as if our little princess had released an entire intestine’s worth of gas in a 5’ X 5’ box. The next thing I noticed was my husband holding a bandana over his mouth and dry-heaving. I shut the door behind me and closed my eyes. To listen. To learn.
“[gurp] Ripley [gag] had a little [glurg] accident in her [gorp] crate!”
[monotone] “Did you clean it up?”
[horrified, bewildered eyes opened wide behind the horizon of the bandana] “Wha? [gyak] No! Er, um…[gowk]…I just got home!”
Rather than face the possibility of two messes to clean up, I relieved him of his duty and went to investigate the carnage. OH, THE HUMANITY! Ripley had virtually exploded – by my estimation, at least several times – into her crate. It looked like the aftermath of the Battle of Carthage right there in a 24” X 36” battlefield. I couldn’t even believe the task that was before me. Fortunately, the force of her mushroom cloud was not great enough to reach her brother’s crate, but it was bad enough. We lost four toys and a bone that day. Rest their souls.
And even with all this, the smell did not bother me at all. Not unlike my dogs themselves, who will rub themselves in squirrel poo for pure pleasure, or eat cat dung like it was candy, I was almost oblivious to the stench as I scrubbed and hosed. And it did occur to me as I listened to Sean’s retching…how can the same man who seeks out news footage of terrorist beheadings be brought to his knees and virtually incapacitated by a little diarrhea? I don’t get it.
Sean has been further traumatized by such things as rock and yarn vomit (which he stepped on), yakked up kibble (which Samson ate right there in front of him like it was mashed potatoes and gravy), and various mystery spots on the couch or floor which appear out of nowhere (hand goes down to couch cushion for leverage…hand hits cushion…hand hits warm, slimy mass…husband shrieks like a 4-year-old). Probably the worst are the occasional chocolate pudding piles in the lawn that catch him off guard. I keep telling him to wear shoes and do NOT walk near the fence without looking down. But he just doesn’t listen
Hey! What do you know? I guess he is more like the dogs than I thought!
