A New Definition of Normal (Not for the Squeamish)

First the dog threw up…
on the kid…. and then the kid
threw up… on the dog.*


When work gets a little nutso, I tend to call my husband. His voice just seems to lower my blood pressure and remind me what really matters. Today was like that: I called him as I was heading to a meeting and told him “I just need a little normal”. He laughed, wondering how bad it must be if the happenings at our home seemed normal, but proceeded to tell me about his morning, AB’s morning, etc. And then he told me about our “normal” dog.

Seems Lily the wonder poodle went out to poop this morning, very normal indeed, but then she pooped two or three more times while in the yard. That’s not normal. When she finally came back in, Frank noticed that she still had poop hanging out of her bottom. Again, not at all normal; in fact, a little alarming since this has happened a few times in the last few days.  Then he shared the best part of all: as he was pulling the poop off her bottom, he pulled a paper towel out of her ass.

Half sheet.

Totally intact.

And after he did this, he proceeded to pull a second half sheet paper towel out of her ass. It appears that just like a canister of wet wipes, when you remove one, the next one pops up, waiting to be extracted.

Oh my god. I don’t think normal will ever be the same again.

We then had a great time with the puns. It is no longer “select a sheet” but “select a shit”.  Plus, the new selling line is the “quicker pooper-upper”. This went on for several minutes and I encourage you to add your own thoughts in the comments section.  He then threatened to rinse them out and lie them side by side with other slightly used paper towels to see if I could tell the difference. The call ended soon thereafter.

(For those of you wondering why I feed my dog paper towels… we caught her red-handed on Sunday licking the “breakfast-bacon-draining-paper-towels” which she had fished out of the garbage; had no clue she had already scarfed down two.)

Anyway, before I ended the call, I proclaimed my continuing appreciation for my husband and his willingness to deal with these types of situations. (I would have collapsed immediately upon noticing the fluffy end sticking out; he doesn’t rattle near as easily.) I returned to spread sheets and conference calls, but kept reflecting on the visual image of him, with the kids mesmerized by his side,  pulling out the paper towels like a magician fishing scarves from inside his clenched fist. I’m sure people wondered why I kept smiling.

(Note: Thanks to Frank for the wet wipes and magician metaphors! Stolen with his full knowledge.)

(*by the way, only the first 8 syllables are truth; the rest is just funny to visualize)

In Defense of Poodles

Rip-snortin’ hound dog
flies ass over tea kettle
after the red ball.


There are standard poodles (click the link to see a magnificent one).  And then there is my standard poodle, Lily.

The linked poodle happens to be the father of my poodle.  He wasn’t near as famous when my poodle was spawned, thankfully, but as beautiful a specimen as he is, I’m afraid he does an injustice to the poodle in general.  Many people judge the breed by his looks and think that’s all they are about. What a shame.

My poodle is a hound dog with curls. She runs in giant arcs, circling the the backyard, crazed, after a bath. She chases Frisbees, tennis balls and deer.  She is home groomed and luckily doesn’t know where the mirror is. She sometimes craps in the house.

In other words, she is a normal dog.  Just last night, she treed a raccoon in our back yard. I am not kidding. Bolted from the backdoor, chased the varmint up a tree and had her paws on the trunk barking before my husband got out there.

Now, she does prance when she walks, I’ll admit it.  People comment on that: “My, that dog sure walks pretty” is what they say. But it’s genetic.  Just like my husband can’t help watching a good-looking woman walk by or an airplane fly over, Lily can’t help how she walks.

Some more myths to bust…

Poodle perception Poodle reality
They are prissy dogs. She would chew off your left hand for a piece of bacon.
They are aloof. She climbs on top of me and kids when we are stacked on the couch watching a movie… just one of the family.
They are dumb from years of breeding. I grew up with German Shepherds, an exceedingly smart breed. She is smarter. Some toy poodles, mind you, who have been bred down from the standard, are as dumb as a box of rocks with the smart rocks taken out. But not the standard.
They are high strung. Imagine this: you are 10 weeks old and you land yourself in a home with a 4-year-old boy. This boy likes you, a lot. He lies on you, he pulls your ears, thinks grabbing large handfuls of your fur and yanking is funny. Plus, the adults in the family fancy themselves more capable than the local groomer, so once a month for about 4 hours, you stand on a slippery table while they practice on you with scissors and clippers. No reaction. This is a chilled dog.

There is only one weird thing I’ve noticed about her… she won’t kiss your face. Since she regularly eats deer poop and her own vomit (she doesn’t do car rides well), I’m seriously ok with this, but I’ve never met a dog like this before. She will gladly lick your feet, even between the toes, for hours on end if given the chance (don’t do it, man, it’s creepy), but not your face. I’m not sure why…

So if you are in the market for a dog, consider the standard poodle.  I know there are a lot of xxx-oodles being bred nowadays. Labra-doodles, Golden-oodles. But to me, that’s like pouring ketchup over a top-notch tenderloin.  Don’t take a substitute – go for the original.

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