Milkshakes

We got Jack and Casey as puppies when they were seven weeks old.

They spent a lot of time in the kitchen because it was the only room we could completely make safe and secure. Plus it had a tile floor for easy cleanup, if you know what I mean. We gradually enlarged their inside world by blocking off larger sections of the house for them to explore while we were with them.

One night I was home with the kids and we had movie night. I made popcorn and milkshakes. I don’t remember what we were watching. The puppies were sniffing around the living room. At that time, they still fit under most of the furniture so there was a lot for them to check out. We had a green trunk that we used as a coffee table. Some of us set our milkshakes upon it.

The thing about puppies, unlike kittens, is that they’re not normally quiet. Stealth is a quality dogs generally lack. I rely on my hearing more than anything to make sure my dogs aren’t getting into something they’re not supposed to. It’s not rocket science; even small dogs lumber.

But this night? My puppies were ninjas.

I got up to go back into the kitchen and turned around. There, on the trunk directly behind me, was a heavy glass that had formerly contained a milkshake, lying on its side. The contents spilled across the trunk and two puppies were silently slurping up the dregs. Chocolate, of course.

This was the first of many times to come where we were hipped to the teamwork that is possible between a couple of puggles that bonded in the womb.

The only two in the litter. Can you tell?

In my mind, I picture Casey getting Jack to crouch down while she tipped the glass over onto him so that it didn’t crash. Then licking up any milkshake that spilled on his back. It sounds like something she’d do.

I can only imagine what it must be like to have twin humans.

Too Much Cuteness For One Post (not that it’s stopping me)

I was reading and commenting on some blogs this morning and I noticed one of the results of this work schedule I’m keeping right now: I’m not funny. I’m not feeling funny, I’m not making anybody laugh, and I am not amused.

Clearly, it’s time for puppy pictures.

We finished up at the shop last week and started loading the new show into the theater. I’m still at my old show at night for another week. It’s good to finally be in the door loading in, and we have a kick ass crew.

But I will miss the shop dogs, Gracie and Tucker.

They’re awesome.

And now for puggles.

It’s essential to note that I did not pose any puggles for these photos.

There. I feel better already.

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Sh*t My Dog Eats

This is Casey.

Here is a partial list of contraband items she has eaten or attempted to eat so far in her two and a half years on earth:

The last half of the Gouda.

The face off a plastic polar bear.

Nails (as in threepenny, not finger-)

Poop (confirmed: deer, dog, and human).

Used Kleenexes.

Used Band-aids.

Half a roast chicken, including bones.

Rubber bands.

A tax bill.

The cable remote.

Feminine hygiene products.

Five single flip flops, each from a different $4.99 Old Navy pair.

One Keene sandal, men’s, size 11, $100 pair.

A significant hole in the sleeve of a $500 Ralph Lauren suit jacket.

Did I mention nails?

Thumbtacks, with and without a plastic coating.

Lots and lots of candy. Including chocolate. Including wrappers.

Hairballs pulled out of the tub drain.

Pencils, pens, and magic markers.

A Whopper.

Popsicle sticks.

Glass Christmas ornaments.

The same lamp cord, three times, miraculously unplugging it from the wall before finally biting through the insulation.

Bottle caps: plastic preferred, but metal will do in a pinch.

Several of the little red balls from my throw pillow that contain a hooked metal center.

The tasty plastic squeaker heart in every squeaky toy we’ve ever given them.

A backpack.

My lunch.

My dinner.

My breakfast.

My gross, sweat-drenched Bikram yoga clothes.

My coffee.

CC’s beer.

The last of the Manchego.

Books, though mostly just the corners.

Her own bed.

Her own crate.

Her own harness.

Jack’s face (not in its entirety).

A watch band.

A hand and foot off a Troll doll.

Several Webkinz, the filling of which looks like a terrible case of worms when it’s coming out the other end.

The couch.

Too much of the woodwork in the kitchen.

Not enough of our hideous kitchen wallpaper.

A bag of Oreos that she reached after figuring out how to open the pantry.

Bacon, half a pound, and the paper towel it was draining on. Though not the plate.

One-third of a sweet sopressata salami, which, having been consumed so soon after the aforementioned half pound of bacon (about 36 hours later), she immediately vomited back up, and then re-ate.

What sh*t does your dog (or child, or significant other) eat?