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That's terrible. I just can't believe some people, unless you're talking about a stuffed tiger - linky is broken, but I wont watch if it's a real one.
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A long day at the groomers yesterday
Absolutely gorgeous! 😃
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Haha the name of their groomers is Dog Gone Gorgeous.
Good name. They look like very happy pooches. What are their names?
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What's funny about that is that it's pretty likely they're derived from the same word, meaning they basically have the same name (which may mean, among other things, "wolf").
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Absolutely gorgeous! 😃
I love dogs, this is the longest i've been without a pet dog since my Nuggy died, we had pet dogs throughout my childhood, my dad had 2 German Shepherds which were so tame and placid.
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What's funny about that is that it's pretty likely they're derived from the same word, meaning they basically have the same name (which may mean, among other things, "wolf").
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To be fair, name etymology is always fraught with (reasonable) assumptions. I always get a kick out of plugging names into https://www.behindthename.com, though, and seeing what comes up. Very often names with a phonetic similarity end up both being diminutive versions of the same name.
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It makes sense. In older movies, I've heard "wolf" used as slang for a randy man. 
Rudy, on the other hand, is short for Rudolph, from the Latin for "red-nosed reindeer", so that one's got me stumped.
Rudy, on the other hand, is short for Rudolph, from the Latin for "red-nosed reindeer", so that one's got me stumped.
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"You seem a decent fellow. I hate to kill you."
"You seem a decent fellow. I hate to die."
"You seem a decent fellow. I hate to kill you."
"You seem a decent fellow. I hate to die."
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It makes sense. In older movies, I've heard "wolf" used as slang for a randy man.
And randy men can be quite rude so there's that.
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hrrrrmmmm....
I guess I'll dive into this one. I had to put my puppy of 16 years down back on May 27, 2017. She was a Rat Terrier named Dootle-bug.
I've had dogs off and on growing up, but was never really a "dog person." At some point during my first year or so at my current job, a coworker brought two young pups in. Her boyfriend at the time bred Jack Russells and Rat Terriers (not to each other, ewe?). These two were the last of the litter.
She kept them near her desk, in a larger cardboard box with a blanket inside for them to sleep on. The male was strong and curious enough to climb out of the box to the delight of all the ladies in the office. They would play with him and he would try to run (mostly flopping) from desk to desk as each person called for his attention. The other puppy, unfortunately, was not as strong yet to climb herself out; and all the staff seemed too distracted by her brother to pay her any mind.
She whimpered, and pawed relentless against the box. As I said, I've never cared for dogs and I was trying to work. It was, after all, the office. After maybe an hour or so of this dog's high-pitched howling and begging for attention, I lost my temper. I stood up from my desk, walked to the box and picked the damn annoying pup up and scolded it in a stern voice to "Shut the hell up. I'm trying to work!"
She did. I sat down near the box and placed her onto my lap for a few minutes so that she might feel satisfied that someone at least was paying her attention. She seemed content, and so placed her back into her box and returned to my desk. The whimpering started back. Now everyone in the office began to tease me that I should keep the dog. I ignored them, and continued to work. I tried to continue, that is, but that damned dog continued her shrill, piercing screech.
At this point, no one else would touch her as they were trying to push my patience into submission. They won. I eventually returned to the box, picked up the dog, and sat her again against my lap. She stayed there without a sound. Frustrated, I figured the only way to keep her quiet was to take her with me to my desk. I sat her on the the table top of my work space, under a shelf to give her a bit of privacy. She just squirmed and worked herself farther back into the cubby space of my shelving to the point I became worried she might fall off the back opening, and lodge herself there between the back of the desk and wall. Eventually I got tired of resetting her position, so I took here for a third time to my lap. She seemed content again.
For the rest of the day I allowed this dog to nap against my lap. She rarely moved, or struggled for position. From time to time I would carry her outside so that she might relieve herself there in the grass rather than on my office slacks. I carried a bit of nibble and water to my desk in case she was hungry. All in all, she was calm and pleased, and I could do my work for the day.
That afternoon I returned the dog to the owner. She asked if I was sure about that... didn't I want to take her home? I barked at her. But before the day ended I did tell her that if she had not sold the pup by the next day to let me know. I would think about it.
The next day I was the owner of a Rat Terrier pup. I originally named her Mr. Squiggles because I thought it would be hilarious to have that name on a breeding tree, but others protested. Within another week or so her name became Dootle-bug.
I have so many stories of this dog lighting up my life. And pushing me to the brink of a psychotic break or two. She destroyed my kitchen cabinets. Ate half a pound of raw bacon that was left in the trash. Later, then, vomited up said half pound of raw bacon leaving small, warm, foamy easter eggs of pork surprises throughout the house. She puffed up like lumpy mashed-potatoes after her first vaccination due to an allergic reaction. She was a lap dog that would sit, back to the cushion between me and the armrest whenever we watched a movie together, and she adored Sponge Bob Square Pants. If we were playing in the back of the house and the intro theme song started playing on the TV down the hall, she would always stop, look at me, and wait. I'd say, "It's ok. go watch your show." and she would sprint down the hall, jump to the couch, and lay down facing the TV.
The last two years of her life she was with my mom several states away. A year or so after her move, she was diagnosed with bladder cancer. They estimated 6 months. 6 months later during a follow-up, the vet admitted that she didn't expect her to make it past 3 at the time, but was being optimistic. Dootle-bug stuck it out a good year and a half past the original diagnosis. I never brought her back home because I was afraid the drive would be too much for her, but I visited every two or three months during long weekends or holidays.
We talked with the vet around Christmas about surgery or other options. Originally, she was just too weak to consider it, but as time moved on she got all of her strength back and seemed much younger than her age. We did a scope of her bladder to begin reducing the size of the tumor but by this time the mass had spread considerably into the urethra, effectively blocking access to the bladder. We tried chemo as a last option and watched her closely because it tore us up to know it might make her sick. The first session was hard on us all. By the second we learned how to counter most of the side effects before they took affect. We were hopeful that if the size could go down, then her comfort level could improve.
Friday before Memorial Day weekend mom called and said that it was time. I left office that afternoon and drove as far as I could through the night. I stopped in a parking long long enough to get a 2-hour nap in before finishing the drive the next morning. I got in around 10:30AM Saturday morning to spend my last afternoon with my puppy.
I needed to shower, but that was good. Dootle always showered with me. I was able to give her a good bath, which really excited her. After drying her, we put her in a little dress---now I know, I think it's pretty ridiculous too, but she honestly enjoyed wearing stuff. I don't get it, but it is what it is. That afternoon we watched Sponge Bob the Movie (which she had received from Santa, this past Christmas) together, and she literally vibrated in excitement.
Around 3:15PM, we left for the vet. Mom drove. I held Db. she was still as physically active as she was at 8 years, but her bladder was no longer working. It was both lovely and tragic to see her wiggle her way down from our laps so that she could explore the vet's office. She was herself, physically and mentally, but we knew that within 48 hours things would become unbearable while her bladder continued to swell. Neither of us wanted her in pain. Neither of us wanted to be in pain, but we rationalized it as better our pain than hers.
And that was the choice.
I miss Db terribly. I have photos and videos of her that make me smile, and bring me to tears at the same time. Mom texted and said she received her ashes Tuesday, last week. She stopped by the vet's office on the way home from work to pick her up. Placing her remains into the passenger seat she asked, "Wanna sit in the seat? Or down in the floorboard?"
I think mom is good now. I'm just glad Db is back home.
I guess I'll dive into this one. I had to put my puppy of 16 years down back on May 27, 2017. She was a Rat Terrier named Dootle-bug.
I've had dogs off and on growing up, but was never really a "dog person." At some point during my first year or so at my current job, a coworker brought two young pups in. Her boyfriend at the time bred Jack Russells and Rat Terriers (not to each other, ewe?). These two were the last of the litter.
She kept them near her desk, in a larger cardboard box with a blanket inside for them to sleep on. The male was strong and curious enough to climb out of the box to the delight of all the ladies in the office. They would play with him and he would try to run (mostly flopping) from desk to desk as each person called for his attention. The other puppy, unfortunately, was not as strong yet to climb herself out; and all the staff seemed too distracted by her brother to pay her any mind.
She whimpered, and pawed relentless against the box. As I said, I've never cared for dogs and I was trying to work. It was, after all, the office. After maybe an hour or so of this dog's high-pitched howling and begging for attention, I lost my temper. I stood up from my desk, walked to the box and picked the damn annoying pup up and scolded it in a stern voice to "Shut the hell up. I'm trying to work!"
She did. I sat down near the box and placed her onto my lap for a few minutes so that she might feel satisfied that someone at least was paying her attention. She seemed content, and so placed her back into her box and returned to my desk. The whimpering started back. Now everyone in the office began to tease me that I should keep the dog. I ignored them, and continued to work. I tried to continue, that is, but that damned dog continued her shrill, piercing screech.
At this point, no one else would touch her as they were trying to push my patience into submission. They won. I eventually returned to the box, picked up the dog, and sat her again against my lap. She stayed there without a sound. Frustrated, I figured the only way to keep her quiet was to take her with me to my desk. I sat her on the the table top of my work space, under a shelf to give her a bit of privacy. She just squirmed and worked herself farther back into the cubby space of my shelving to the point I became worried she might fall off the back opening, and lodge herself there between the back of the desk and wall. Eventually I got tired of resetting her position, so I took here for a third time to my lap. She seemed content again.
For the rest of the day I allowed this dog to nap against my lap. She rarely moved, or struggled for position. From time to time I would carry her outside so that she might relieve herself there in the grass rather than on my office slacks. I carried a bit of nibble and water to my desk in case she was hungry. All in all, she was calm and pleased, and I could do my work for the day.
That afternoon I returned the dog to the owner. She asked if I was sure about that... didn't I want to take her home? I barked at her. But before the day ended I did tell her that if she had not sold the pup by the next day to let me know. I would think about it.
The next day I was the owner of a Rat Terrier pup. I originally named her Mr. Squiggles because I thought it would be hilarious to have that name on a breeding tree, but others protested. Within another week or so her name became Dootle-bug.
I have so many stories of this dog lighting up my life. And pushing me to the brink of a psychotic break or two. She destroyed my kitchen cabinets. Ate half a pound of raw bacon that was left in the trash. Later, then, vomited up said half pound of raw bacon leaving small, warm, foamy easter eggs of pork surprises throughout the house. She puffed up like lumpy mashed-potatoes after her first vaccination due to an allergic reaction. She was a lap dog that would sit, back to the cushion between me and the armrest whenever we watched a movie together, and she adored Sponge Bob Square Pants. If we were playing in the back of the house and the intro theme song started playing on the TV down the hall, she would always stop, look at me, and wait. I'd say, "It's ok. go watch your show." and she would sprint down the hall, jump to the couch, and lay down facing the TV.
The last two years of her life she was with my mom several states away. A year or so after her move, she was diagnosed with bladder cancer. They estimated 6 months. 6 months later during a follow-up, the vet admitted that she didn't expect her to make it past 3 at the time, but was being optimistic. Dootle-bug stuck it out a good year and a half past the original diagnosis. I never brought her back home because I was afraid the drive would be too much for her, but I visited every two or three months during long weekends or holidays.
We talked with the vet around Christmas about surgery or other options. Originally, she was just too weak to consider it, but as time moved on she got all of her strength back and seemed much younger than her age. We did a scope of her bladder to begin reducing the size of the tumor but by this time the mass had spread considerably into the urethra, effectively blocking access to the bladder. We tried chemo as a last option and watched her closely because it tore us up to know it might make her sick. The first session was hard on us all. By the second we learned how to counter most of the side effects before they took affect. We were hopeful that if the size could go down, then her comfort level could improve.
Friday before Memorial Day weekend mom called and said that it was time. I left office that afternoon and drove as far as I could through the night. I stopped in a parking long long enough to get a 2-hour nap in before finishing the drive the next morning. I got in around 10:30AM Saturday morning to spend my last afternoon with my puppy.
I needed to shower, but that was good. Dootle always showered with me. I was able to give her a good bath, which really excited her. After drying her, we put her in a little dress---now I know, I think it's pretty ridiculous too, but she honestly enjoyed wearing stuff. I don't get it, but it is what it is. That afternoon we watched Sponge Bob the Movie (which she had received from Santa, this past Christmas) together, and she literally vibrated in excitement.
Around 3:15PM, we left for the vet. Mom drove. I held Db. she was still as physically active as she was at 8 years, but her bladder was no longer working. It was both lovely and tragic to see her wiggle her way down from our laps so that she could explore the vet's office. She was herself, physically and mentally, but we knew that within 48 hours things would become unbearable while her bladder continued to swell. Neither of us wanted her in pain. Neither of us wanted to be in pain, but we rationalized it as better our pain than hers.
And that was the choice.
I miss Db terribly. I have photos and videos of her that make me smile, and bring me to tears at the same time. Mom texted and said she received her ashes Tuesday, last week. She stopped by the vet's office on the way home from work to pick her up. Placing her remains into the passenger seat she asked, "Wanna sit in the seat? Or down in the floorboard?"
I think mom is good now. I'm just glad Db is back home.
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