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Posted by Mummy Dearest on Sep-16-2014

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The Scent Of A Woman

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Mar-7-2011

So, we have these two , really big male dogs. One is an elderly Newf  ( do not let that sleepy face fool you- he is ready to kill in a minute… this is Elvis) and one is a 2 year old Pyr. Destin. Cute name for a Pyr. Sortof.

A Pyr is a Sheppard, ( some one tell me how to spell this..). Desty has started patrolling the house.  He prefers outside, but he does make his rounds inside. He watches that broken gate with an eagle eye.

Destin is really big. Not fat or fluffy, he is very tall and slim. I have worked on his weight since he entered Casa Kitchen… fat is bad for puppy that is going to zoom up to Neptune. Bad for his joints. I really do have to measure him one day …the road to hell and all.. I think I have to do this from the tip of his shoulders to, well, the floor. But everyone says, my, what a big dog. His sister is a European Champ, she and Desty look like clones, but Desty will never cut the grade. I think. And I no longer care.

Destin is much larger than Elvis right now, although Elvis is invulnerable, because of his thick coat of fur.  And we are getting the Alpha male shit.

Let me back pedal a bit …So, we have these two , really big male dogs.  And they have never had their balls sliced off. I could say neutered, but we are saying the same thing, just different words.

We have dog testosterone flying around here…

I am always at home with Elvis and Destin.  I like them in the kitchen. Comfy. Stinky, but comfy. But when they start the Alpha Male shit, it can be frightening.  I once got caught in the middle of this dog fight, and I was screaming for help. Really. No one heard heard me.

And then I remembered Destin´s Achilles´s heal … he is terrified of water. Squirt gun. It no longer has water in it, but the sight of that squirt gun stops all fights, be a good boy, Destin.

Destin is a very strange dog , he knows that I am sick. This bothers him. A lot. He is whining and licking me all of the time.

And both dogs know that I am a woman.

I suppose that I should be flattered, in some sort of way, after all, I am 53 years old.  But having these dogs licking the chair that I sit upon, the tiles beneath it and running after my crotch, non stop pisses me off. I cannot fill the water bowl without getting these two noses assaulting me.

I am still sick. I am cranky.  I need a nap. I should eat something…

Wanted : Elvis

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Dec-7-2010

Of course I was alone when the *dog cop* came. He might have been a normal cop, I have no idea. But he certainly knew what was going on.

And he did know a lot about dogs. I would, during our conversation, stuff my foot all of the way down my throat.

His major concern seemed to be whether or not we had insurance for this. We do, but, I told him, even if we did not, this is our responsibility. I told him about that cold morning, the lock freezing, how dark it was, The Boy running out with only socks on. I said that I knew that what happened to that family is more than hideous, but we were also stunned, that morning. And they have two kids, it is the holiday season, how horrible.

He seemed to understand dogs, and so I said, it was Elvis. He is a Newf, this is not a Rottweiler. Guess what kind of dogs this man  has ? I really had to get that foot out of my mouth. But he understood. After a time. He was going to give us a ticket, a fine, but even he and the owners of the poor, wee victim, realize that this was a bad configuration of the stars. This was an accident.

That is all that there is to it.

I told him that I was afraid that Elvis would get * the shot*. He said, no, at the most, if it happened again, Elvis would have to wear a muzzle. This works for me.

And he understood me when I told him that Elvis has zero tolerance for lapdogs barking in his face. Does not excuse what has happened, it is one of those things one has to learn to deal with when you have the biggest dogs in town.

A Day From Hell

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Dec-1-2010

I awoke at , oh, officially, 6.10 this morning. I knew that the Father had headed towards his couch at about 4am, he is now having troubles with his shoulder.

So, I mosey down into the kitchen and there are the dogs. I rather assumed that they had been there since 4am, for the only thing out of focus was the quilt on the couch. It was now on the floor.  They were jumping up and down and so I let them onto the porch, yes, get a drink of water.

Apparently, they spent the whole evening inside. Good, it is wicked cold here, and they were good boys. I worry the most about Destin, the Pyr, for he simply does not have the heavy coat that Elvis ( the newf) has.

It is pitch black outside. I let the dogs in and out, The Father leaves at about 7.30, it is still dark. The dogs are in and out.

At about 20 to 8, Destin wanted to go outside. Fine, get some water. 10 Minutes later, Elvis is huffing and panting next to me and I say, go outside, cool off, get a drink of water.

The Boy comes down at 8, I am walking back and forth in the kitchen, there is now light outside. And I can see that the gate to our yard is w.i.d.e. open. The gate to the porch is w.i.d.e. open and the dogs are gone.

The Dogs are gone ! I scream in my mild mannered way. The Boy ran out of the house without shoes, wearing only socks. He called me a few minutes later, he was coming home to get his bike. I got his gloves and the leashes ready for him.  He was very, very distraught. He put on some shoes and found the dogs.

If one puts one and one together, one knows that *the great escape* was Elvie’s idea. Destin was outside 10 minutes earlier and the dogs were found together. Elvis attacked a little yapper.  There is a police report now on Elvis. He did a lot of damage to this little dog. I feel horrible about this. The Boy, bright red face, tear stained, gave the people our number.

I have no idea how this will work out. If I were the police, I would give Elvis the shot. But it is the weather. It froze the lock on the gate, so that it would not close. And it was dark, I could not see that it was open. And Elvis, our doormat…

And then The Girl calls me : she had * an anxiety attack* on the bus to school. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. So, I am like saying, fine, come home. She is on some highway to nowhere. Ok, fine, Daddy cannot help you now, call Opa. The Boyfriend brought her home.

I solved The Girl’s problem, but I certainly do not look forward to the police coming here.  What can I say to them ? It was dark and I did not know that the lock had frozen ?

Jeepers creepers.

Dogs In Town

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Oct-11-2010

There is a leash law in our town.  There are a lot of very small dogs in our town and, oh, about ten big dogs, of which our family has two of, a Newfoundland Dog and a Great Pyrenese  Dog. We are talking about around 400 pounds of dog, between the two.

Now, think about this : I have children , would I have T-Rex Dogs in our happy home ? No. These are very gentle dogs ( look up the character of a Newf), but they are both ready and willing to die to protect anyone in our family. Even Elvis, the Newf, which really surprised me.

The Father did not close the gate to our garden well today. I was making Baby’s lunch ( hot dogs, kill me) and the dogs began making the most hideous noises.

I am going to swear.. there was a f*cking dog in our yard. It was a King Charles Spaniel, I know where that beast lives, for I have dragged him home once, but he was in our yard. If we did not have a gate to our porch, he would be sausage right now. And my dogs would be blamed for this tragedy.

Our dogs are so very torked up right now that it is unbelievable. There was a f*cking intruder in our territory. They are barking left and right.

You know, if you have a big dog, you hit a wall. If you were making your daughter lunch and found a 200 pound dog in your yard, you would call the police.  But, oh, Kareltje, oh, what a sweet f*cking dog ! ( He is a sweet dog, but that is not the point: there is a leash law and he was in our garden, and I have to protect any animal who enters our garden).

My dogs. They are sweet, they are gentle, but if you cause any shit, they are able to kill you. Think of the pack mentality: they protect their own. They only cause shit if they feel that any of their pack is threatened.

Bob The Builder

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Aug-26-2010

I rather dislike it when the working class members of our happy home return in utterly foul moods.

The Boy helped me with the shopping today and, I know, it was only supposed to be Burritos ( notice that past tense ?), but we put together a fine group of *stuff* to put in a wrap. Great cheese, fine vegetables, and perfect – in fact lovely- beef.

In fact, the beef was so lovely that when I heard that dinner could be delayed for up to 2 hours, I said, oh, no way, Jose, and put my lovely beef into the fridge, my yellow peppers…you get the idea. This meat deserves to be seared and eaten, not to sit there until it turns into shoe leather.

When the first working class hero returned home ( have I mentioned that it is POURING rain ?), I was asked why I had not dumped that bouquet of flowers. Well, I did not say, yesterday, you told me not to. Wait for the lilies to bloom, you said, hey, I did not say, you dump them, now ! Then, after 15 minutes , I was asked ( it is still really pouring here..) why I had not mentioned that letter, tossed on the table, underneath all of the other mail. Well, I did not say, you seemed to have found it right quickly, did you not , tossed and all ?

So we are having this major rain problem. Dinner is take out- thank you, Boy. I am looking out of the kitchen door, into the yard, and there is this stream, this river, of water heading right. for. the .door. It is rising, it brings back memories of that flood we had once in the kitchen, at least 6 inches deep.

I am watching this. I have towels ( shoot me, I should have sand bags prepared, I know…) ready.

Now, we have two very large dogs, and one of them, The Pyr, has a water phobia. So the porch is flooding and Destin is going crazy : water ! I let them into the kitchen.

Two wet dogs, each the size of Godzilla, reek. I put on the massive exhaust things over the stove , and Destin prances around like a young colt ( and about the same size as one..) trying to dry off his feet. He really loathes water. He is terribly upset.

I just keep watching water levels on the porch.

I actually hoped to take a bath tonight. Suppose I could have just gone on the porch, if one thinks about it, but I was watching the water level, waiting until the rain calmed down enough so that I could feed the dogs ( Elvis outside, Destin inside and never the twain shall meet…).

The next working class hero returns, and I hear about the stench in the kitchen. While I explain my concerns about the water level on the porch, I am asked if I have gone up to the attic and checked the drain pipes ( whatever they are called ) between the two attics. No, I say, but both girls are upstairs, I guess that if they were flooding into the house, they would let me know. And, I said, that other gutter, on the front of the house is working…

And if one really thinks about it, what am I supposed to do if those gutters- way up high- are stuffed ? Put on mountain climbing gear and solve it ? Climb a 40 foot ladder ?

Do I look like stinkin’  Bob The Builder ? Yes I can ?

I did not get a bath and I doubt that I will get a dinner, and I don’t really care, for if you have to nag about it, it does not count.

But the dikes held here, and I am going to watch an episode of *The Sopranos* with The Boy.

Don’t say it. I know.

Holland- Brazil 2-1

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Jul-2-2010

I watched the game with Destie, also known as *Jaws*, in the front room, the coolest room in the house. Elvis could have come as well, but he preferred the kitchen. We have to keep the dogs inside right now, it is so warm and so humid.

But Holland won. I never expected this. Against Brazil. My favorite player is Kuijt.

Always look at the bright side of life. De dum, de dum …..

Muttering II

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Apr-21-2010

I am used to being alone. I am usually in the kitchen … we have a really big kitchen, we are talking 70 square meters. I kid you not. I am there with the dogs, the bird and the fish. I talk, out loud, all of the time. Maybe I am talking to the dogs, who knows. But it is driving the men in this family crazy. It is one of those things that once you notice it, it grates on your nerves. Like people who chew pudding.

I can´t stop this. I am inundated by words. I have trouble falling asleep, because words are flying through my head. I found a little trick that is working for me, I do math. I think about numbers. How old will Alice be in 2070. This is not dissimilar to counting sheep. But that is really boring, you are just going 1, 2, 3, 4. And they all look alike. If a car goes x kms an hour, how long will it take to get there.

This will put you to sleep.

There is Puccini playing in my kitchen. A little bit of Puccini goes long way. I want to listen to the BBC. I will not smother him, I promise. I am going to do the laundry and start washing dishes. We are almost out of clean dishes.

Make My Day

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Apr-18-2010

I went downstairs to feed the dogs. I filled the bowls, Destin inside, Elvis outside.I dished up my Laughing Cow, yum yum, and I am sitting at the kitchen table, about to chomp in, when I hear that volcanic grumbling of a large dog growling.

It is Destin. He always eats in the kitchen, Elvis on the porch. I supervise, I know when they are done and can be reunited. Destin is looking through the glass door separating them and growling in a major way. I tell Destin to cut the shit. They have to eat apart and we cannot change places : it does not work. They are not allowed to eat from each other’s bowls. We still have to watch Destin’s weight, porky at his age is not good for his joints. He is doing good, he looks good.

But he is really growling away, when I want to eat myself. I am Clint, speaking without unclenching my teeth. I get a plastic soda bottle and show it to Destin and say, this is a good dinner. Eat it. Be pleasant. Cut the shit. He lays down and eats from there.

It worked. He is a nice dog. He ate his dinner, drooled all over me ( what a pretty boy you are ! He really is)- he really drools a lot : today Baby and I were amazed at the stalagmite ( or is it a stalactite ?) that he left on my edge of the kitchen table. 6 inches, I kid you not. Could you please get me a paper towel ?

I am going to take a bath. I stink. Most of the chores are done, whatever is not, will still be there tomorrow.

Murder Bird

Posted by Mummy Dearest on Apr-12-2010

The Children and I have almost become Mitfordesque with our tendency to give our pets nicknames. Note that only The Father and The Girl actually have a family nickname, this is not a widespread occurrence. And my lips are sealed, must have those *family secrets*.

We have Elvis, The Newf, also known as *The Doormat*. The only time that this dog moves is when he is invited to go to the Front room and he really hustles along. The men in this family are convinced that Elvis is their good luck charm when Ajax is playing football. Hey, it works for them. One never knows, Elvis could be helping Ajax. Our doormat.

We have Destin, the Pyr, also known as Jaws, never met a piece of paper or plastic that he did not like. On the weekends, I stay in bed until someone else is up first, for I simply do not want to see the latest havoc that he has wrought.

We have Psycho Fish. Maybe 5 years ago, the Dutch Grandparents gave The Boy and The Girl each two Goldfish, in little round bowls. This had something to do with good report cards. Did you know that a goldfish can live to be 25 years old ? Do not ever give someone else’s child a goldfish as a present.

I became very weary of cleaning out these fishbowls, and so we bought a tank for the goldfish. Within a few days, Psycho Fish had killed the other three fish. I have actually spoken to people in the know about Psycho Fish. Yes, this is your basic Ted Bundy of the goldfish world. I put Psycho Fish in a bigger tank, put it in The Baby’s room and re-baptized that fool fish Rapunzel. I am trying here. But in the end, we have Psycho Fish, who could live for 20 more years.

Last Summer, The Girl came to me, squealing with delight : look ! The Boyfriend had given her a baby sparrow ! ( His dog found this beast). She was thrilled. This bird was in a tiny little cage and she took it up to her room. The next morning, she planted the bird and cage on my desk and said, you deal with this, this bird never shuts up.

I dealt with the bird. We had a voliere in the shed, from our days with Max, and we set that up in the kitchen. I hand fed that sparrow. It had some cutsie name, but along the lines of once having a cat named Kitty, we ended up calling the bird *Birdie*. Birdie and I got along pretty well. I was told that Birdie is a male sparrow. Birdie had no stamina, I let that bird fly around the kitchen a few times, and knew that we were talking a cat snack here.

And Birdie never shuts up. At times, it is interesting. If The Father is playing Puccini, one can hear that the bird is trying to sing along. It is that way with all of the music played in this house, that bird tries to join in. But it can grate upon one’s nerves after a while. Especially at 6.30 in the morning.

I used to think that I knew why the caged bird sings. It is Spring, and Birdie wants a Dirty Woman. He has become so vicious. I want to take him to some bird sanctuary, so he can cross that river and be free, but everyone is against this. I give him a few peanuts every night, in his little bun, and he nearly pecks my hand into bleeding. This bird hates me, and he is the biggest pig in the house. He is Rambo, he is Murder Bird.

I doubt that I shall ever have another beast in this house.