Yes, My Dogs Speak English

My dogs were tagged decades ago by YD - decades ago! They took forever with their answers - plus, Wylie wanted a new photo so we had to wait for a good fur day. Quelle the drama! Also, they typed in their answers using their paws; have you ever tried to edit paw-typing? I didn't think so. Well anyway, here are their answers to the meme/tag...





















What breed are you?
Wylie: Yorkshire Terrier, obviously.

Marcel: What he said, but without the obviously.

How old are you?
Wylie: I am 4 1/2, but am going on 50. No matter what my parents tell me, I feel the world rests on my shoulders and it clearly ages me. I feel my fur is thinning and I'm wondering about fur plugs.

Marcel: I am 2, but I feel 1 & 3/4 actually.

What is your full name?
Wylie: Wylie "The Floop" Fitzsmudge

Marcel: Marcel Verdel Purcell

Do you have any nicknames?
Wylie: My main nickname is Floop. Others are: The Little, Wi-fi, Floopinator, Floopindigenous.

Marcel: The Triple Little, The Verdel, MVP, Verdellion, Punkin'.

Where do you usually sleep?
Wylie: Under the covers, curled up against my Dad.

Marcel: Under the covers, curled up against my Mom.

What is your favorite thing to do?
Wylie: Fetch, fetch, and fetch. And then also fetch. Although I do like chewing bones. And I like going for walks so I can acquire territory through various bodily functions.

Marcel: Licking nostrils. It's like a drug. Probably better than sex; though I've never had the sex. I do hump a stuffed toy though.

What is something unusual/interesting about you?
Wylie: Excuse me? Um, EVERYTHING about me is unusual and interesting.

Marcel: For only weighing 3 pounds, my manhood is simply ginormous. My Dad, Tony, always says "like father, like son". I don't know what that means.

Who is your best friend?
Wylie: I'm a daddy's boy. But I also love my Mom; I tolerate Marcel. I guess I like him sometimes but not really all that often. I'd rather he didn't know I like him sometimes.

Marcel: My Mom. But I love Dad and Wylie too.

Did you go to obedience school? If yes, were you Top Dog or did you flunk out?
Wylie: I went, I saw, I conquered. I was the smallest dog there, but I rocked the class. My graduation trick was "Touchdown!", which just totally slayed the other mutts. There was a boxer there, a total freak - and he just sat and stared at me the entire time, every class. I don't know if he wanted to kill me or just sniff my butt.

Marcel: Obedience? What is that? Never heard of the thing.

Can you do any tricks?
Wylie: Um, duh. See above answer.

Marcel: Yes! I can pee on carpet just like *that*. Nobody even has to ask me!

Any last comments?
Wylie: Well, even though I was a McCain supporter, I just want to say that I'm excited about a new dog in the big house. I strongly think Obama should consider a yorkie; I mean, we don't have fur, we have hair - therefore, we're clearly the most intelligent choice for a kid with allergies. And for those who always say yorkies are too smart for their own good? I say - jealous much?

Marcel: I don't know what Wylie ever saw in McCain. Paws down, Obama was the clear choice from the get-go. Plus, did you see him on Ellen? That dude can shake what his Mama gave him, a skill every world leader should have. I really do wonder what Presidential-nostril tastes like, sure wish I could get me some.
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As usual, I won't tag anyone - but if your pets want to answer a few questions, consider yourself dog-tagged.

Well, what are you up to for New Year's Eve? We are doing shots of Jagermeister until we pass out. That's all. Okay no - we're going out early to a neighborhood joint for sushification. Then, Tony has insisted upon Lava Cakes for dessert later. He is just SO unreasonable and demanding. Guess I'll have to jam a damn Lava Cake into my belly. Sucks being me.

CHEERS TO A JOYOUS AND PEACEFUL NEW YEAR!

Would You Bite This Face?

Okay, well, maybe a nibble - but I digress already.

I've been waging a war in my own backyard. The other morning, my furlicious love muffin, Marcel Verdel Purcell, came in from the yard in some kind of terrible distress. So, I scooped his shaking little body up into my arms - and hello - some ants crawled from his beard onto my hand. FIRE ANTS. Otherwise known as little fuckers. I'm sorry for the language, but please, in this case - it applies in no uncertain terms. A small army of these militants invaded my Marcel and were biting him! He is okay - the ants were removed, liquid benadryl given, and many kisses were doled out to his deliciousness. But let me tell you - the reason they're called fire ants? Yeah, because the bite feels like FIRE. Probably didn't need to point that out, but I'm driving it home.

But Mama Bear? OH. Mama Bear is PISSED. Normally, I don't kill insects - the creaturist in me just feels bad about it - so I bring them outside and tell them to please stay there next time, go find your own mortgage. But the fire ants? They are GOIN' DOWN, people. It'd be one thing if they had bitten me - because I'm sure I have some karma to pay. I'm sure I even have some insect-specific karma to pay - there are probably plenty of insects who want to stick it to me, and that's fine. Take the karma, just take it already.






















But Marcel? This little 3.4-pound creature who spends his days spreading joy, blasting out love, and licking nostrils? I am quite sure he has no real karma to pay - at least not in the form of these bastard fire ants. These war mongers. And nobody, and I mean nobody, messes with my dogs. Mama.Bear.Grows.Fangs.

So, I don't care what it takes - but if I have to wear a Hazmat Suit and some night vision goggles - and crawl amidst the cacti and the geckos and the spiders in my backyard: I WILL end the colonization that has taken over my backyard. And the Queen Ant of all these little bastards? I don't know where that bitch is, but I'll find her. I'm sure she's sitting on some little poof of special queen sand while her male underlings bring her food and MORE FOOD and she orders them to bite bite MORE BITE. Well I just cannot get on board with that level of gluttony and servitude - and I AM COMIN' for you, princess.

That is all.

[Update 4 hrs. later: Phew! That felt good. Now that it's off my chest: isn't he just the cutest widdle nookie wookie wub dub? Don't you just wanna get up in there and smushie wooshie cushie fooshie? Oh shut up, self.]

My Kitchen Staff: Wylie & Marcel

Some people have sous chefs. I have apres chefs - aka - after chefs, aka my staff. I figured it was time I 'fessed up to having some help in the kitchen and felt it was only fair that I shared a little about them, given all that they do here. (Can you name this movie: "What is it that you do here?")

So anyhow, given my penchant for not vacuuming - My Staff must remain on full alert when a recipe is about to unfurl. And it's not easy - I mean, these are creatures who typically sleep the entire day - so, it's difficult to imagine the wherewithal, the sheer personal domination it must take just to stay awake to fulfill their duties hoovering the kitchen floor. I venture to guess their perseverance would humble even Tom Cruise in another Scientology vs. Matt Lauer beat-down. They're that good.






















This is Wylie "The Floop" Fitzsmudge - he's 3 years old. He cannot tolerate any barriers or doors whatsoever - you may as well remove a claw one-by-one instead. When he was a puppy, we bought a typical baby gate and placed Wylie in the laundry room for the day. When we came home from work, he had chewed through the gate - plastic-coated-wire and all. So, we got that message loud and clear. Every day, he makes a scene before we go to work - hoping that today will be the day that his efforts finally prove effective. When he senses we're about to leave - he dashes out to the living room, trying to show us that "I'd prefer to stay here for the day", then, as we approach him - he rolls onto his back into the submissive position, conveying to us just how pitiful his dire situation truly is. We carry him into the master bathroom (where Marcel is already peacefully ensconced, to Wylie's eternal irritation and derision) - at which point, we gently place him on his ridiculously overstuffed pillow - at which point, OF COURSE, he begins to shake violently like an abused dog...of which he is the absolute opposite. He is a drama king - and this is just one example of many - but the extent of his separation anxiety makes my problems feel like a bath.

















Then, there is Marcel Verdel Purcell, he's 1.5 years old and weighs 3.4 pounds. At one point, the cost of Marcel's monthly grocery bill surpassed ours - and at the time - he weighed...oh...about 1.75 pounds. No, you don't need bifocals. Yes, you read that correctly. Yes, I took math in school. No, I didn't forget how to use it. Put it this way: Marcel has his own nutritionist who lives in California. Enough said? Not quite? Okay, well, after some terrible health issues from ages 5-9 months - which no vet or amount of money could solve - we desperately sought the help of an animal nutritionist. Almost immediately, through diet and supplements - our little stinker was back on track. Of course, we were cooking for him (but not, say...for US) - and hence, the very expensive diet - while Tony and I were eating cereal and frozen burritos. Fast forward, and our darling fur-babies still only eat the best -- dog food that contains raw, human-grade meat - which is often imported from New Zealand [roll eyes here]. While...we often eat processed, sub-par grub...food which I'm not always quite sure is good enough for...well...dogs? Now, that's interesting. I never said I was great at math.

Anyhow, Marcel is all easy-breezy, baby-of-the-family, totally secure about separation, accepts his place as non-alpha, very joyful and moment-to-moment. He worships Wylie, he shadows Wylie, he is constantly sniffing Wylie in all the wrong places - as if, at any moment, Wylie's odor i.d. may suddenly change. Beyond the ocd odor checking, Marcel's only real pathology is his obsession with nostrils. Simply put, there is NOT enough nostril on the planet for Marcel. If he had his way, he would spend his day in a sling, hoisted up near my face, in prime position so that he could have his tongue inside one of my nostrils every waking moment. If Marcel could shoot nostril in his vein - then we'd find Marcel living in some back alley, drugged up with nostril, selling - stealing - anything to get more nostril, in and out of rehab for nostril. We call him NOSTRILDAMUS. We don't know what to do.






















What we do know is that these two nutty ragamuffins are not only excellent apres chefs, but they are also two of the most beguiling and charming beings to have ever graced our lives. Given that, I guess we can accept that Marcel is now worth more than Governor Spitzer's 6-month call-girl bill, and I suppose we're willing to put up with Wylie's almost-daily ploys for an intervention from Dog Protection Services, and his claw artwork on nearly every door in our 3-year-old house...not to mention our new floors in the living room and master bedroom - compliments of his Picasso-esque attempts at liquid-ism. That nut.