You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘dogs’ tag.
Today, at lunchtime, my coworkers and I attempted to hit up the Casbah for some chocolate-chip-banana-bread-French-toast, cos I’ve been raving about it for a century. Unfortunately, the place was closed, and so we decided to head to Velma’s Traditional Newfoundland food (where I devoured a plate of gravy, fries, and a turkey sandwich, and then punished myself by walking around Signal Hill for two hours).
Anyway, so we passed a sidewalk sale at Johnny Ruth where all the dresses were on sale for $50. JR is shamelessly expensive; I poked around in there the other day but couldn’t find anything for under $200. If I’m going to buy any piece of clothing for $200 or more, it better damned well be able to do my taxes and tuck me into my bed at night.
So then I found my red dress, THE red dress, the RED dresses of all RED dresses…exactly what I was looking for to wear to Spirit Fest and my cousin’s wedding… eye-catching, slightly provocative, and classy. The kind of dress that says come hither all you sexy, single men…and buy me a drink.
It was $150 originally. Go me.
I’m in the puppy market again, and this time I’m determined. I’ve narrowed my search down to either an Alaskan Malamute or a Bernese Mountain Dog. The Malamute is my all-time dream dog and I’ve been dying to own one since I was a young lass. Unfortunately, there are no breeders within the province, and I can’t find a pup for under $1500. They’re also notoriously intelligent and mischievous, thus posing potential problems for someone like me who isn’t overly familiar with the breed.
Don't you want to just EAT IT?
The Bernese is more up my ally… plus I know a friend of a friend whose family breeds the dogs, and so far they’ve proven to be exceptionally professional and friendly.
Can I have BOTH?!
All I know is that I have PUPPY FEVER, which is better than BABY FEVER I am sure. Pretty soon I will be hosting a Birthday party for my new pup, and maybe a Baptism. Maybe I will start an exclusive club. Maybe I will go to a dog bakery and get the dog a dog cake. BUT, if I ever want to get laid again… I won’t.
Discovered an amazing new pub last night, The Duke of Duckworth. Not new, exactly, but recently uninhabited by me and therefore not worthy of existence. And holy jaysus is Kerouac pretentious or what?
This upcoming weekend I am participating in Memorial University’s Relay For Life fundraiser. Myself and nine others (some of whom are strangers) have joined forces to form one kick-ass Cancer hatin’ team: All Night For The Fight. Basically we camp out in the Fieldhouse and pull an all-nighter while at least one member of the team is circling the track at all times. So far I’ve raised $30. I’m awesome.
But you know what this means… a weekend sans alcohol. Frig. What will I do? Something productive? Maybe I’ll sit around in my underwear and scratch myself.
I think I have tested my immune system’s limit by drinking myself into oblivion, sleeping 10 hours in two days, and working/socializing around the clock. I forced myself to the gym after work today because y’know my new motto… exercise even if it kills ye. Flabby thighs and dimpled ass cheeks simply will not be tolerated in the Maya Rivieria.
But now I feel a familiar closing sensation on my throat and my stomach is gurgling adorably and for some reason I’ve had this insatiable hunger ALL DAY. Like I just ate two pieces of ice-cream cake and a big chunk of homemade bread dripping in butter and I am RAVENOUS. I want to eat my NIGHTSTAND but it belongs to Beer. I cannot afford to be sick right now amidst this crisis that is occurring at work.
New dog: Bailey the golden lab. He’s fat and lovable (but not with me). He whined all night when I was alone with him. I fed him and gave him water and tried to play with him and took him out for a walk…all to no avail. As soon as JagerBomb comes home, he goes all psycho-dog happy. Fuck even man’s best friend wants nothing to do with me, no wonder the opposite sex is repulsed.
My incredibly sweet and possibly delusional cousin, D-Man, gave me the nicest compliment I’ve had in weeks. Months. Years. We were discussing what he could do on a first date with a dame, and I suggested the movies, but then pointed out I’m not exactly experienced in the field. He said, “I don’t understand why not, you’re amazing. Guys must be intimidated.” Well obviously that’s the reason, not because of cellulite or the fact that guys are idiots.
I bought tickets to Cirque du Soleil’s Allegria show in June. So. Freakin’. Happy. Also, I get to pick out new eyeglasses tonight. I’m thinking I’ll pick out some Guess or Gucci glasses. Yeah. Perhaps the label will draw attention away from my face.
I have a terrible headache from a coastguard ship’s horn honking for about ten minutes straight. It was outrageously loud, the kind of “WOOONNNNKKKKKKKKKK” that makes your ears bleed.
Co-worker #1: “Someone’s boat alarm is going off. Someone’s trying to steal that boat.”
Co-Worker #2: “Is this the noise that was heard before the Halifax Harbour blew up?”
Pay-day. Pay-day oh joy oh bliss I get to face my bills all over again. Repeat cycle every two weeks. I count the passage of time by receiving cheques.
Meet Frank. Today Frank is getting his balls chopped off. That's how the neuturing procedure happens, right?
Our new foster doggy turned out to be a large husky-mix originally named “Sonny,” but we changed his name to “Frank.” He totally looks like a Frank. He’s a horny bastard that smells funny and constantly licks his schlong. My kinda guy.
He’s a little intimidating, but once he gets neutered perhaps he will relax. He’s obviously a badass from the streets. He does know basic commands though, like “sit.” Bailey is doing fine in her new home, apparently. The owners even bought her cute little pink sweaters, aww.
As I entered the kitchen this morning, I was greeted by the sight of blood… a little trail of it. My immediate thought was “Oh no, Bailey’s hurt!” (Bailey’s our foster dog.) But there she was, sitting in her little bed, wagging her tail all cutesy-wutesy and her brown eyes all wide and innocent.
Then I spied a bag in the centre of the kitchen. I picked it up to find an extremely large puddle of blood underneath it, and the bag filled with thawed meat. My body went into convulsions as I struggled to keep down the remnants of the previous night’s lasagne.
I soaked most of it up with paper towels, but since my mornings are perfectly allotted for time (ten minutes for make-up, ten for breakfast, ten for hair, 3 for making up bed, etc.), I covered the blood and left the rest of it for someone else.
When Jagerbomb woke up, I told her what happened and we tried to figure out the mystery. Then, as I was straightening my hair, I heard a loud curse from downstairs.
“WHY IS THERE MEAT IN THE LIVING ROOM MOTHER$#CKING BALLS!”
Once again, we found a bag with a steak in it, smack dab in the middle of the living room. Then, to our horror, we noticed another steak, all red and juicy with dog hair clinging to it, curled up in the corner of the couch like it just moved in and decided to take over. MY couch. My only GOOD couch.
It was like walking into an Alfred Hitchcock movie.
The problem is we don’t know who to blame. Was it:
A) Bailey the foster dog, opening the freezer and extracting her favourite meat? But if so, why was the meat uneaten?
B) Bailey the foster dog, snatching the meat from atop the counter where someone had left it to thaw? But who really thaws out a large bag of meat and another one filled with two steaks?
C) Someone with an unholy grudge against the members of my household? Perhaps the tenants downstairs who have already called the police on us before, and figure this is a more interesting way of getting revenge on our noisy behaviour?
The world may never know, but our house smells like a butcher’s shop.
