Archive for October, 2013

As pretty much everyone under, oh…90 knows, One Direction is a pop boy group, with five members. But who needs imports when I have my own one direction phenomenon right here at home, and boy, would I like to pop him one!

For a blind dog, Grady has amazing abilities to locate things. Like turkey stuffing. Or his favourite ball. No doubt his hearing skills have been honed by his disability and his sniffing prowess increased when he was abandoned on the streets and had to find his own food.
But his ability to understand directions is roughly on a par with a turnip. And a stubborn one at that.

Okay, I take that back. It’s not so much he can’t understand, because I expect he does. All too well. It’s his unwillingness to comply that is so….annoying. He basically follows one direction: his own.

A snarl of “Move!” which would send the cats streaking across the room might at best make him turn his head to see if perhaps I said “Moo” and was about to take a roast out of the oven. “Off!” he apparently interprets as a request to lavish even more love on visitors because gosh, their laps are empty and just calling his name. So you can understand why I attribute tonight’s little incident to Grady’s twisted sense of humour.

Grady has been taught when we come back in the house that he will “Turn!” and “Sit!” Well…yes, he turned. So that he faced away from me. Then he sat down while I called him several names and questioned his parentage and the legality of their union. Upon which he would tilt his head up, look over his shoulder, and laugh. I know he was. His tongue was stuck out.

He did, albeit begrudgingly, turn and face the *right* direction after I suggested that Dentastix and other treats might soon be in short supply. Then unleashed, he dashed up the stairs and threw himself on the couch for an ecstatic rolling session. I didn’t even bother with “Down!”

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Thanks for nothing, Grady.

Do you know what this is? It is a bowl. Moreover it is the bowl in which I *always* make my holiday turkey stuffing.


Do you see any stuffing? No. Why is that, one might wonder. Because on Friday, Grady ate almost an entire loaf of gently aged bread, torn into little shreds the way my father always did it.

close face
Who me?

I had too much in my hands to carry downstairs to the laundry room where it might be safe from thieving animals, but I forgot it. And while stowing away everything else I heard the tiniest disturbance upstairs. I dashed up the stairs as fast as one natural and one artificial knee will take you, to find the bowl on the floor, and my stuffing, nowhere to be seen.

I hear some of you worrying. Did it make him sick? Not a bit. Even though he had a large drink of water afterwards. I took away the fountain for several hours, during which Grady lay on the floor in a food coma. He didn’t even get up when I got Brandy food for supper, which he had already had. Along with his other meals for the next week.

As a consequence of this unspeakable act, I had to go to the store and buy another loaf of dog food.

Today we dined on this.


Grady did not.

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The War of the Noses

In English history one of the great battles for power lasted for over a hundred years, with two great houses fighting for the right to sit upon the throne. In my house, it just seems like the fight has lasted that long, because Brandy has only been here four months. And they’re not exactly fighting, nor is their goal a throne. It’s me. And their noses are in a permanent state of out-of-jointness.

Apparently I must not be allowed to pet, kiss, fondle, feed, sneeze or even look at the other one, without the second being present. Preferably under my feet, or with their nose up my butt. Okay, so that is only Grady. Brandy’s nose is in my shoe.

There is no galloping down the field of honour in armour, pennants waving. It’s more of a charge down the stairs and fall over yourself because she might be taking the other one outside, and no doubt they are getting all kinds of gourmet treats and goodies.

I am not allowed to go down the stairs alone, they must both come. And even though I hitch up one to a leash and tell the other to go upstairs (which they do), they come right back down the second the door opens. And until we return, there is either a large golden behind pressing against the door, or a black nose making periodic appearances above the bottom of the door as Brandy tries to see what he’s getting that she isn’t.

Thus goeth my days. Even in my office chair, I have Brandy under my feet and Grady’s nose in my armpit. He apparently finds Lady Schick Baby Powder formula deodorant, very heady. In the kitchen it’s a nose above the countertop with one eye on my lunch and the other on me, which is quite a trick for a blind dog, I can tell you. Brandy stares at my ankle, but she’s sure Grady is going to get the lunch. And I thought I was getting claustrophobic because the cats won’t let me go to the bathroom alone.


See? All I had to do was *think* about getting up out of my chair and they’re already on the move. I’m beginning to wonder if I have a tracking device in my clothes. Next time I want to take them out, I’ll strip first. I figure that way they won’t want to be seen with me.

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