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Posts Tagged ‘humour’

Brofurs furever.

You know what’s more aggravating than one aggravating animal? It’s two of them. They don’t even have to be the same species.



harry foot up nose



This is Harry. Otherwise known as Carraig’s Hunka Hunka Birman Love. Harry is the product of 15 years of striving to preserve and promote the very distinguished Birman cat ( the breed, not this particular example). Harry is very handsome. He is even a champion. And while he doesn’t always present himself in the best manner, he is indeed, an impressive sight. Unfortunately, he is a wee bit of catnip short of a full mouse.


roll



This of course, is Grady. And while we don’t know his origin for sure, he appears to have been the product of a breeder who didn’t care. And an owner who cared so little, they let him go blind then turned him out on the street. But to spite them all, he is a beautiful, and stunning example of his breed. Regrettably, like Harry, he is short some kibble in his bowl of mental faculties. You see where this is going, don’t you?



bros


Neither one of them has the sense God gave a turnip, and I suspect that would be insulting turnips. Whenever I see a furry kitty behind flying through the air and knocking things over, you can be sure it’s Harry. And that thumping herd of elephants following his path of destruction is Grady.

They stick together like someone velcro’d them. And if you do manage to divide and try to conquer, they’ll each give you that dewy-eyed, injured look that says “I had nothing to do with the cascade of water that is now heading for your keyboard.”


bromance with harry


Yes, they do get into trouble individually at different times but they’re each so jealous that the other is having fun, the non-involved party promptly does something bad. Thus perpetuating the non-stop cycle of mayhem.


brofurs


You wouldn’t think from looking at a picture like this, that there is anything but domestic bliss and harmony in my household. Hah! She said. I dare you to come and spend 24 hours with the pair of them. And if you are emotionally intact at the end of the day, you’ll have passed the audition for a remake of “Survivor”.

Excuse me, but my last nerve is starting to unfray. I need to go curl into a fetal ball with my thumb in my mouth while they play leapfrog over my cold, unconscious body. Please close the door carefully on the way out. It would be a cruel trick on the world to let them loose.

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As hard as it is to believe, Grady and I have been an “item” for three years as of June 17, 2015. It’s been…well, an experience. I wouldn’t classify it as a roller coaster ride. More like a train wreck on an icy plateau over a 1,000 ft. chasm.

It did make me wonder though, what else I could have been doing for the last three years.

I could have walked ruffly 30% of the way around the world.
I could have learned several new languages.
I could have become a gourmet cook/chef.
I could have knitted approximately 50 bed size afghans.
I could have written a parallel universe version of 50 Shades of Grey
I could have gone to a big university and studied psychiatry.

So why didn’t I? Well, it’s like this.

Grady would have loved the walks but I’m not sure he can swim, and seriously doubt he would be willing to fetch me out of the Dead Sea when I reached the 30%.
Grady has heard several languages out of me, with an astounding list of sub-dialects. Every time he steals my lunch, my dinner, ingredients for a dish meant for company….
Grady likes my cooking just fine. I apparently make the best cheese sandwich known to man, and my rolls are totally worth stealing. Just ask the cat that steals them for him.
Grady sheds enough hair for 100 afghans. And I can’t knit.
Grady has already supplied a better story in 50 Shades of Grady.
Grady provides enough material to confuzzle Jung, Freud and Pavlov. And he doesn’t charge an arm and a leg for tuition.

Thanks to Grady I have home schooled myself in everything from psychology to finding inner pieces (and putting them all back together to form one. Ohmmm.) It wouldn’t have been half as entertaining without a cold nose down my shirt front or stuck in my ear at Tim Horton’s.





pose 1 B

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Dear Scotts, purveyors of fine suet cakes that are being gobbled at the speed of light by flocks of mooching nuthatches, woodpeckers, chickadees and other assorted feathered friends:

I have a complaint.

red poll finches

I want to know just what is it you put in your bird food that creates more methane than a dozen herd of cows when it’s eaten by a collection of birds that would not match a cow’s hoof in size or weight. How do I know they fart? Well, I’m going to tell you. And I’m so glad you asked.

I’m sure you understand that a dog’s hearing is far superior to a human’s. Perhaps you are unaware though, that a blind dog’s hearing is…well, extraordinary. They, or Grady specifically, can hear trays of Timbits being taken out of the oven, 23 miles away. So hearing birds expel gas is child’s play to him. The hearing is not the problem. It is the barking.

Grady lays in front of the patio door, unaware of just why the cats are chirping and salivating all over his bed. He couldn’t care less, since his olfactory skills also tell him that it’s not food they are excited about. It’s the birds out on the patio, shovelling up the seed into their pointy little beaks. Grady of course, can’t see them. Out of sight, out of mind. And the barking is driving me out of mine.

It’s not like he barks at every little noise. He takes no notice at all of screaming Blue Jays, Chickadees and cats hitting the patio door (from opposite sides). Not a hair does he turn when I stub my toes on the treadmill at 4am on my way to the bathroom. But when all things are quiet, and even my pretty good hearing detects nothing that sounds like someone is using explosives to breach the door and steal our Dentastix, he goes ballistic. This of course sets off Stage 2 ballistics from Brandy, who possibly can’t hear birds breaking wind, but if Grady barks, by doG, she’ll bark until he stops. And then bark some more to make sure the birds know that they better stop that right now. The suddenness of said barking scares the living crap out of me.

Since Grady is usually right by the Seed Smorgasbord out on the deck, it has to be the birds. I would posit that it was the cracking of sunflower seed shells, but it happens when the only thing being consumed is bits of fruit or microscopic seeds. And given the speed at which these little feathered fiends ingest said material, they have got to have gas.

I would appreciate it if you could start coating your products in Gas-X or some other animal friendly fart-reducing substance. My nerves can’t stand much more.




cold canadian dogs



The bark brigade, defending hearth and home from farting feathered friends.

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(With apologies to Clement Clark Moore)

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house,
Snoring was heard from each eggnog souse.
The stockings were hung on nails way up high,
Far above furballs who think they can fly.

The cats had all snuggled down in my bed,
Where visions of ornaments danced in their heads.
Left with six inches of mattress, onto it I leap,
With the mistaken idea that I was going to sleep.

leandro under the tree

Ten seconds later a bellowing moose
Caused a scattering of cats as all Hell broke loose.
I dashed for the door, being somewhat bold,
Tripped over Grady and knocked myself cold.

It was like a convention, out there on the lawn,
Three rabbits, a racoon, two does and a fawn.
The volume of laughing, rose and then sunk
Santa and crew had run over the skunk.

Things had got ugly, and Santa he swore,
This would be his last trip to our house, he’d come back no more.
The wee creatures’ eyes grew with each new term they heard ,
Rudolph was texting his union steward.

The reindeer argued and pointed at Vixen,
Who blushed and admitted she was pregnant by Blitzen.
Santa snarled at the team and up they all flew
I think it might have been the threat of a stew.

With a mighty leap, through the sky they were rushing,
To toots that showed someone’s intestines need flushing.
The sled and the toys, and the fat gentleman too,
Arrived on the roof to applause from the zoo.

The cats were all clamoring, anticipating some nip,
As I limped back inside, thinking of a new hip.
“Wait just a minute!” Santa growled an aside,
“Who put the damn chimney on the outside?”

He slid down the bricks, filling the night,
With an odeur that said he might have worn black and white.
The aroma followed him in through the door,
Where he didn’t see the hairball on the floor.

He flew into the air, his feet kicking and wiggling,
I’d type what he said if I could only stop giggling.
His acrobatics were surely the high point of the day,
And seldom seen outside Cirque du Soleil.

He rose with a groan and dragged open the sack,
With a mutter about how he’d never come back.
Stockings were stuffed, and he was this close to done,
When Grady barrelled into him at a full run.

waiting for Santa

To say he went ass over tea kettle would be quite understated,
And the words that he said were certainly X-rated.
He was giving the poor dog an angry ‘what-for’
As Grady slid between his legs and began to explore.

Santa’s armpits were empty, his bellybutton likewise,
Ditto his ears, his butt and his thighs.
Up one down the other side of Santa he races,
Grady was looking for food in all the wrong places.

“Let me out of here!” Santa screamed, out the door in good time,
He whipped up the reindeer who turned on a dime.
And we heard him exclaim as he flew towards Dover,
“You’ll see me back here when this damn place freezes over!”

tree 2

On behalf of Grady, I would like to wish our wonderful friends and followers, a Merry Christmas, and a joyous New Year, and share with you some exciting news. Grady’s blog has been nominated in two categories of the Dog Writer’s Association Awards, one for dog blog, and one in the humour category, for the article “Revenge is Sweet”. No matter the outcome, we are honoured by the nominations and grateful to the two rescues without whom there would be no Grady and no blog. God Bless us all, every one.

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Grady has discovered the fountain of youth. Which is really a Pioneer pet fountain. Big Max, to be exact.

How do I know this, you ask. Because Grady went to the vet last week. The vet, being a man of wisdom and not inconsiderable experience, looked at the white creeping up over the doggy noggin and said “How old is he now?” Well, we don’t know for sure because when the unknown scum tossed him out on the streets to starve, there was no note attached. You know, “This is my baby, I can’t keep him anymore. He’s 10 years old and will eat anything.” All Grady had when he was taken in by Animal Control, was a matted coat, ribs sticking out, and eyes that could no longer see. It was *thought* he might be ten. And that being two years ago, my superior math skills tell me that he *might* now be twelve. And might not. Ten at least, that’s what we settled on.

Grady was there because his right eye, still beautiful even without sight, has become more opaque of late. He also has cataracts, so it behooves Mama to keep a close eye on changes like this. The vet agreed. Then he tried to examine Grady. And that’s where it started.

On the first attempt, Grady dove under the vet’s arm and pretty much down the front of his V-neck surgical top. After we extracted and lectured him, he sat back calmly with that alert, “I’m on board with you” expression which can only mean disaster. Let’s just say the vet got a real good look in his ear, and could verify that no, Grady no longer had any testicles.

I’ve never played Twister with a dog before. It’s rather like doing yoga with an octopus hyped up on speed. Only I was never quite sure whether on the next WWF move, I would end up face to face with Grady or lying on the floor being told to “sit, stay!”

As the examination progressed, the vet’s assessment of Grady’s age started to drop. After Round 1, he posited that for an old dog, he was in pretty darn good shape. He didn’t have enough breath for any more comments until after Round 4 when I heard him mutter that he’d known young dogs that weren’t that flexible. By the time we were on the home stretch, he announced that ten week old puppies weren’t that lively. The muffled giggles and snorts coming from the other side of the examining room door where his wife sat at the desk went unremarked.

We left with the good news that there is nothing seriously wrong with his eye. And also that the vet could get an early appointment with his chiropractor.

I don't always

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naptime


We have been honoured by two of our blogging community friends, with the Leibster Award from Dog Tails Blog and The Sunshine Award from Sheba’s Life Story. Grady was so excited he climbed up a snowbank and fell down while having a pee, resulting in writing his name in what appears to be Greek letters.

Both awards ask that we pass on the love to other blogs, and respond to ten questions. Well, we thought you would get pretty bored reading all that stuff about Grady’s staff, so we’ve combined the two lists and tweaked some, and we hope that our nominees will answer them too, or create some fun facts of their own that tells others about their blogs.

Here are Grady’s responses:

What do you feel dogs never get credit for?
Our role in the things that have benefitted mankind. Take penicillin for instance. That bread never would have molded if they hadn’t been trying to hide it from the dog, and put it under the sink where the tap leaked.

What is your favourite quote?
Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read. – Groucho Marx

Write a short poem using the words catastrophe and bread
The Rottweiler was a big oaf, see
In the bread throwing contest a loaf he
Did finally send
Way around the far bend
For which he won a Cat Ass Trophy.

What would be the name of your much anticipated autobiography?
50 Shades of Grady

What was your first toy?
A cat named “Precious”. She was delicious, but I had to spit her out.

If you could have chosen your own name, what would it be?
Sir Oliver Lawrence David Farquahr-Addington, Royal Taster. Or Sir OLD FART.

What is the most important thing about you that people need to know?
I may be blind, but sight is the only thing I don’t have. I’m smart, funny, handsome, adorable, and lots of other good things. Okay, well maybe I don’t have any manners. Or idea of obedience.

What is your pet peeve?
That food is kept in cupboards. And bins. And cans that can’t be chewed open.

What is your greatest skill?
Stealing food. I’m like a kleptoanythingediblemaniac.

If you weren’t a dog, what would you want to be?
A Tim Horton’s doughnut delivery truck. Then I’d always be full of Timbits.

We pass these honours along to the following blogs who we love for the unique style and content:

And Foster Makes Five

The Adventures of Misaki

The Chronicles of Wallace and Samuel

The Blessing of Animal Companions

Wayward Dogs

Growl Tiger & Company

Adventures of a Dog Mom

Mollie and Alfie

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Out of the nightmare of yesterday’s storm comes Grady’s “cover” of the hit song “Let It Go” from the movie, “Frozen”. Sorry, there is no audio but he is looking for a producer to let him record it. For those not familiar with the tune, we include a link below that you can bring up beside the lyrics.


pee 1


The snow glows white in the yard tonight, waiting for my hello
Pristine clean across the yard, not a single drop of yellow
I tried howling, like the swirling storm outside,
Can’t hold it in, doG knows I tried.
I’ve crossed my legs both front and back
I think my vision’s going black
For rhymes, sometimes I think I’m cursedddddd
My bladder is going to bursttttttt

Let it go, let it go
That’s just the way it is
Let it go, let it go
When a dog has got to whiz
I don’t care what leash you use
Let the stream flow on
Or next time it’ll be your leather shoes

It’s funny how some people
Think dogs can hold it half the night
Until you get in front of them and block the tv’s light
I tried barking that was a loss
Time to show them who is the boss
No wait, let’s go, I’m breaking free
I have got to peeeeeeeee

Let it go, let it go
Take a swan dive off the front stoop
Let it go, let it go,
I also have to poop
Here I sniff and here I’ll squat
The relief is great….

They’re higher beings but I hold the upper paw
When I need to go she gets up because that’s Grady’s law
She hurries to get back inside, but that’s not my goal
To annoy the hell out of her, I just stop and roll

Let it go, let it go,
A guy’s got to empty his tank
Let it go, let it go,
Write my name on a snowbank
Here I stand, all night and day

While she swears on and on
But that never bothered me anyway.





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