Showing posts with label Pets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pets. Show all posts

Thursday 19 February 2015

He Called Her Cookie

For such a long time he had wanted a dog. Not a cat. Not a rabbit. Certainly not a guinea pig. It had to be a dog. And not just any dog.

"I want a golden retriever!" Mr 10 begged with imploring eyes.

A majestic golden retriever, with a glossy coat, melting, mischievous brown eyes and boundless energy. They could play and lollop and frolic and have so much fun! Mr 10's eyes shone with such grand visions.

But there would be poop, I reminded him. LOTS of poop.

"I'll clean it up!" he insisted. 


Mickey Blue Eyes and I looked at each other, nonplussed. We were slowly warming to the idea of a dog. Mr 10 had his heart set on it. But we weren't convinced about a golden retriever.

I'm not really a fan of gigantic horse-like dogs. Or tiny little over grown rat-like yappers. But I do like some dogs.

Wise, warm-hearted dogs who are fiercely loyal and full of character. Like Samantha, the sausage dog we had when I was a child. She was like a human trapped in the body of a bandy-legged, rotund dachshund. She was amazing. I wanted Mr 10 to have a dog like that. A furry best friend.

We scanned the Internet looking for just the perfect pooch. There were many tears of frustration from Mr 10 who wanted it all to happen NOW. The idea of being able to save a dog from death row at the pound appealed to Mick and I.

Accordingly, we set off one afternoon to check out the possibilities. Upon entering the pound we were greeting by a cacophony of raucous barking. Menacing mutts the size of Mexico roared their indignation at being behind bars.

Mr 10 and 6 promptly burst into tears. Meanwhile, Mr 13 had wisely waited in the car. He wasn't as keen on the dog idea. Eventually, we were able to coax the boys to have a further look at all the cages. It was very dispiriting. The dogs were all obviously unsuitable. Although I felt awful seeing them all locked up like that, at the same time I would have been fearful of them being let out. 

We returned home with a dejected Mr 10. A few weeks passed. More Internet searching ensued. This led to discovering Sydney Dogs And Cats Home.  One Sunday, Mick took Mr 10 and 6 for a drive there.

A few hours later Mr 10 came bounding into the house.

"Mum, we have a dog!" he was beaming. He led me outside and there she was. A beautiful and gentle fox terrier cross. We're not exactly sure what the 'cross' part is, but we're guessing corgi. She wasn't a puppy, but she was wise, loyal and full of character. He named her Cookie.

It seems like it was meant to be. Now she's part of our family. She's a bit of tart in that she loves everyone and anyone. An extrovert dog in an introvert family. She'd be completely useless as a guard dog. She'd welcome any thieves with a wagging tail and be excited to meet new friends!

She sits at the back door, gazing in with her mournful eyes. Other times, when I walk past, there she is, head tilted, expression quizzical. Yes, dogs DO have expressions.

The funniest thing is her antics in regard to Henrietta, our pet parakeet. Cookie bolts down to Henrietta's aviary in the backyard in her headlong fashion.  Reaching the cage she tenses, ready to pounce. The hairs on her back stand up as she lunges her little fox terrier frame frantically at the cage, eyes never leaving Henrietta.

Henrietta is totally unruffled. She saunters down from her perch to the edge of the cage and proceeds to taunt Madam Cookie.

"Hello!" she chirps, chest proud.  Cookie hurtles higher up to the cage, incensed.

"Hello!" Henrietta keeps mocking her.

It's like watching the cat and mouse shenanigans of Tweety and Sylvester. Hilarious!

Cookie would indeed relish the opportunity to have Henrietta in her clutches.  Funnily enough, she never barks at her. She just keeps lunging at the cage repeatedly. Despite the fact that this pursuit  never pays off, she is quite persistent in her efforts, our little Sylvester,.. I mean, Cookie!

Afterwards she will bound back across the grass to Mr 10 and rest her paws on his legs, tail pulsating. She is happiest in these moments.

She snoozes on the back porch throughout the day, waiting for her beloved boy to return home from school for cuddles and play. They already have an unbreakable bond. I'm glad they have each other. Having a dog was such a comfort to me as a child. I love to think of Mr 10 having that same comfort. 


It's also good finally having another girl in the family, even it is only a dog!

And yes, Mr 10 cleans up her poop. Someone has to and it might as well be him. He has to learn, doesn't he? Ahem. Besides, I've cleaned up enough poop in my time.

Cookie will be a part of our family for many years to come. When she finally goes to doggie heaven we'll most likely adopt again. It's good to have a furry friend.

Linking up for The Lounge.

Do you have any pets?

Wednesday 31 October 2012

Heavens To Betsy Part Two

Yes, I murdered  my beautiful Betsy.  I'm not evil!  But I feel like I am.

One night there was a ferocious electrical storm.  Knowing how timid Betsy was, I should have realised she'd be absolutely beside her beagle self with terror.  I really should have let her inside or locked her in the laundry.

While Jake darted around the back yard barking back at the thunder with equal force (nothing scared that dog) , Betsy barrelled her way in through the lattice works and in under the house to hide.


Jake: he lived until he was 17, yapping away..


The next day, the storm abated. Betsy lay on the ground exhausted. Or so we thought. Until it became obvious something was really wrong.

"There's something wrong with Betsy," Mick told me, his face creased with concern "just keep an eye on her." He left for work.

I went outside and stroked her. She wagged her tail feebly.  Hours later, she was dead.

Poisoned. She'd eaten some baits left under the house, which were meant for rodents.

Betsy loved her food. She was a sweet and timid creature who loved her food. I've heard that pets are sometimes like their owners.  I had better be careful I don't eat my way to my demise like poor, beautiful Betsy.

Betsy: RIP Beautiful girl..and..forgive me..*sobs*

I walked around for weeks feeling like a murderer who should be sentenced and hung for killing my defenceless pet. 

Jake yapped his way into old age and finally gave his last yap at age 17. Which, in dog years is.. really OLD.

Some time later the boys talked Mick into getting them a bunny.  They named him George.

George got out of his rabbit hutch everday. Every. Single. Day. The doorbell would ring.

"Your rabbit's out!" a neighbourhood kid would announce. Then I would be obliged to chase the rabbit around the yard and up and down the street. I could never catch him.

Oneday he was gone for good. Rabbit stew presumably. Or somebody took him. Not sure. I was (secretly relieved) saddened and dismayed. 

There have also been goldfish too numerous to mention.

We are now the proud owners of a lorrikeet named Henry. Which I was supposed to feed and look after.

I did it a few times when he was in a cage, then promptly forgot once Micky Blue Eyes put him in the aviary with his finches. Oops.

Maybe I'm not meant to have a pet. The only one that has survived is my Pet Rock. If you've never had one then you obviously were not a child of the 70's.

My Pet Rock lives on still at my parents house. See, I am a good pet owner. As long as I don't have to feed them. 

Now, my pesky children are demanding food, so I guess I should feed them.

And they'll be getting an ipod (or something that doesn't require feeding) for Christmas.

Tuesday 30 October 2012

Heavens To Betsy

I'm linking up this oldie for today's I Must Confess and Laugh Link. Even though it's not particularly funny, the old photos of me as a girl are worthy of at least a snort.  It's a tale about pets and the one where I confess to being a murderer.....

Before you call the police, read on....

With Christmas fast approaching my boys already have a comprehensive list of presents they wish to receive from Santa.  Top of the list is a dog.

"Can we get a dog?" Mr 3 pleaded, eyes shining with hope "Pleeease!"

 Mr 11 looked on innocently, having coached his brother to ask the question.

I gave the usual evasive answer that you do when you really mean no: "We'll see." 

Mr 3 pouted, crestfallen. 

"But why can't we get a dog?!" Mr 11 wailed, blowing his cover.

 "We used to have dogs," he reminded me.

I know.  That may be the reason why I am reluctant to go there again.  It's not that I don't like dogs. I do. Well, some of them.

 I'm not a great fan of gigantic horse-like dogs. Or tiny little over grown rat-like yappers. But some dogs are okay. 

Growing up we always had sausage dogs.  A black and tan one called Samantha.  I named her that after Samantha from Bewitched.

 Sammy was a wise, comical old woman in the body of a dachshund.  That dog was whip smart.  A kindred spirit. I adored her.

Sadly, she fell victim to the fate of many a sausage dog. She had back problems which couldn't be fixed and eventually she had to be put down.

The whole family were devastated, as if we had lost a person.  She was such a one of a kind dog that we resisted replacing her for a few years.



Right: Sammy and I, chillaxing in the groovy 70's Left: Me, Penny and Skippa











Then, when I was teenager, we got another sausage dog, Skippa. Then
Penny. Skippa and Penny had puppies.  I loved those dogs so much.

Of course I never had to deal with the difficult side of owning a dog.  My parents (read my Mum) took care of all that. Scooping poop, washing, grooming, de-worming and treating for fleas. 

I just enjoyed the cuddles and comfort of having a canine friend to pet and coddle. 

Years after Penny and Skippa were departed my parents possessed a beautiful beagle named Maggie.  By now I was married and not living at home.  They decided to let Maggie have pups. I wanted one.

I had to convince Micky Blue Eyes.

"I'll clean up after her," I promised. I never did it once. Oops.

Now, we also had Jake.  Jake was a little overgrown rat-like yapper black terrier cross. We were never sure what the cross was. 

Jake and I had a love/hate relationship. I loved him, but hated his tendency to yap. I wanted another kindred spirit dog like Sammy.

Enter Betsy the beagle. Daughter of Maggie. She was beautiful. Gentle. Kind. Adorable. Timid.

And I murdered her.

Yes, I murdered  my beautiful Betsy.  I'm not evil!  But I feel like I am.

One night there was a ferocious electrical storm.  Knowing how timid Betsy was, I should have realised she'd be absolutely beside her beagle self with terror.  I really should have let her inside or locked her in the laundry.

While Jake darted around the back yard barking back at the thunder with equal force (nothing scared that dog) , Betsy barreled her way in through the lattice works and in under the house to hide.



Jake: he lived until he was 17, yapping away..


The next day, the storm abated. Betsy lay on the ground exhausted. Or so we thought. Until it became obvious something was really wrong.

"There's something wrong with Betsy," Mick told me, his face creased with concern "just keep an eye on her." He left for work.

I went outside and stroked her. She wagged her tail feebly.  Hours later, she was dead.

Poisoned. She'd eaten some baits left under the house, which were meant for rodents.

Betsy loved her food. She was a sweet and timid creature who loved her food. I've heard that pets are sometimes like their owners.  I had better be careful I don't eat my way to my demise like poor, beautiful Betsy.


Betsy: RIP Beautiful girl..and..forgive me..*sobs*

I walked around for weeks feeling like a murderer who should be sentenced and hung for killing my defenceless pet.

Jake yapped his way into old age and finally gave his last yap at age 17. Which, in dog years is.. really OLD.

Some time later the boys talked Mick into getting them a bunny.  They named him George.

George got out of his rabbit hutch everyday. Every. Single. Day. The doorbell would ring.

"Your rabbit's out!" a neighbourhood kid would announce. Then I would be obliged to chase the rabbit around the yard and up and down the street. I could never catch him.

One day he was gone for good. Rabbit stew presumably. Or somebody took him. Not sure. I was secretly relieved saddened and dismayed.

There have also been goldfish too numerous to mention.

We are now the proud owners of a lorrikeet named Henry. Which I was supposed to feed and look after.

I did it a few times when he was in a cage, then promptly forgot once Micky Blue Eyes put him in the aviary with his finches. Oops.

Maybe I'm not meant to have a pet. The only one that has survived is my Pet Rock. If you've never had one then you obviously were not a child of the 70's.


Not my actual pet rock, but you get the idea.


My Pet Rock lives on still at my parents house. See? I am a good pet owner. As long as I don't have to feed them. Ahem.

Fast forward to now and we finally have another dog!  I promise not to murder her! Shut up.

Her named is Cookie, as decided by Mr 10. We adopted her from an animal shelter. After only a week or so, she already seems like a part of our family. 



Do you have any pets? Please tell me I'm not the only one is old enough to have owned a Pet Rock???