Wednesday, September 01, 2004
The NoodleDog strikes again
Good lord.
The NoodleDog was rated a “Tropical Storm” class Natural Disaster last night. I had intended to make a family recipe of brownies to take to the cabin with me this weekend for when I see Rob (yay!). I bought all the ingredients a couple of days ago on an overblown shopping trip I now regret (but only slightly). I did a “brownie ingredient inventory” on the counter by the fridge, and foolishly left the ingredients out in a mistaken attempt to “be prepared”. I was not at all prepared for the NoodleDog.
These brownies take a package of chocolate chips, which was left on the counter along with everything else. When I got home yesterday, I fed the cats and the NoodleDog, and went into the living room (as usual) to sit down for about ten minutes before our afternoon/evening walk. What was lying in the middle of the living room floor, totally empty? The chocolate chip bag (along with an unopened bag of pecans, which I rescued immediately). DAMN YOU, NOODLEDOG!!!
Well, his initial disobedience was the least of my worries, because the dog had ingested chocolate. Chocolate is bad for dogs for a number of reasons and can poison them. So I had to worry about him all evening, and as it turned out, it didn’t poison him at all, he was “fine” in that he didn’t die or suffer any pain. It was ME who suffered, though, because the dog was being a brat for the whole rest of the evening. He pestered me. He jumped up on me incessantly and in an aggressive manner. He barked for no reason, a lot. Unwarranted, he chased the cats and pinned poor little Smudge a couple of times, causing her to squeak in protest. He threw his toys all over the place. He got up onto the sofa with his chewy and a bone repeatedly after I had told him not to (he knows that chewies are only allowed on the floor). He also got up onto the counter twice after he had been explicitly instructed NOT to do so, and he knows that is a VERY BAD thing as well. I started to trick him by leaving something tempting at the edge of the counter, then hiding in wait until he tried to get it and then locking him in the bathroom, but it didn’t work. He was too “hopped-up” for the lesson to take.
He basically drove me nuts all evening. My “bad neighbor” (there’s a story to that, too) returned my anti-bark collar which he had borrowed for his barking dog, so I slapped that on the NoodleDog around 9:00p or soand it subdued him somewhat. I locked him in the bathroom twice (usually, I put him in his crate for a “time out”, but Buzz has borrowed the crate for her puppy, Harley). I was completely losing my mind until I called my mother.
Now, when I first got the NoodleDog, I had never had a dog before. I got him last September, and he was five months old. He was a rambunctious puppy large enough to cause some trouble. He would sit in the middle of the living room floor and bark at me for no discernible reason. When I had exhausted all of the little tricks I knew to manage dogs (i.e. leashing him to the sofa, holding his mouth shut to stop the barking, taking away all his toys, giving him one or two toys to play with, giving him chewies as “chewy stops the chatter”, lying with him, petting him, ignoring him, turning my back on him to indicate displeasure, etc. At one point, I even bit him on the ear in the hopes that the Snowdogs movie might have been on to something, to no avail) and was about to cry in frustration, I’d call my parents. Usually, when I need advice, I contact my father (The Grumpaw), but since the NoodleDog is one of his least favourite topics of discussion and he probably wouldn’t have any salient advice to give on dogs anyway, I turned to my mother (“Granny”, to the NoodleDog).
My mother grew up on a farm and had dogs all her life until she met my father, at which time a “pet moratorium” was issued until we kids bugged him enough to get our family cat, Pepper. Pepper was a Devon Rex Cat, with only one coat of fur like a poodle so that our hyper-allergic sister, Laura, could survive his presence. The Grumpaw was against the idea of any pet at all, but was eventually persuaded to allow Pepper to come live with us. Eventually, too, he became Pepper’s best friend, and got up early to feed the cat, talk to the cat, monitor the cat. Pepper was allowed out in the yard, and if he was outside (or even if he wasn’t), The Grumpaw would periodically inquire “Where’s the cat? Anyone seen the cat?” With The Grumpaw, that’s about as good as it gets.
But with my mother’s supposed knowledge of dogs, I though I’d have a source of information I could rely upon. Most often, though, her “advice” would be to put the NoodleDog into obedience classes. Obedience classes are a) expensive (and, due to the universe conspiring against me or balancing luck, I never have money for luxury items) and b) time-consuming (and up until about three months ago, I was not available when the classes were on in the evenings). My mother would also offer tidbits from “Dr. Stanley”, a guy who runs a show on early in the mornings that she would occasionally watch. “Dr. Stanley says to spray him with water.” Or “Dr. Stanley says to shake a can at him…” or “Dr. Stanley says to pick him up and take him outside…”.
Until I spoke with her, I had thought the NoodleDog might just be being totally defiant because he knew his crate was gone and thought he had the run of the place. She suggested the sugar and caffeine might have had something to do with it (duh, I guess I’m not that bright), and it all fell into place. He must have gotten the chips not that long before I got home and was just hitting his sugar/caffeine high in the evening. Possibly, chocolate affects dogs differently as well. Either way, it was a disaster and very frustrating to me.
Well, “Dr. Stanley” said to booby-trap the countertop so that when the NoodleDog gets up there to steal stuff, he encounters something “unpleasant”, like noisy tin cans full or rocks that can startle him when he knocks them down. Not being MacGuyver, I’m not sure I can set up a booby-trap that elaborate.
By the end of the evening, the NoodleDog became more subdued and I started to worry about his heart. What if the chocolate poisoning doesn’t get him for a while? What if he’s sick? What if he’s in pain? What if it stops his heart, gives him a heart attack? So by bedtime, I was watching him like a hawk, listening to his heart (which he hates) and trying to see if he was breathing. I think he probably thought I was a little crazy.
While the NoodleDog was confined to the bathroom (during one of his punishments), I made the brownies. I will bake them tonight after the NoodleDog’s class. I hope they turn out – they’ve become costly in the sense of mental anguish. What is the universe paying me back for this time?
The NoodleDog was rated a “Tropical Storm” class Natural Disaster last night. I had intended to make a family recipe of brownies to take to the cabin with me this weekend for when I see Rob (yay!). I bought all the ingredients a couple of days ago on an overblown shopping trip I now regret (but only slightly). I did a “brownie ingredient inventory” on the counter by the fridge, and foolishly left the ingredients out in a mistaken attempt to “be prepared”. I was not at all prepared for the NoodleDog.
These brownies take a package of chocolate chips, which was left on the counter along with everything else. When I got home yesterday, I fed the cats and the NoodleDog, and went into the living room (as usual) to sit down for about ten minutes before our afternoon/evening walk. What was lying in the middle of the living room floor, totally empty? The chocolate chip bag (along with an unopened bag of pecans, which I rescued immediately). DAMN YOU, NOODLEDOG!!!
Well, his initial disobedience was the least of my worries, because the dog had ingested chocolate. Chocolate is bad for dogs for a number of reasons and can poison them. So I had to worry about him all evening, and as it turned out, it didn’t poison him at all, he was “fine” in that he didn’t die or suffer any pain. It was ME who suffered, though, because the dog was being a brat for the whole rest of the evening. He pestered me. He jumped up on me incessantly and in an aggressive manner. He barked for no reason, a lot. Unwarranted, he chased the cats and pinned poor little Smudge a couple of times, causing her to squeak in protest. He threw his toys all over the place. He got up onto the sofa with his chewy and a bone repeatedly after I had told him not to (he knows that chewies are only allowed on the floor). He also got up onto the counter twice after he had been explicitly instructed NOT to do so, and he knows that is a VERY BAD thing as well. I started to trick him by leaving something tempting at the edge of the counter, then hiding in wait until he tried to get it and then locking him in the bathroom, but it didn’t work. He was too “hopped-up” for the lesson to take.
He basically drove me nuts all evening. My “bad neighbor” (there’s a story to that, too) returned my anti-bark collar which he had borrowed for his barking dog, so I slapped that on the NoodleDog around 9:00p or soand it subdued him somewhat. I locked him in the bathroom twice (usually, I put him in his crate for a “time out”, but Buzz has borrowed the crate for her puppy, Harley). I was completely losing my mind until I called my mother.
Now, when I first got the NoodleDog, I had never had a dog before. I got him last September, and he was five months old. He was a rambunctious puppy large enough to cause some trouble. He would sit in the middle of the living room floor and bark at me for no discernible reason. When I had exhausted all of the little tricks I knew to manage dogs (i.e. leashing him to the sofa, holding his mouth shut to stop the barking, taking away all his toys, giving him one or two toys to play with, giving him chewies as “chewy stops the chatter”, lying with him, petting him, ignoring him, turning my back on him to indicate displeasure, etc. At one point, I even bit him on the ear in the hopes that the Snowdogs movie might have been on to something, to no avail) and was about to cry in frustration, I’d call my parents. Usually, when I need advice, I contact my father (The Grumpaw), but since the NoodleDog is one of his least favourite topics of discussion and he probably wouldn’t have any salient advice to give on dogs anyway, I turned to my mother (“Granny”, to the NoodleDog).
My mother grew up on a farm and had dogs all her life until she met my father, at which time a “pet moratorium” was issued until we kids bugged him enough to get our family cat, Pepper. Pepper was a Devon Rex Cat, with only one coat of fur like a poodle so that our hyper-allergic sister, Laura, could survive his presence. The Grumpaw was against the idea of any pet at all, but was eventually persuaded to allow Pepper to come live with us. Eventually, too, he became Pepper’s best friend, and got up early to feed the cat, talk to the cat, monitor the cat. Pepper was allowed out in the yard, and if he was outside (or even if he wasn’t), The Grumpaw would periodically inquire “Where’s the cat? Anyone seen the cat?” With The Grumpaw, that’s about as good as it gets.
But with my mother’s supposed knowledge of dogs, I though I’d have a source of information I could rely upon. Most often, though, her “advice” would be to put the NoodleDog into obedience classes. Obedience classes are a) expensive (and, due to the universe conspiring against me or balancing luck, I never have money for luxury items) and b) time-consuming (and up until about three months ago, I was not available when the classes were on in the evenings). My mother would also offer tidbits from “Dr. Stanley”, a guy who runs a show on early in the mornings that she would occasionally watch. “Dr. Stanley says to spray him with water.” Or “Dr. Stanley says to shake a can at him…” or “Dr. Stanley says to pick him up and take him outside…”.
Until I spoke with her, I had thought the NoodleDog might just be being totally defiant because he knew his crate was gone and thought he had the run of the place. She suggested the sugar and caffeine might have had something to do with it (duh, I guess I’m not that bright), and it all fell into place. He must have gotten the chips not that long before I got home and was just hitting his sugar/caffeine high in the evening. Possibly, chocolate affects dogs differently as well. Either way, it was a disaster and very frustrating to me.
Well, “Dr. Stanley” said to booby-trap the countertop so that when the NoodleDog gets up there to steal stuff, he encounters something “unpleasant”, like noisy tin cans full or rocks that can startle him when he knocks them down. Not being MacGuyver, I’m not sure I can set up a booby-trap that elaborate.
By the end of the evening, the NoodleDog became more subdued and I started to worry about his heart. What if the chocolate poisoning doesn’t get him for a while? What if he’s sick? What if he’s in pain? What if it stops his heart, gives him a heart attack? So by bedtime, I was watching him like a hawk, listening to his heart (which he hates) and trying to see if he was breathing. I think he probably thought I was a little crazy.
While the NoodleDog was confined to the bathroom (during one of his punishments), I made the brownies. I will bake them tonight after the NoodleDog’s class. I hope they turn out – they’ve become costly in the sense of mental anguish. What is the universe paying me back for this time?
