5 Year Adoption Anniversary Part 2: Where Olive the Renegade is Thrown Into a Wall and Also Gets Wet Food Wasted

Note: This is Part 2 to a two-part story about Olive the Renegade being adopted. Here is Part 1.



I was so overjoyed at adopting Olive, this little bundle of cuteness, that I just HAD to have her sleep in bed with me the night I brought her home. But, unlike my other two chihuahuas, who dug themselves underneath the blankets and then would proceed to dig at the sheets with so much gusto that you’d think the friction may actually cause a fire, Olive preferred to sleep on top of the covers. At the end of the bed. As far away as possible. Because she hated us.

So there it was, the first night. The two resident chihuahuas all snuggled under the covers. And there was my little Olive, on top of the covers. And we all fell asleep. Most of us blissfully. One of us, cautiously.

And then it happened.

Around 4am I got chilly and yanked the covers up around my neck. Within a few seconds I heard a “THUD” and then heard myself utter the most horrible garbled scream I’ve ever heard myself make. But upon waking up a little more, I realized it wasn’t me who made that awful sound. It was Olive.

Who had just been catapulted off the bed and, because she weighed all of 5 pounds, flung rather hard into the wall next to the bed.

I should point out that, at that point, I had several years under my belt as an emergency and critical care veterinary technician. I’ve seen some of the worst of the worst when it comes to animal emergencies.

I should also point out that, when it comes to emergencies with my own animals, I become a blubbering, hysterical, useless idiot. When, a few years later, that 12-year-old, partially blind chihuahua, who was now 14 and more blind, started having heart issues and collapsed in front of me at home, all I could do was scoop her up and scream, “D-D-DOG….T-TRUCK…..HOSPITAL! EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY! EMERGENCYYYYYY!”

Luckily, Calm-ass Husband, who was then Calm-ass Boyfriend, somehow got what I was trying to spit out and, in true CAH-style, calmly grabbed the keys to his truck and then calmly ushered us out the door to his truck to drive us to the emergency room.


So after Olive let out that horrifying garbled squeal, I shot out of bed with a lightning-quick speed and saw her just laying there unconscious, with one of her pupils dilated. “Shit!,” I thought to myself, “head injury.”

I ran to my closet and grabbed the first pair of shoes I could get my hands on (not even stopping to put them on) and the first jacket I could find.

I was only wearing a mostly see-through nightie.

The shoes were soccer cleats.

The jacket was a military-style, army-green jacket.

I looked like a soccer-playing hooker who wanted to be an extra in Janet Jackson’s Rhythm Nation video.

But I didn’t even care.

By the time I had grabbed Olive to go to the ER, she was up, but circling right, not left. My dog could not turn left.

She was fucking Zoolander.

We got to the ER not 10 minutes later, where I became the client that I always hated when I was working as a vet tech: the one who thinks she knows what you should be doing with her pet better than you.

Doctor: We’ve taken Olive back and put her in the oxygen tank.

Me: Ok, what else??

Doctor: Nothing yet at this point, I came out to talk to you.

Me: That’s it?? Fucking oxygen? Are you fucking kidding me? She has a HEAD INJURY and all you’re giving her is oxygen? SHE CAN ONLY TURN TO THE RIGHT! MY DOG IS FUCKING ZOOLANDER!!!!!

The doctor gave me a strange look, probably because she did not know enough about Zoolander the movie to know that Zoolander could not turn left when walking the catwalk, but enough to know that Zoolander was a movie about a male model. Which probably led her to believe that I was in some kind of delusion that made me think that my dog was a male model.

My outfit did not help matters.

The doctor did hurry back to work on Olive and, when 6am arrived, I haughtily announced that I was transferring Olive to the care of a friend of mine who is a veterinarian at UC Davis, where she would receive competent care by people truly committed to seeing her make a left-hand turn again.

I think they may have comped most of Olive’s bill, just to get us the hell out of the hospital. The details are fuzzy, I can’t remember.

I told you I get hysterical when it is an emergency with one of my own.


By the time I transferred Olive, she was doing significantly better. She had been given medication and hung out in the oxygen tank for a few hours. She only had to stay at the second hospital for a few more hours before they sent her home.

Where she promptly went under the couch and did not come out for a month.

I’m not even kidding. I had to put pee pee pads, and all her food and water under there.

She was understandably terrified of being thrown against the wall again. I’m pretty sure that, at that point, the triple-wide mobile home with 800 dogs was looking better and better.

But time heals all wounds right?

And look at my girl now, enjoying the trails of Marin County:


photo (17)

And here we are 5 years later, celebrating her new life with the family, having totally forgotten the ill-fated catapult incident.


Olive getting wet food wasted

And she saved me as much as I saved her. Because not a year after adopting Olive, my relationship of 7 years fell apart, and I lost the other younger chihuahua in the “divorce.” And on those dark days, when I did not even feel like crawling out of bed, Olive and that old, partially blind dog, Smidge (who JUST passed away last summer) were there to pull me out. Because it didn’t matter what kind of cess-pool of self-pity I was swimming in, I had to take care of those dogs. Which meant that I had to get out of bed.

Which meant I had to leave the house and work on being a whole person again.

Which led me to meeting the love of my life.

And when we got married two years later, Olive and Smidge were there:


So there is my and Olive’s story of  horror, neglect, and leaving the house looking like a soccer-playing prostitute who aspires to be Janet Jackson in Rhythm Nation.

And for those of you wondering, Olive has learned to turn left again.

She’s also mastered Blue Steel.



5 Year Adoption Anniversary Part 1: Where Olive the Renegade Dog is Saved From a Hoarder and Promptly Thrown Into a Wall;With Thanks to the Marin and Southern Arizona Humane Societies

Today should be the first installment of WINK Wednesday. But it is a special day that supercedes WINK Wednesday because it is the 5th anniversary of my dog, Olive April, coming to live with me after being pulled from the home of some animal hoarders.

It is also my Mom’s birthday, so, shout out to Mom!

It also would have been the 16th birthday of my sweet kitty, Sabrina Sally Sue, who passed away last year.

April is a bittersweet month.

This is a story of horror, neglect, and leaving the house looking like a soccer-playing prostitute who aspires to be Janet Jackson in Rhythm Nation. It is also an update of the story of one of the 800 dogs who were pulled from a triple-wide mobile home in Arizona.

More specifically, this is the story of my little Olive April, or as she’s known on this blog, Olive the Bad-Ass Mother Truckin’ Renegade. Olive the Renegade was pulled from this mobile home with all her paws intact and, as far as I know, not in labor with puppies. Which is more than I can say for a lot of the other dogs pulled from the mobile home that day.


I know what you are all thinking: WHAT kind of sick people keep 800 dogs in a triple-wide mobile home!? They should be dragged through the streets with TWO big scarlet A’s on their chests for “Animal Abuser.” Unfortunately, there are two problems with that scenario:

1. People would just think it was some new AA hazing ritual and then alcoholics would never want to join AA because they would be terrified of the public shaming.

2. These people were hoarders. And yes, I know you all have binge-watched Animal Hoarders on Netflix and want to storm the homes of these people with torches and pitchforks, but it can’t work like that. And also, you need an updated way to storm peoples’ homes.

When I managed that animal control facility in Iowa, I had to go in on a hoard situation where the woman had 200 poodles in her house. Also, her husband had committed suicide in front of her a year earlier. So yes, we do feel bad for the dogs.

But she fucking watched her husband commit suicide. 

Sidenote: the police decided to wait until I was just about to enter the house to health check the dogs to let me know she hadn’t cleaned up the remaining mess left behind by the crime scene investigators, and the coroner’s office. Assholes.

So it’s easy to be angry at these people when we watch the sliced and diced versions of animal hoarding we see on TV, but there is often much more to the story than we realize and, many times, these people warrant a bit of compassion.

Except the lady in that one epsiode who was hoarding chickens in plastic bins in her trailer and had three-legged goats. She was truly a wretched evil incarnate of Satan himself, and I hope a bird craps on her face.

Some of the dogs pulled from the mobile home - pictures from The Arizona Republic

Some of the dogs seized from the mobile home – pictures from The Arizona Republic

Back to Olive the Renegade.

Olive came to me in April, the month after the big bust in Arizona went down. She was transferred from Arizona, all the way to the Marin Humane Society, in a covert operation called, “Operation Tiny Teacup.” From what I understand, Seal Team 5 (not to be confused with Seal Team 6, who killed Bin Laden) were sent in to grab the dogs from the Southern Arizona Humane Society (SAHS) who, despite being a non-profit organization that is always accepting donations, inexplicably has an impressive helicopter landing pad, and kennel staff who are secretly trained in military-style, hand-to-hand combat. The dogs were then stuffed into the choppers and immediately flown to California to the other non-profit animal shelter who is always accepting donations, the Marin Humane Society (MHS). Once at MHS, army medical personnel were waiting to unload the dogs, triage them, and then pump them full of highly addictive doggy pain medication that would later turn many of those tiny little dogs into addicts, leaving them to troll the streets for table scraps while they awaited their next “fix.”

Witnesses said it was the most darling display of drug addiction they had ever seen.

Wait, I think they were just loaded up and trucked in by SAHS volunteers, and then met by MHS shelter volunteers. That makes way more sense. Disregard the last paragraph.

Lots of tiny dogs in lots of tiny crates - photo from The Arizona Republic

Lots of tiny dogs in lots of tiny crates – photo from The Arizona Republic

It just so happens that, at the time of all this tiny teacup madness, I was in the market for a small dog. I already had two chihuahuas and needed a third to complete my act, “Jessica and the Yappy Dogs Three.” We were a song and dance group, but finally had to break up due to differences of direction and complaints from stage managers about all of the tiny puddles of pee they kept finding backstage.

I had a very nervous bladder.

The first chihuahua that I had was only a few years old, so it wasn’t long before we decided she needed a playmate. I dangerously looked on Petfinder.com to view adoptable chihuahuas and, since it is California, we are lousy with chihuahuas. Seriously, people need to stop with chihuahua breeding already. You did it, we’re full. Good job. You know how to make lots of tiny dogs with your boy dog and girl dog. You’re practically God. Now knock it off.

As of this writing, there are 17,000 homeless chihuahuas on Petfinder alone. STOP MAKING CHIHUAHUAS!

As of this writing, there are 17,000 homeless chihuahuas on Petfinder alone.

As I scrolled through the pages and pages of chihuahuas available for adoption, I, being someone who worked in the animal adoption biz for many years, naturally zeroed in on the 12-year old, partially blind chihuahua available through a rescue group I knew well. I decided that we NEEDED to adopt that one. So we did.

Then upon noticing that a 12-year-old, partially blind dog is a horrible playmate for a dog who is only the tender age of 2, we struck out to find yet another chihuahua. Preferably a young one who could see.

12-years-old and partially blind doesn't mean you still can't rock the Juicy

12-years-old and partially blind doesn’t mean you can’t rock the Juicy

About this time, we heard about the MHS Operation Tiny Teacup, with all these dogs who had been helicoptered in trucked in from Arizona. And since my background is what it is, I breezed right past the hundreds of other applications for the tiny dogs that MHS had received, and immediately got a call back from one of the shelter staff, who was also a friend of one of my coworkers.

“I received your application and it is perfect, we love getting people with animal backgrounds adopting from us,” she said, enthusiastically, “and since you have the background that you do, we saved one of our most fucked up chihuahuas for you!”

Ok, she didn’t really say that. She actually said, “We have a few left who are special needs because they are exhibiting more behavioral issues than the others, and I think you may be a good fit for one named ‘Rosie'”.

And since working in the animal rescue field usually means that you have “BIG FAT SUCKER” white-inked on your forehead, and also makes you prone to bringing home 12-year-old blind dogs, 3-legged pit bulls, and cats in renal failure, I gleefully shouted, “YAY! I will gladly take your most fucked up dog because nothing brings me more joy than caring for the most mentally screwed up dog I can get my hands on!”

She lived in a pouch with her squirrel for several months. It was her safe place.

She lived in a pouch with her squirrel for several months. It was her safe place.

And with that, Rosie became “Olive” and she came home with me.

She also grew a strange attachment to the TV remote. We didn't question it.

She also grew a strange attachment to the TV remote. We didn’t question it.

And it was later that night that I accidentally sent her flying headfirst into a wall, which ended up in a trip to the doggy emergency room.

Would Olive survive her head injury?

Did she ever forgive me for accidentally flinging her headfirst into a wall?

WHEN did I leave the house looking like a soccer-playing prostitute who aspired to look like Janet Jackson in Rhythm Nation?

Read here for the exciting conclusion of “Operation: Rescue Olive.”

Please Just Fu*king Pee: A Poem to My Dog

Not long ago I gifted a friend a copy of Adam Mansbach’s book, Go the Fuck to Sleep – a satirical children’s bedtime story that follows an exhausted dad who is trying to get his kid to go to bed. It’s hilarious and a must-read for parents.

The only thing with which I take issue is that it doesn’t land for those of us who have chosen to have dogs rather than kids. So for you fellow dog parents, especially those in urban areas with no yards, I submit my poem:

please just fucking pee

Please Just Fucking Pee

A love poem for my dog

By The Wiseass Wife: wiseasswife.com

I just got out of bed, and I’d like my morning tea,
It’s also kind of cold my darling, and I know you have to wee.

The clouds are looking grey, and all you’ve done is sniff that bee,
I didn’t put on my rain jacket, please just kindly pee.

The rain drops have started coming down, and you’re just licking them up with glee,
My hair is getting wet you dog, please just fucking pee.

I can hear the thunder booming, and you’re blatantly ignoring my plea,
How is it not scaring you? PLEASE, just fucking PEE!

We are both sopping wet now, and you’re just in a state of bliss,
My socks go “squish” with every step we take, PLEASE! Just take a piss!

Well now I see the lightning, and you refuse to cop a squat,
For the love of DOG, just take a pee, you stubborn little…pup.

My shoes that are now ruined, were more than your adoption fee,
You think the shelter will reimburse me? NO! Please just FUCKING pee!

It is now a torrential downpour, to the house I want to flee,
But no, Miss Take-Her-Sweet-Ass-Time, still refuses to pee.

We are going back to the house, you better follow me,
If it pleases the princess, on the way, maybe you’ll fucking pee.

Oh thank DOG, you’re circling around, this must mean you’ll go,
Sigh, forget it, false alarm, you’re rolling in dead crow.

Here’s our front door, it’s your last chance, I’m begging on bended knee,
Think of waterfalls and gushing fountains, and please just fucking pee.

Oh my DOG it’s finally happening, I see that yellow stream!
It’s a glorious golden puddle, surrounded by clouds of steam.

You are my darling dog, I want to let out a “WHOOP!”
Now let’s go back in the hou- crap. You still have to poop.

Booty Camp: House Training Your Dog with the Booty Method

I remember several instances during my childhood where my mom said, “You just wait until you are older and have kids of your own. I hope they are just like you.” I generally took this as a compliment, like every other self-centered, narcissistic child with demon-driven behavior who was prone to striking deals with the devil. In hindsight, I’m thinking it was not a compliment.

I gleefully avoided the karmic retribution she foresaw by choosing to not have kids. But karma is a sneaky bitch, and got me anyways. So now I am stuck with Olive the Renegade, who refuses to be fully house broken, despite my best efforts. I have done countless hours of research and decided that none of the dog trainers seem to help so, much like my finally deciding to employ human baby techniques on Olive for her constant barking, I’d try it with the housebreaking. What do I really have to lose at this point?

the wiseass wife

I found an article about this woman, Wendy Sweeney, who calls herself a “potty whisperer” and runs something called “Booty Camp,” which sounds like the title of an awesome porno, but it is not. Booty Camp is where you send your toddler to learn to pee in a potty.

So I made a booty call to this self-proclaimed “Booty Expert” to get some answers on some long-pressing questions about booties:

1. Do you in fact have big booty bitches, big big booty bitches?
2. Do smart girls really tend to have dumb booties?
3. I know players wanna play, ballers wanna ball, and rollers wanna roll, but if I put my arms around you will you feel on my booty?

Sweeney was obliging in listening to my questions, but then asked that I never call again and hung up.


It was up to me to take Olive through Booty Camp on my own. I closely studied the tenets of the Booty Camp method. They are:

  • Never ask if they have to go potty. Give the responsibility fully to them.
  • Let the trainee know, “If you go pee and poo in your pants, you’re going to have to clean it up.”
  • Stuff the trainee full of salty snacks and sugary drinks to move things along. As Sweeney told TV’s Ann Curry, “The salty snacks make the kids more thirsty, so they drink more. It also draws water into the bowel and that softens the stool, and it helps prevent the constipation when the kids get nervous and want to start holding. The sugary drinks never quench their thirst, so they end up drinking more, and that gives them more opportunities to go to the bathroom in that short period of time.”
  • Tell the trainee that they need to listen to their body and when it is time to go, they have to go over to the potty and relieve themselves.

I also read in another potty training method that you can inspire the child to have to pee during potty training by setting up fountains or other types of running water. I pulled all of the Homedic fountains I own into the living room, and turned on the kitchen faucet for good measure.

I was ready to do this.

I sat Olive down and told her that it was her job to clean up her pee and poo if she goes in the house and she can NOT eat it, like she’s prone to doing. That is taking the easy way out. With that, I broke out some Cheetos and popped open a can of Red Bull, threw them both in her bowl, and waited.

9am: Olive has eaten some of the Cheetos and lapped up half of the Red Bull.

9:07am: Olive is drinking out of one of the Homedic fountains. An unexpected, but welcome, turn of events. The more fluids in her bladder, the better.

9:15am: All of the running water is making me have to pee. I grab Olive to go with me so she doesn’t pee in the house while I’m in the bathroom.

9:16am: I realize by locking Olive in the bathroom with me, I was not leaving the decision up to her to go on her own. I lean forward and open the bathroom door, and push her out of it.

9:18am: I ran out of the bathroom to see if Olive had peed. She was back over at her bowl, finishing off the Red Bull and Cheetos.

9:25am: Olive is running laps around the house like she was shot out of a cannon. She’s leaving orange streaks of Cheeto dust all over the furniture. The Red Bull must be taking effect.

9:43am: Olive is passed out in her bed. I think she crashed from the Red Bull. I feel like I should wake her to pee, but don’t want to take the power away from her. Also, this is the quietest she’s been in weeks.

10:12am: Olive is still sleeping so I poured myself a glass of wine and flipped on the TV to catch up on Girls.

10:34am: I’m on my third glass of wine and Olive is still sleeping. Fighting the urge to wake her and put her out to pee. She is so cute when she is sleeping. I think when she wakes up I am going to put her in one of her little dresses, put some Red Bull in a martini glass for her, and we can have “yappy hour.”

1:12pm: Fuck, I fell asleep after my 4th glass of wine. Olive shat in the living room and it has bits of bright orange in it. I think the Cheetos were a bad idea. I calmly told her that she had to clean it up herself by picking it up with a tissue and throwing it in the toilet. It then occurred to me that if Olive could reach the toilet, this would alleviate a lot of our potty training issues.

1:26pm: I have left the back patio door open in hopes that Olive will at least feel the urge to go outside to pee.

1:32pm: Olive is in the kitchen, sitting by the remaining cans of Red Bull, whining. Shit….I think she’s hooked on the Bull.

1:43: I give up, toss Olive outside, slam the patio door shut, and open a second bottle of wine.

My husband can deal with this when he gets home. I’m too drunk to be consistent at this point.

Mother of the Year.

The Ferber Method: Letting Your Dog Bark it Out

I did something terrible to Olive the Renegade the other day, and I think sharing it will somehow make it seem less horrible than if I keep it to myself.

I yelled at her. Specifically, I screamed “Shut your whore mouth, Olive!”

I know – screaming at a 5 pound dog to shut her whore mouth is probably the equivalent of stealing candy from a baby and then slapping that baby. Although, your baby should not have had candy in the first place, she’s just a baby and you’re a terrible parent. I probably just saved your baby from a lifelong struggle with sugar addiction.

Back to Olive.

Olive has become increasingly more demanding. I blame myself for coddling her. I let her get away with terrible behavior that I would never let the bigger dogs get away with. She’s become an entitled, spoiled…..I’m just going to say it, asshole. She’s become an entitled little asshole. And I take 100% responsibility for this.

One of the ways she has been acting out recently is by barking non-stop if she is not getting attention. Like if we are in a different room and she can’t come in with us, she will bark. For a fucking hour straight, if she has to.

The Bad Seed

The Bad Seed

I remembered back to the research I had done when I decided to apply parenting techniques to deal with Violet the Screaming Dog’s issues with eating random crap off of the ground. I read about this Dr. Ferber guy who is a genius because he managed to turn being lazy into an official parenting method.

Basically, Dr. Ferber didn’t feel like getting up every single time his kid screamed, so he decided to ignore it until it stopped. He realized that this was a winning idea and was like, “Hey, I can just name this idea after myself and people will totally buy it because I’m a doctor and I will make a shit-ton of money” (not a direct quote).

So this guy essentially trademarked laziness and is hailed as a parenting genius because it is now an official parenting method that parents can point to when they don’t feel like changing their kids’ diapers every time it cries. He calls letting a baby cry it out until it goes hoarse and dehydrates itself, “self-soothing.”  All of these lazy  Ferby parents practice “Ferberizing” their kids, which means they let the baby scream its head off while they enjoy a glass of wine in front of the TV, as they fucking should. Parenting is hard work and they deserve a break. Screw that dramatic baby and all its screaming. Call its bluff.

Since learning about this guy, I am a devoted Ferby, and have been Ferberizing everything. When my husband asks me if I can help out by doing some laundry, I just ignore him until he gets angry, then I scream “SELF SOOTHE!!!”. When I go to yoga class and just sit on my yoga mat drinking wine out of my sippy cup, I ignore my instructor’s repeated requests for me to participate, and then when she orders me to leave class, I just whisper, “shhh shhh….self soothe”. This method works in virtually any situation. I encourage you to try it at work. Don’t do any work and ignore your manager’s requests to finish any projects that are due and, if he or she threatens to write you up, just calmly ask them to self-soothe.

Namaste Juice

Namaste Juice

I decided to Ferberize Olive when she started this new “barking for attention” act of hers, which has been surprisingly difficult. Adult dogs have WAY more stamina and staying power than newborn infants. I’m not a parent, but I would have to imagine that, at some point, the baby eventually stops screaming out of fear of popping a blood vessel in its eye, or at least loses its will to live and love, and just gives up and retreats into itself. Not a dog, no way. They are not gifted with any sort of rationale and, as it turns out, will bark for hours on end. Which makes Ferberizing them very difficult. But I’ve hung in there….until Sharon came.

Sharon is the back injury that I incurred earlier this week, and that bitch has had me on bed rest ever since. I named my back injury “Sharon” because it gives me a more tangible thing at which to be annoyed. But Sharon has also cost me my patience. The day after I first got Sharon, I was exhausted because I got virtually no sleep the night before, from all of the pain. So I was laying on the couch, in terrible pain, totally tired, and trying to sleep. I had just finally started to doze off, when Olive started one of her barking marathons.

“No…not this time…I can’t take it,” I pleaded with her. But she just kept on barking away, without a care in the world. After about 20 minutes, with her still barking strong, I said more firmly, “Olive! Today is NOT the day to do this, knock it off!”. She still kept going. 30 seconds later, it happened:


Olive stopped barking. I’m sure because my screaming startled her, but I was convinced it was because I had just damaged her psyche by calling her a whore. I felt so terrible that I hobbled out of bed and over to her, then picked her up and brought her on the couch with me. I was sure that letting her sleep with me would somehow rectify the terrible emotional abuse I had just inflicted upon her. Of course, on her end, it just looked like her incessant barking paid off. And so the cycle continues.

So there it is, my moment of weakness and terrible dog ownership. I’m still not sure if my harsh words will have any lasting effect on Olive. I don’t know if she will have a bright future as planned, or if she will end up on the pole. But I will forge ahead and try to control my hateful words in the future.

For the record, this Dr. Ferber has written nothing that I can find about how to recover after calling your baby a whore.

Why You DON’T Want a Husband Who Does Dishes: Just Call My Husband Bambi

Calm-ass Husband is like a deer. I really should just start calling him “dear,” because it is far more accurate. Although those things are spelled two different ways, I suspect he won’t notice when I’m saying it.

Growing up in Western New York, you become quickly familiar with the fact that deer are everywhere and love nothing more than for you to hit them with your car.

Ok that is not true, but when deer get hit by a car it is because they often either ran right in front of it, or sometimes even right into it. It is the most annoying thing ever because you don’t WANT to hit the deer, but they often leave you with little choice. They get blinded and confused by your headlights or something, I don’t know. I just always assumed they were suicidal.

I liken CAH to a deer because, whenever I go into our rather small kitchen to make food, he immediately runs in to do dishes. So then we get stuck in this pattern of bumping into one another and completely being in each other’s way. I’ve pointed this out to him on numerous occasions, but much like a deer drawn to the headlights of a car, CAH is still drawn to dirty dishes only when I’m about to cook.

Sidebar: I am in no way perfect and I know that CAH has his annoyances. For example, I am terrible at recycling and he has tried to drill it into my head over and over, but he still ends up having to root through the trash for recyclables, and vice versa. It got worse when we started having to keep our trash in the garage because one of our dogs developed a trash-diving habit. I just started throwing everything into the recycling can, which was still in our kitchen. Then I decided to actually try to recycle, and that didn’t go well:

CAH: Did you put a pine cone in recycling??
WAW: Yeah, that’s not recyclable?
CAH: What makes you think a pine cone is recyclable??
WAW: Because it’s like wood? And paper is made out of wood and paper is recyclable!
CAH: Where did you even find a pine cone in the house??
WAW: Under a chair, it must have rolled there when we were taking down the Christmas decorations.
CAH: And why would you not just toss it over the side of the balcony, to the wooded area below where there are other pine cones??
WAW: Because recycling was closer and I’m trying to recycle more!


And just so you don’t think I am a terrible wife for calling him out here publicly with his whole “Deer in the Headlights” act, he totally called out my pine cone recycling on Facebook:

wiseass wife

I know what you are thinking, “But your husband DOES DISHES – why are you complaining??”. I guess I am not complaining about the fact that he does dishes so much as his poor timing. I mean, if you know I’m going to be in the kitchen, do the dishes before or after, for the love of PETE!

But recently I drew the line!

I have a weekend morning ritual that is important to me. I wake up and take “my dogs” (AKA Violet the Screaming Dog, and Olive the Renegade) upstairs with me to have coffee and waste a few hours on Pinterest, while CAH gets to have some extra cuddle time with “his” dog, Dexter the Doberman.


This ritual is especially exciting now that I have my big-ass coffee cup that I found at Ikea:

Olive the Renegade terrified that she's going to be taken out by a huge cup of coffee

Olive the Renegade terrified that she’s going to be taken out by a huge cup of coffee

But I was OUT OF COFFEE! There was a tiny little bit left, which I was able to make with a little french press coffee cup that CAH bought me, but it was nowhere near the half-gallon of coffee my Ikea cup could hold.

I managed to talk CAH into running to the store to buy me some more coffee (I didn’t want to put on pants) and I impatiently waited for him to get back. Then when he did, I excitedly ran into the kitchen to make my coffee – at which point CAH decided it was the perfect time to unload the fucking dishwasher.

Dejected, I sighed and returned to the couch and waited for him to finish. He also apparently felt it a good time to wipe down the counters. I swear he does this shit on purpose. Probably to get me back for the pine cone incident.

So he finally leaves the kitchen and I make my coffee and pour it into my big-ass mug and walk back to the couch. Only, in my attempt to find space on the coffee table for the big-ass mug, I knocked over the little french press mug and got coffee grounds all over the rug. CAH immediately let out a grumble and went to go get the rug cleaner. Upon his return to clean the carpet, I decided it was the perfect time to light the new oil that I bought during my Dollar Tree Haul, which put me squarely in the way of CAH cleaning up the spilled coffee grounds.

“I just want you to smell this new oil I bought, it’s so pretty,” I said, flashing my best, “sorry I spilled coffee on the rug” smile.

He just slowly nodded at me, staying quiet, like he was questioning some of his life decisions. I don’t think he even got the irony that I was now the deer in his headlights.

That’s Why We Call Her Mon Für-her: Mind the Chihuahua, She’ll Go All Rambo on Your Ass

I debated whether to use “Rambo” or “Michonne” in the title of this blog post. I think that Michonne is more accurate and a much more modern pop culture reference, but I get that not as many people are as insanely obsessed with the TV show The Walking Dead as CAH and me are. If you are not, what is wrong with you???

Ok, ok, some of you are reading this and saying, “The Walking Dead was first a graphic novel and the TV show has deviated from it significantly.”

I don’t need your judgement, comic book nerds.

You know what? I want to use Michonne, not Rambo. So for those of you who do not watch The Walking Dead, this is Michonne:

Pure bad-assed-ness

Pure bad-assed-ness

Ok so my dog Olive is Michonne, ok?

Olive didn’t quite survive the zombie apocalypse, but she did survive living in a triple-wide trailer with 800 other dogs. That is not a typo. 800 other dogs. The police had to go and bust the owners and everything.

Needless to say it was a pretty bad scene and dogs were competing for food. There was apparently a lot of dog fighting, and many dogs were missing paws. Like they had been chewed off by other dogs.

So as you can see, like Michonne, Olive has seen some shit.

And so when we brought home a doberman and, a year later, a pit bull, Olive went full-on prison inmate on their asses.

Don't let this fool you - she will hurt you.

Don’t let this fool you – she will hurt you.

I’ve never been to prison, so I can only go off of what I’ve learned from “American Me” and watching a marathon of “America’s Hardest Prisons.” I’ve also toured Alcatraz multiple times.

So when we bring home a new dog who outweighs her by 50+ pounds, Olive has a distinct orientation process:

1. Immediately jumps up and bites them in the face so they know what she is capable of
2. Jumps in one of our laps and bares her teeth and growls at them, so they get that we are her bitches and they are not allowed to come near us
3. Retires to her bed where she proceeds to fashion a shiv out of a toothbrush while never breaking eye contact with them. **

** This last one may be an embellishment.

In each instance that this happened, both dogs looked at me quizzically, silently demanding an explanation for this terrible behavior, and all I could do was shrug my shoulders and say, “She’s seen some shit. She survived in a triple-wide trailer with 800 other dogs and she is NOT one of the dogs who is missing a paw.”

This is about the time that they resign themselves to the fact that their lives will now be ruled by a 5-pound dog with a grudge and a low bite inhibition. And that is why we call her Mon Für-her.**

And for proof that chihuahuas and pit bulls can lovingly coexist, you should check out one of my favorite Facebook pages, Pit Bulls and Chihuahuas. There is so much pit-chi cuteness on there, you will want to squeeze your computer screen.

** Intentionally spelled like this; how funny is it that rearranging the letters in Fuhrer can give you words to denote a demonic female dog?