Rat Dog Extraordonaire!

With the passage of my beloved Tequila dog, I have turned to our family's other Chihuahua, Saketini Sock It To Me, for my dose of canine companionship.
Saki, as he is called, along with other nicknames, such as Wiener, Wienie, Rat Dog, etc, is a sweet boy with a messed up eye and Billy Bob teeth. He also has seizures, which result in loss of control, but he is such a good boy that i have put my fingers in his mouth (I know--smart owner!) and never been bitten.
The Man, who loves a lost cause, decided we had to have the mentally challenged dog instead of its normal litter mate.
So it's all his fault.
Saki is a good dog, having survived Bug's WWF body slam stage, Harvey's attempts to play, which involved picking up a pissed off rat dog and carrying him, squealing, around the yard.
Saki adores my heathens, mostly because they have food, and spends a good portion of his life running from them or trying to steal french fries from their grubby little paws.
Although Saki will never replace Tequila in my heart, he has certainly lessened the heartache and made the loss of my canine companion a bit easier.
And looking at him makes me laugh.

Out of the mouths of heathens

The Man: Boo, do you want to watch SpongeBob or Sesame Street?

Boo: Daddy, Says and me Street is freaking over!

Lessons Learned

I've learned a valuable lesson this week.
When that pretty little service engine light comes on in your car, don't do anything.
Don't take it to a mechanic.
Don't ask whats wrong.
Just keep driving.
More money that I want to admit, I am bailing out a car "that was driving just fine when I took it in" out of the mechanics.
My Xterra, which has been a tried and true trooper, bailed on me, resulting in the new parts I can't explain or identify. My wallet is now much thinner and I'm sobbing on my checkbook.
So I've learned a lesson. When that light comes on in the future, I'm going to celebrate it in all its pretty orange glowy-ness. I'm going to decorate it and live with it and enjoy it, because if I take it in, I won't have money to enjoy anything every again!

Boo boo'd Boo

Boo is a tad bit clumsy.
He falls over a speck of lint on the floor, and like my brother, lands smack on his face every time.
Child can't land on his butt to save his life.
Yesterday, while outside with The Man and the other heathens, Boo decided to take a tumble off the steps, land on his hand, smash his nose on the hand, and cut his forehead.
When I got home yesterday, he had skid marks on his nose and a cut on his head and a proud, "I fell down and went splat" mentality.
Boys! Next thing I expect is flying body slams and monster truck races.
And The Man will be right in the midst of it, the biggest hillbilly of them all.

Palpitations

My children are trying to kill me.
This morning, I get up to dress for work, and I do what I do every morning. I went in to check on the heathens.
Number one heathen. Check.
Number three heathen. Check.
Number two heathen---not in his bed.
No worries. I knew Boo liked to crawl into Bug's bed, so I pat down for an extra body. Nope. not there. still not panicking, I look around the house, checking the couch, since he's migrated there in the middle of the night before.
No Boo.
By now, the panic has set in. I have visions of a pedophile sneaking into our home and taking my blue eyed boy and us snoring through it.
I shriek at The Man, "I can't find Boo!" and he, being military trained, jumps out of bed and pushes past me to go pat beds and stare dumbly at the empty spot in Boo's bed.
Meanwhile, I flip on the bedroom light, almost sobbing, as The Man gets on his hands and knees to peer under beds.
Spotting a blue footie clad little boy, whose rubbing his eyes, blinking sleepily, and eyeing me with suspicion as he crawls out from under his brothers bed.
He had reason to eye me. I was shaking and clutching my chest and make fish faces as I gasped for air.
Shove a nitro under my tongue. I'm done.

Holy Molar!

We have molars.
Three in fact.
All broken through in the last day.
My daughter has returned to her normal happy, evil self, which makes the Man and I breathe a sigh of relief.
And they weren't the teeth we were expecting.
Punk has three front top teeth, two front bottom teeth, then skips two places, and has one bottom molar and two top molars.
My daughter has baby Billy Bob teeth.
But my wee little hillbilly is sleeping once more and has stopped schreeching at the moon like a cat in heat, so I don't really care.
I'll invest in baby dentures and call it good.
The world is a happy place once more.

Doggone exercise

As previously posted, I'm trying to get the inner skinny biyotch out before she smothers in the post baby weight mastodon I have become.
In order to achieve this goal, I have begun walking during my lunch break and on the weekends.
On the weekends, I make The Man's big dog, Harvey Wallbanger, accompany me, much to his dismay.
Harvey is a 120 plus pound giant Schnauzer who is a qualified AKC good citizen and who knows that he is the stronger of the two of us.
He may be the stronger one, but that doesn't mean he wins when we fight.
Hew, like his master, The Man, rolls over and whimpers, showing off the nice white underbelly and praying I don't decide to eviscerate them.
Twice, at about 8 months pregnant, Harvey did something amazingly stupid, resulting in me waddling out into the front yard, snatching him, flipping him, and sitting on his back, head pressed to the ground while I yelled at him for ten solid minutes.
I had contractions. He peed. The neighbors got a good show, thus proving that, yes, I am white trash.
Harvey has since learned not o mess with me. He appeases me in true doggy style (Not how it sounds! Ew! Yuck! Pervert! I'm a redneck but not that kind!). He is subservient and demure. Yeah right. Just like The Man.
Until we go out to walk.
Then he thinks he's the boss.
And he's out to protect the little woman.
Problem is? Harvey a chicken.
Yep.
"Cluck! Cluck!"
If it came down to it, he'd leave me in a heartbeat. I keep him around because he looks scary--kind of like The Man.
While a madman murdered me, Harvey would be running with his stubby tail between his legs, looking for a place to hide.
To appease The Man, I tell him Harvey is surely tough and would defend me. I thoroughly expect to have Scooby Doo and Shaggy moment--Harvey getting spooked and me staggering under the weight of a big old lap dog.
I feel safer when I have a Chihuahua with me.
Hell, Saki can't see out of one eye and has a screwed up set of Billy Bob teeth, but he's at least got attitude.
As he spins in circles and tries to get you on his one good side.
Moral of this story? If you drive by and see a woman holding a hug black dog in her arms while a rat wearing a sage green sweatshirt weaves in and out of her feet, you'll know its me.
Wave and smile and move on.
Or pick up the madman whose trying not to fall over laughing.
I guess it all counts as exercise, doesn't it?