Doggie Deathwatch

Let’s be honest. The only reason I’m not on medication right now is my personal standards for normal behavior are abysmally low. I sometimes yell at my husband. I often threaten to sell a cranky child to the next band of passing gypsies. And I may sometimes have a glass (or two) of wine with (instead of) dinner. In general, I can look at all the aforementioned behaviors, shrug and say, “I’ll do better tomorrow.” But events have taken a troublesome turn lately. I’ve started a death watch on my dog, Gus.

I bet you’re thinking, “No big deal. All pets have to go sometime.” And I agree. If Gus were 20 years old with bad hips it would be one thing. But he’s a perfectly healthy 7-year-old with no health concerns whatsoever. And yet I catch myself staring at him...trying to assess the earliest possible moment that he might kick the bucket. Without any assistance from me of course.

I should clarify...I don’t actually want to KILL my dog. If murder were on my mind, I would hustle off to the nearest pharmacy ASAP. I think I’m just anxious to stop picking dog hair off the babies’ clothes, bottles, pacifiers and mouths. Also, he has a tendency to roll in smelly, dead things. And there are occasional poop issues. Not that he isn’t house trained, but to put it delicately, I haven’t been able to make him understand that grass -- not the living room rug -- is meant to be used as doggie toilet paper.

What really disturbs me about my ghoulish pastime is that Gus is my little baby doggie. From six weeks on, he has rarely left my side. In our childless years, he made my arms less empty and was happy to be on the receiving end of all the love and affection I could lavish on my fuzzy pseudo-child. Then the unthinkable happened...I had REAL children. And I’m not ashamed to tell you -- although I SWORE it wouldn’t happen -- I love them more. And poor Gus gets the short end of the stick, the fuzzy end of the lolly pop, the broken bits of biter biscuit -- o.k. he gets pretty excited over that last part, but you get the point. I’ve gone from Doggie Mama to Grim Reaper in the blink of an eye.

I figure he’s got at least 10 years on him, by the way. Plenty of time for all four boys to get really attached before the inevitable happens. Maybe it’s not the hair or the smell or all the extra work. I wonder if it’s simply the dread of helping four small boys deal with the death of something they love. Maybe I’m simply hoping he’ll go sooner to make his passing less painful on their little hearts.

Nope. It’s definitely the hair. Seven years down...10 more to go. I wonder if it would be easier to just vacuum the dog instead of the floor? Seriously, I told you I needed medication!!!

Please Feed the Monkeys

Remember when we were kids and you could feed the monkeys popcorn, peanuts and your leftover hot dog? Pretty much anything went in those days and anyone showing up at the zoo could expect to share a meal with an exotic creature before going home. Those days may be long gone at the local zoo, but are happily alive and well at my house. Should you happen to drop by during feeding time (and I have no intention of broadcasting when that might be, lest you all start trying to avoid it) you can look forward to a chance at feeding one of four lively monkeys currently in residence. Don’t try protesting that baby food makes you gag. Baby food makes anyone over 12 months old violently ill. And if I can do it day in and day out, you can suffer through it at least once per visit.

The biggest monkey has a fairly undiscerning palate and will take a shot at most foods -- without much preference for color, taste or texture. This is probably why most anyone who has ventured into the playroom more than once almost immediately calls dibs on Big Monkey if it looks like a feeding is about to take place. He’s so easy to please that he was the only one who ate all the Beech Nut discontinued flavors I found on closeout at Publix. Before you start sending me hate mail, they weren’t old or filled with botulism...just flavors that were being discontinued because of a decided lag in popularity. Judging by the fact that the other two monkeys gagged and cried when I tried to make them eat it, I would have to say Beech Nut made a good business decision there. All in all, Big Monkey is a great choice if you’re new to the zoo and want to start slowly.

Bouncy Monkey, pictured above happily wearing most of his dinner, is a bit trickier and -- I must confess -- is consistently avoided by his Big Ape daddy who says a moving target with its tongue stuck out is too much for anyone to handle. On the upside, Bouncy Monkey will eat most foods offered. Also, if you pop in a Baby Einstein DVD it will distract Bouncy Monkey long enough for you to shove the majority of his food in before he resumes his impression of a rocking horse on amphetamines. Should you arrive at mealtime and find that Big Monkey has already been claimed, Bouncy Monkey is a good second choice.

Finally comes Picky Monkey. Picky Monkey finds meal times to be a little unsettling, and should you find yourself paired with Picky Monkey on your first visit, you might decide they’re downright traumatic. In addition to having issues with taste, texture and color (sweet foods only, no chunks and nothing green), Picky Monkey needs a calm, relaxing environment in order to maintain an even temperament during meals. This is why it is critical never to let Picky Monkey sit by Big Monkey at feeding time. As I mentioned before, Big Monkey has an almost evangelical zeal for his food. Sometimes he just gets so happy, he has to shout a “Hallelujah!” over his sweet potatoes, or a big fat “Amen!” after his strained ham. He doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s just feeling good about being fed. Unfortunately, these random bouts of screeching tend to push Picky Monkey right off the deep end resulting in him crying hysterically while staring at Big Monkey like he’s the devil. At this point you have to halt the feeding process entirely and reassure Picky Monkey that Big Monkey is NOT the devil, and that no one is mad, and that no one is going to scream again, and would he please for the love of God eat his sweet, orange, not-in-the-least-bit-chunky food before we all die of old age.

Oh! I almost forgot about Cheeky Monkey!! Cheeky Monkey being a whopping two-and-a-half years old is in a much different league than his brothers. Before even trying to feed Big, Bouncy or Picky, you have to spend at least 20 minutes begging Cheeky Monkey to eat the turkey sandwich, cheese stick, chips and fruit cup you’ve prepared for him. The few bites you manage to coax him into will be thoroughly chewed, then spit back onto his Backyardigans plate that you naively thought would make him want to eat more. After you give up and move on to the Monkey triumvirate, Cheeky Monkey will experience a sudden surge in appetite forcing him to eat YOUR turkey sandwich, cheese stick, chips and fruit cup while you’re not looking. And that’s if you’re LUCKY. We won’t even discuss how he can put things in his mouth and return them to your plate seemingly as good as new -- leaving you to wonder if that chip you just put in your mouth was soggy from the leaky fruit cup or for some other, much more disgusting reason.

Now that you have some idea of what awaits you, we’re all looking forward to seeing you down here at the zoo. Remember, admission is free! So come on in and bring your friends!

Post-Thanksgiving Report

Hello, all! Hope you've enjoyed your turkey sandwiches, turkey dressing, turkey soup, turkey hash, etc. It's a shame Christmas is so close to Thanksgiving, because I really don't want to see another turkey before sometime in February. Maybe the Cattlemen's Association should run some kind of ad campaign touting a nice beef filet for Christmas. Something along the lines of "Beef...at least it's not turkey." Maybe the veggie farmers should get in on the act with "Salad, because you're not as young as you used to be and roughage is your friend." Okay, so advertising taglines aren't my forte...sue me.

Our holiday included dinner at our house, and an early Christmas with Aunt Marie (Ree Ree), since her next visit won't take place until spring. Jack got a genuine plastic "Go, Diego, Go!" watch and now informs us at all times of the day and night that it is, in fact, nine o'clock. Nine is his new favorite number, and comes immediately after two, but just before twenty. That puts his math skills roughly on par with mine.

Anyhow, since the bathtub incident, poor Jack has been placed on an every other night bath schedule because his dad can't take the strain of it every day. Unfortunately, things got hectic last night, and he is now three days out. The poor little thing asked for a bath right after breakfast this morning. My child had to ASK to be bathed. Moments like these highlight the fact that my mother of the year award may be delayed a few decades.

I should point out that I was under the weather yesterday, which threw everyone into survival mode -- ensuring that Saturday was a NO BATH day for most of the inhabitants of the Burrus Zoo. What I thought was a vicious 24 hour bug, has stretched into 48. But on the plus side, I'm now 4 lbs. below my starting weight with the triplets. I still have about 9 lbs. to go before I'm back at my pre-Jack weight, so cross your fingers for a 72 hour bug.

Just in case anyone is considering calling Child Services, the triplets got their bath this morning and Jack will absolutely, positively get one before bed tonight -- come what may. And we all know that could be just about ANYTHING, so I'll keep you posted.