a long, TMI journey

This sext brought to you by Simple Human. 

(No, this is not a sponsored post. You'll see.)

Ike is apparently on a 5+ year mission to destroy everything we own. Basically, Ike is why we can't have nice things. Yet he's also why we had to buy a $50 Simple Human pet proof trash can. (Isn't that... ironike?)

But Ike was too smart for the trash can, and one night I came home to find it across the house. Trash and blueberry footprints were strewn across the floor, and an empty bag of frozen blueberries (which had been full when I threw it away) sat at the end of the trail.

Google informed me that blueberries were safe for dogs to eat, so I forgot about the whole thing until the next day, when Ike and I were taking a walk.

Ike usually doesn't do any business of the number two variety on walks, but as we entered a park in our neighborhood, he made it pretty clear that he needed to empty his bowels. I didn't have any bags, and leading him off to a discreet corner wasn't an option because the park was packed for an AIDS walk. I pulled Ike, mid squat, to an information booth and managed to find some bags. Problem solved.

Except do you know what happens after eating an entire gallon sized bag of blueberries? Blueberry diarrhea happens. And do you know what happens when you try to pick up blueberry diarrhea with a flimsy plastic bag? Shit. Shit happens. It happens all over your hands.

Luckily, with the event going on, there were 15 port-o-potties lining the park, with a portable hand washing station nearby. I set off to wash my hands, but by the time I got to the station I had a new mission: wipe Ike's, um, butthole. Is there a more glamorous word to describe that body part? Let's go with trou de derriere. Everything is ritzier in French.

Anyway, Ike's trou de derriere had not escaped the blueberry diarrhée cleanly.

It looked like an alien crime scene. And people were noticing. So wiping was necessary.

Those portable hand washing stations sure are convenient. They have a sink, soap and paper towels. BUT THEY DON'T HAVE A TRASH CAN WHICH IS REALLY NECESSARY WHEN YOU WIPE YOUR DOG'S BUTT.

pause while I remind myself why I keep this creature around.

Now, picture me walking around this park for a good five minutes, carrying the most disgusting paper towel you can possibly imagine, still with the explosion from before all over my hands, desperately searching for a trash can. This was not exactly the pleasant walk I had imagined.

But I found the trash can, I washed my hands, and life went on. I even stopped to take this picture on the way out:

And when I turned around from snapping my masterpiece, I saw that Ike had created his very own encore masterpiece behind me.

Back to the washing station it was.

Thanks, Simple Human.

(All opinions are my own.) 

Ike lately (2014.1)

One Saturday, I was intently typing on my computer when I heard a noise. I looked up and saw this.  Apparently the noise I had heard was a chorus of angels.


"Um," Y said as we arrived home from dinner, "Why is your high school diploma on the floor?" I hadn't seen my high school diploma in years. My first thought: weirdest home burglary ever? Nope - just another case of my dog ate my diploma. Y's too. How Ike realized he needed to eat them in a pair, I'll never know. 


Usually when we leave the house, I say one of two things to Ike: Have a stinky day or the more practical No parties. This night, we came home to find that he clearly had not listened to the latter.


Proof that this dog will snuggle with anything he finds on the floor (if he deems it inedible). On a related note, when we first moved here Y was disappointed to learn that the haircut chain Great Clips was not, in fact, an entire store full of bag clips.


I thought Ike was chewing on a bone, but when I got a little closer I realized, nope, it was a wine cork. Turns out our dog might be a bit of an oenophile. (Please take a moment to appreciate that I spelled that right on the first try.)

I felt like I needed to show the world my amazing new sweatshirt, but Ike had other plans.

When Y was working nights (and sleeping days), Ike just didn't understand why he wouldn't wake up and play with him.

when your dog eats a chicken bone

It all started because I thought there was fried chicken on the ground.

You have to understand that in Louisiana, where I lived for most of my life, finding discarded fried chicken on the ground is not uncommon. So when Ike grabbed something off the sidewalk the other day, I was sure it was yesterday's chicken, ready to rip up Ike's insides and cause internal bleeding that would lead to his untimely demise.

(I'm a very glass-half-full kind of person.)

I made a snap decision that I was going in. And by that I mean that I stuck both of my arms in his mouth -- one hand held his top jaw open, the other held the bottom -- and shook his head, hoping the chicken bone would fall onto the ground.

It's important to note that when you stick your hands deep down the throat of a dog who is in the process of chewing something delicious, he'll probably bite you. That happened. Right on that soft piece of skin between my thumb and forefinger. I never realized how crucial that part of my body is to, well, function. I will never take it for granted again.

Anyway, I persevered, determined to get the chicken bone to freefall out of Ike's mouth.

And it did.

Except it was a granola bar, not fried chicken.

Lesson learned -- in Shreveport people litter leftover fried chicken. In Minneapolis, they litter granola bars.

beer & consequences

One day last month, Y accusingly pointed out that I needed to post in my blog.

"Give me something to write about," I retorted.

He delivered, but I kind of wish he hadn't

See, Y's new hobby is brewing beer.

His other hobby is not taking out the trash... which is actually a hobby we share.

On this particular day, Y was brewing a new batch, resulting in discarded hops filling our trash can. 

We left the house soon after for dinner and drinks at Marvel Bar, which I'm pretty sure is the hipster capital of the world. I mean, only a bar catering to hipsters would have an unmarked, underground entrance and serve the most delicious, well thought out cocktails made with liquor you have to Google, and then offer just one, blissfully ironic food item: Cheetos. 

ANYWAY. Back to the story of how Y almost killed our dog. 

Yep, that's what this story is about. When we returned home from our night of craft cocktails and Cheetos and found garbage strewn around the kitchen, we didn't think twice. We always take out the trash when there's food in the bag, and Ike is surprisingly skilled at detecting the difference between food and not food. We assumed he just moved some paper towels around with his snout and buried a loaf of bread

But later that night, as I got into bed, Ike began panting uncontrollably. And, just like when you're not sure of the liquor you're about to order, when you're not sure what the f is wrong with your dog, you google that shit. Here are the things that can cause your dog to pant uncontrollably:

1. pain

2. cardiac arrest 

My smart and discerning readers will understand by now that Ike was poisoned by Y's hops. So at three in the morning, we sped to our nearest emergency vet, where 4 notable things happened:

1. The vet injected Ike with fluids that caused him to have a terrifying hunchback.

2. The vet told us Ike would be okay, and that it was probably the pitbull in him that saved him. Apparently, hops are insanely toxic to some breeds ("A greyhound will look at hops and die"), but pitbull isn't one of them.

3. The vet googled Y's name, found out that he was a resident, and proceeded to speak in Medicine-ese and ignore me the rest of the visit. 

4. The vet told us we had to take Ike's temp rectally every hour for the rest of the night, and I traded in my "THIS WAS YOUR FAULT card" and went to sleep.

And that's why you always leave a note take out the trash.

ike's struggles

A lot of people have asked me how Ike is adapting to our move. In fact, more people have asked me about Ike than have asked me how Y is adapting to having a real life job where he works 14.5 hour days and is partially responsible for people's lives.

But I digress. Back to the interesting member of my family.

Ike's biggest challenge has been finding that perfect spot on our new couch. Please keep him in your thoughts as he continues on his journey. 

The other thing Ike's been getting used to is a smaller yard. The other day he ran into our fence while chasing a ball. I'll admit, I teared up when he yelped in pain as his snout scraped the wood.

I'll also admit that I laugh every.single.time the cut on his snout causes him to sneeze eight times in a row.

adventures in hats and homeowner's insurance

Recently an insurance company, who shall remain nameless but may or may not have a reptile as a spokesperson, refused to give us a quote for homeowner's insurance. Why?

We can neither confirm nor deny that our dog has pitbull in him. 

I just want to have an insurance agent spend the day with Ike. Maybe this would help them to understand that Ike doesn't deal in ripping people's faces off, he deals in snuggling their face off. 

This dog is just not agressive. I mean, the poor creature is scared of hats. Literally. When I want Ike to get away from me, I hold my hand over his head and ask him if he wants a hat. He's across the house before I can clarify whether I mean a top hat, sombrero, or just a simple baseball cap. 

The curious thing about this particular fear is that he seems to be more afraid of the word "hat" than he is actual hats. I can place something on Ike's head without issue. But as soon as I inform him that what is on his head is, in fact, a hat - he bolts. 

This amuses Y and me. What could have possibly happened in his three weeks of life before we met him to create such an aversion to the word "hat"? Was he part of some kind of dog fighting ring with the stagename Hat? Does he think I'm saying "cat"? Cats are pretty scary. 

I could ponder this all day. Y would rather make animated gifs on the topic.

There's one thing we can  both agree on: we will certainly not be using the insurance company who may or may not have a reptile for a spokesperson for our homeowner's insurance. Their loss -  I have a feeling Flo, the dad from Juno, or even Mayhem are cool with our snuggly, hat-fearing mutt.  

(PS Ike is also inexplicably scared of Cameron Diaz)

TGIFaces of Ike

This morning I got an e-mail from J. Crew about a big sale, today only. "Give TGIF a whole new meaning," it said. I rolled my eyes and thought,  TGIF is so overused. It's not even clever anymore, J. Crew. Surely Jenna Lyons had nothing to do with this e-mail. 

Then, as I prepared to publish this blog post about the many faces of Ike, I realized I had about 50 pictures in one post. Why not split them up and make it a weekly series? Of course TGIF was my first thought for a title. And suddenly, it felt like a great idea. It's so ubiquitous! Everyone understands it! Jenna Lyons even encourages her marketing team to use it in e-mails! 

Anyway. Happy Friday, and here's Ike:

gratuitous ike: i'm gonna get it

3 and a half years ago, we visited a puppy that had been left in a box outside of the animal shelter. It was love at first sight.

Would we have agreed to adopt him if we knew how much he shed? I suppose so.

If we knew he was going to destroy 2 couches? Sure.

If we knew he was going to bust our next door neighbor's lip by jumping up skull first in excitement? I guess so. 

If we knew I would have to replace pretty much my entire shoe collection? Yes. (That was fun.)

But if I had known about this, it might have been a deal breaker. If the shelter would have come right out and said that Ike would deal with the absence of his alpha male in this way, things would have been a lot different.

Because when Y leaves Ike and I alone together, Ike whines. And whines. And whines. And continues whining until he gets what he wants. And all Ike wants is for me to chase him and his bone in a circle around the coffee table over and over again. While informing him I'm going to get his bone.

This is the only thing that will make him stop crying.

I recorded it. Because it's kind of amusing... the first time. 

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DRwAs_wl1wc]

weekly gratuitous ike: cutest injury ever?

The vet tech looked guilty as she led Ike out to meet us. We had just returned from Boston, and were picking Ike up from being boarded in a 3 foot wide room for 6 days. 

"He's bleeding," she said, "from the tip of his tail." She was worried we would be mad, and the explanation rushed out, choppy. "I guess his room wasn't big enough for his tail and sometimes it hit the wall." 

The reunion was exciting, and we didn't follow. "What?" we managed to ask while being bombarded with licks.

The vet tech looked down at the ground, ashamed she had let us down. "He wagged his tail so much it started bleeding."

weekly gratuitous ike: really really ridiculously good looking

There's something you need to know about Ike.

Every night when we get into bed, Ike sits patiently on the floor to our left. He's figured out that as soon as we unfold the comforter -- the barrier Ike sleeps on so we can keep his hair from getting all over us -- he's allowed to get onto the bed.  

When the comforter unfolds, his ears perk up. He knows that's his cue.

And this is where it gets tragic. 

He doesn't get on the bed right away. Because Ike is not an ambi-jumper. 

It's a problem he's had since he was a baby. He can't jump onto the bed from the left side.

So when he gets the signal to get on the bed, he has to run to the right side of the bed to jump up. He leaps up victoriously, turns around in a circle a few times, and settles in for the night at our feet.

I know what you're thinking - it's surprising that a seemingly perfect animal has such a remarkable flaw. We're clearly heartbroken over here.  Won't you make a donation to the Center for Puppies Who Can't Jump Good?

P.S. If you really get me (you can read minds?) you knew this was coming:

weekly gratuitous ike: reflection

On Halloween, I dressed Ike in his costume before we went on our walk. His costume was... a dog in a hat. 

This was the hat - photo taken New Year's Eve.

Then I giggled for the duration of the walk. I'm sure we were quite the sight, a girl in hysterics and a dog in a fancy hat.

Once I was done giggling, I started to feel bad for poor Ike. I believe that those 10 minutes spent wearing a hat in public traumatized him and forced him to re-evaluate his life. 

So I made a video about it. 

Click here to watch it on Facebook, or here to watch on Youtube - I hope it makes you smile.  


I've decided to apply for non-profit status.

The amount of time I spend scooping up lost dogs I find on the side of the road could be considered a part-time job. In the past 2 weeks, I've helped return 6 dogs to their owners. I've been late to work twice and missed one appointment. But I can't not stop and pick up a dog that's wandering in and out of traffic, who obviously belongs to someone. It just comes with the territory of being a crazy dog lady. 

 All of this dog-rescuing, besides being kind of a pain in the ass, has me thinking about what I would do if Ike got lost. When he somehow escaped through our fence (aka teleported) last year, I wondered why we didn't just keep a stack of pre-made "missing" posters. 

So today I made some. Because I'm a paranoid, crazy dog lady with too much time on my hands, I have missing dogs on the brain, and I don't think this would be a bad idea for all pet owners to do. 

(Also because I wanted to remind you that my dog has a heart on his back.)

PS, My neighborhood also specializes in lost babies. That story never gets old.

International Pet Vacation Day

It's been awhile since I've posted a story about Ike (well, it's been awhile since I've posted anything at all). To be honest, it's hard.  All I want to do is talk about Ike. He sits! He yawns! He whines at the door! He cocks his head when I say "laundry"! It's all SO CUTE. But you would stop reading if I posted that kind of stuff everyday. (It's ok, I would stop reading, too.)

But I know you guys love Ike. So I subconsciously created a story for you in the form of an incredibly specific dream two nights ago. Here's what happened:

{we are now entering dream-world. none of this actually happened}

Ike was stolen from our house. (for real this time)

I woke up one morning and he was gone. There was no sign of breaking and entering, and neither Y nor I heard any strange noises in the middle of the night. We decided to keep vigil by the computer (I mean, where else are you going to do it?). Lucky that we did, because we soon received an e-mail with this picture:

From the fine print of the e-mail we learned that Hallmark decided that Patriot's Day (which is 9/11) was a little too depressing so close to the holiday season. So the execs at Hallmark, with their infinite holiday-inventing-power, decided that September 11th should be International Pet Vacation Day.

(Genius, right? No stealing, Hallmark. This amazing idea is copyright my sleeping brain.)

To get the word out about the new holiday, Hallmark implemented a guerilla marketing campaign: in the middle of the night, they would send a giant claw (much like one of those claw vending machine games) through the roofs of houses, steal family pets and send them away on a luxury vacation. Just when pet owners became frantic, Hallmark would send an electronic greeting card showing the pet having a fabulous time. How they knew each pet's exact dream-vacation, we'll never know. (It's eerie; Ike often speaks of his desire to roll in waves of the Atlantic.)

Shortly after the e-mail was received, Hallmark sent each pet back to their home, tanned and rested and ready to return to the strenuous life of being a furry family member. But I don't remember this part, because I woke up after the e-mail, laughing at myself for thinking up this stuff in my sleep.

wasps, home repairs, and grown ups

Life is hard right now. Not just because of the whole residency application thing, but for reasons that transcend med school. Over and over, we ask ourselves the same question: 

Are we grown ups yet?

Sure, we pay our bills on time and get paychecks (or loan checks, as the case may be for one of us).  And we go grocery shopping and take care of a living, breathing creature. 

But our methods of dealing with home repairs has me thinking the answer to the grown ups questions is  a big, fat no.

Take our strategy for dealing with pests. 

Stepping into the shower one morning, I noticed a wasp flying around my bathroom. For some reason, this didn't bother me, but had I seen a roach running across the floor I would have cried and probably ran out of my house naked looking for help. I hate roaches. The thought of them makes me feel the need to wash my hands.

Anyway, since this was a wasp and not a roach, I reacted sanely and sprayed it with wasp spray, flushed it down the toilet, and continued my shower. End of story.

The next day I saw this on the outside of my bathroom window:

Either the wasp knew I had killed its father inside of this very window and was plotting its revenge, or wasps always made their home in the bush outside of our bathroom and one happened to find a way inside. 

By the way, did you know that wasps have faces? Look at this guy's, doesn't he just look angry? 

Anyway, I told Y about the wasp outside the window and we both shrugged and forgot about it.  Day after day, the wasp continued to sleep under a leaf on the bush.

Until one night, when Y got serious about our little situation. In the middle of the night, I woke up as he sat straight up in bed and said something along the lines of, "the wasps are coming."

I rolled over and fell back asleep, and the next morning in the bathroom noticed this:

Apparently, Y had dreamed that there was a hole in our bathroom window, and wasps were flying in and attacking us. Being that it was a dream, the wasps were bigger, badder, probably some kind of robot, and poisonous. In a semi-asleep state, Y found the duct tape and taped a piece arbitrarily on the window. And we were safe.

We have friends that I consider actual adults (they have a dining room table!), and I know if they thought there was a hole in their house they would call a handyman. What do you think -- is the official test of adulthood the end of your reliance on duct tape? Owning a solid wood dining room table? Something else?

My iPhone battery is draining at a ridiculously fast pace, I'm thinking of incepting some sort of phone battery emergency into Y's dreams so he'll help me fix it. Any ideas?

i'll miss you... antique stores

I was never a huge fan of antique stores.

As a shopper-in-training, tagging along with my mom, I was taught to look for deals on new items. My training (aka childhood) consisted of hours and hours in places like Loehmann's, TJ Maxx, and Marshall's. When I graduated to solo shopper status, I took my deal hunting to teenage appropriate stores like The Gap and American Eagle, and eventually H&M, Zara, and all of the stores I love today.

But here, the mall is bordering on post-apocalyptic (Banana Republic employees have practically cried tears of joy to see a real live customer) and online shopping doesn't quite do it for me(it's not the same when you can't touch it!*). What am I, a trained shopper, to do?

The only solution was to start antiquing. And believe me, this city knows its antique stores.

My dabbling in the antiques has mainly been limited to frames like this one, which - while cute around Ike - has finally found a permanent subject. (More on that painting later!)

Other finds: more frames, bright yellow chairs (who doesn't need those?) and tea cups that I like to think could pass for Kate Spade.

But Y and I have two very special favorite finds, both of which are priceless.

Y's favorite, a mystical painting:

And my favorite, the creepiest thing I've ever seen:

I hope these haunt your dreams like they have mine.

I'll miss you... archive:

movie moments

*that's what she said.