Rose's Cantina

"Dogs have a different digestive system than we have," Scott explained as I cleaned up a mound of puke from in front of the Laz-y Boy chair. There was actually a hunk of wood in it. "How is that possible?" I asked him remembering the day my two-year-old Black Lab did her final curtain call after eating a dozen oatmeal chocolate chip muffins. "I think they're just stupid eaters." Finnigan eats poo for one. Any mound he can get his stupid black mouth around. And he eats sticks. He also jumps eight feet in the air to sample the tender shoots on the maple tree in our side yard. Last year, he killed another tree by whittling it down during the winter months. He is a constant gardener, ingesting all forms of flora and fauna, twigs and berries. Note to self: we must rethink his diet. When he was a puppy, he ate our prized tulips, the ones we had hoped to show off during the Ottawa Tulip Festival. He's such a voracious eater, I've simply b...

Finnigan the puppy is teething and he's using Gordie's neck and my arm as his teething rings. His gums are all purply and his eyes are menacing; quite clearly Finn is gripped by madness. Yesterday, I was trying to edit copy for my magazine and he was everywhere. Up on the table, into the laundry, shredding the newspaper -- which is okay, I can deal with that. But it's the barking that's getting me. He has this high pitch bark and howl combo which he likes to demo right beside my left ear. Not since I was a rock and roll bunny have my ears taken this kind of abuse. I've had to take away his chews because he swallows them and has to be let out three times in the early morning hours. I am frickin' exhausted. We've tried everything. Consulted Cesar Milan. Talked to the vet. We are just going to have to deal. Hope this is just a phase.