* They're both interesting in sort of similar ways and
* I can't piss them off by blogging them.
They just don't care, unlike my friends and family, who don't always appreciate the exposure...
~~~~~
Our dog, Dale, is a 13 year old Golden Retriever. We adopted Dale from Tallahassee/Leon County Big Dog Rescue. Dale's previous owners had some sort of problem and couldn't keep him, so at the age of three, Dale went up for adoption.
Scott was also three at the time, and because I (as has been stated before...) was delusional, I thought our perfect nuclear family needed a dog to complete us and being the practical people we are, we thought adopting a grown dog would better serve our needs.
We just weren't into the puppy stuff, like chewing, barking, urinating or pooping in our home. We thought we'd bypass this step, and we did.
Dale was perfect. And beautiful and slightly short, which translated to less hip problems in his future, my Lord, we were so smart...
It didn't take us long to figure out that Dale did not have an affection for cats.
Or small dogs.
Or old dogs.
Or puppies.
Or mamma dogs nursing puppies.
Or any dog with a cone around it's neck.
Or rabbits.
Or squirrels.
Or people on bicycles.
Or some children, but we could never isolate the personality or physical "defect" that annoyed him, so we basically had to assume he hated all children, with the exception of Scott.
He wasn't crazy about old people, either.
Dale was not a wolf in sheep's clothing.
Dale was a serial killer in sheep's clothing.
But he liked one kind of dog. One dog. One dog only, and that was a black lab by the name of Rex.
If Dale was Ted Bundy in a previous life, well, Rex was Houdini. There was nothing he couldn't escape from. He had perfected his craft and willing to teach it to others.
In contrast to Dale, Rex was huge. I don't know much about dog weights, but, say, if Dale weighs 70lbs, then Rex was about 100. He was gorgeous.
Rex longed for adventure, and liked a little company on his escapades. He'd come to our back gate and proceed to "lure" Dale out of his prison by saying things in doggie language,appealing to Dale, that must've translated to:
"Dude, have you seen what's out here?"
"Dude, what is it?"
"Oh, man, you wouldn't believe what all's on the other side....I just broke out! I can't believe it!"
"Tell me what's out there, man!"
"ALL KINDS OF CATS, Dude, there are tons of them!"
"NO WAY, DUDE! What else?"
"There's a yorkie and a peek-a-poo across the street..."
"TELL ME MORE!"
"There's two cats three houses up!"
"WHAT ELSE?"
"A CHIHUAHUA UP ON PRESERVATION AND IT'S ON A STAKE IN THE FRONT YARD!!!"
"I'M LOSIN' MY FRICKIN' MIND HERE, GET ME OUT, GET ME OUT!!!"
"Sure thing, dude, and when we're done, we can cool off in your woman's fountain....it's awesome! Feels great!"
"I never thought about that before!"
"And when your woman comes out her door screaming 'Get the *********** out of my fountain you ********* ***** dog!' That's when I run past her, into the house, shake in the foyer and she chases me out through the garage! IT'S SO MUCH FUN! Like a frickin' maze! IT GIVES ME SUCH A CHARGE!"
"LET'S DO IT!"
~~~~~
I am happy to say that Rex's nomadic lifestyle took him a different direction and we never saw him again. Dale has never "busted out" since and unbelievably, Dale has never killed anything and will live out a long and happy doggie life, albeit, in prison, in our back yard. Sometimes when he's asleep and I see his little paws twitching, I wonder if he's dreaming about Rex...and those wild and crazy days gone by...
~~~~~
Our cat, Casey, is an eight year old male Persian. He is The Fancy Feast Cat. He is Snowbellon Stuart Little. This is his exact breed. He is a Silver Shaded Persian, a variation of The Chinchilla Persian breed. He is fabulous.
About once a year, I will strip Casey of both his fur and his dignity by having him shaved. Casey doesn't like this because he struts all fall and winter long, operating under both theillusion and delusion that he is quite large.
Once shaved, which I do because we live in Florida, he is visible, without his grandeur, a full seven pounds of teeny-tiny white cat. The fur makes him look twice his size, which matches his opinion of himself, a confidence and bravado only equaled by his hunting skills.
Casey looks spoiled, prissy, lazy.... it's part of the seduction. It's just an act.
In contrast to his much larger house mate, (Dale,) Casey IS a killer. We've come to know him by his alter-ego, Chuck Norris....
Now we just call him Chuck, but only when we're not inserting "Casey" into Chuck Norris jokes.
Wonder why Dale's never killed him? It's because even at ten times Chuck's weight, Dale is no match.
Sometime last fall, I was putting on makeup in my bathroom. I had the window open. I heard the following:
rarrrrr.................ra
Half dressed, I ran outside and around the side of the house to rescue the cat.
I don't know what I was thinking.
After a quick search through a tangle of azaleas in my neighbor's yard, Casey appears, walking slowly out of the brush. When he sees me, he sits down.
He just sits and looks up at me.
His eyes are mere slits and he looks a little perturbed.
I have interrupted a slaying.
Something's limping off...to lick it's wounds...
Time for Casey to take a little nap. Fun's over...
And he's not limited to lizards, beetles and mice like you'd think.
We found quite a large snake over there last summer. It was an oak snake, which was kind of sad, because we like the oak snakes. Chuck's not afraid of nothin'. It might as well have been a water moccasin, the outcome would have been the same...
So, these are my pets, Dale and Casey (Chuck).
Both have human names.
Both pretty.
Both killers.
I wouldn't try to break into my house, unless you want a roundhouse kick to the face.
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