It's time to go.
I'll be looking around other blogs because I can't get enough greyhound dog porn, but for me there is nothing more to say. I'd rather retire the blog than let it lie dormant.
I have enjoyed blogging the dogs, but I need a rest.
I'll see you in the comments.
Katy, Tamale, Omo, Peppa, and Zuni
It's Australia Day here. Because I landed on the 31st of December and had only two free days before I had to play stepmum, I hadn't bothered with resolutions. I think I'll work on them between Australia Day and my birthday (31 Jan). One resolution will be to blog weekly instead of weakly. I also have to get caught up on other people's blogs.
Okay. One down. Blog more often.
~~~
Just a short note today. I'd like to announce that we have had a miracle in our house. Mark's toast still comes out normal--no Jesus or Mary. The same goes for our tortillas. No, this miracle is about Omo, and I believe it has something to do with the magic of the Australian Open.
Omo grew ersatz testicles. I have no idea how a dog gets a tennis ball wedged in between his hams. I go nuts if my undie tag is tickling my back. What you can't see (and what cracked me up) is that it's not on the blanket. The ball is wedged in. Tamale?
Did she find the tennis ball to uncomfy for her hard noggin and just nudge it away without a care in the world for how her bedmate would feel? Don't feel too sorry for Omo. I took heaps of photos, but I deleted most after I looked at them. It seems the fuzzy ball was making the lipstick come out.
I'm okay with talking about anything, really. You name it. I can even post about anything. Photograph anything. There is just something about the doggy lipstick that brings out the puritanical censor in me. This is a lipstick-free blog.
And by the way, see that "bed"? It's just a single comfortor. They insist on coming in to the sleep-out when I'm on the computer. I got tired of dragging their proper beds. They'll sleep on that flat thing over the bean bag and foam bed, too. So yes, they have better beds. They just "suffer" while I'm awake. I know where they sneak off to when I'm asleep. I see the pits in the furniture. Feel thee not sorry. Feel thee scorn!
What happens to the other bedding when the dogs are playing Internet police with me? Don't worry about waste. Not with my crew.
And maybe I just answered the question about the tennis ball.
~~~
Go back to the first photo.
My dad and stepmom gave my stepkids the Journey to the Center of the Earth (3-D) DVD for Christmas. While they and Mark were watching, I came in with my camera to take a photo:
If you notice, this photo has different dimensions as the previous three. Why? Because I didn't notice with the lights off, that the way A was sitting in his jammies led to what we are calling the "Where's Wally"-gate (Aus. for Waldo) thanks to the flash.
The kids were writing thank-you notes to my parents, and I provided the photos. When I looked through the thumnails, I looked down and called out to A. "A! Come here and tell me if there's anything in this photo that isn't right." He did and started to laugh. Okay. What to do. Crop. I could see the buttons at the bottom and just Mark's legs. I hit the crop button and asked A to let me know when the photo became family-friendly. Maybe I should have shown Omo the same respect. Nah. I spared the lipstick, but he gets the tennis ball post.
Brooke of the Trampy Greyhound tagged me. I had to post the sixth photo in the sixth folder.
Voilà. This was Peppa when he came back. I had him for a whopping three days before he wondered off. He was gone a week. Now he won't leave. The dogs have begged him to get lost. So has Zuni. No, he's back.
Woah, and my hair is darker. I'm letting it go grey. Or I tell myself I am.
Now I'm tagging these people to find the 6th photo in the 6th folder.
Greyhounds in Seattle (who is only gently tagged so as not to break the new tea cup.)
The Greyt Black Dog (with a bitchin' masthead!)
My ROO Spot (the blog that sounds like porn, but isn't.)
Runs with Dog (who has done what I can't seem to do.)
5 Crazy Greys (who thinks she needs to escape the cold. pfft.)
and
Iowa Greyhound (I'm hoping it'll be a house photo. I love his house photos.)
Look at me! I found Mrs August.
What you must know is that I beat her to the post. Oh, and that she's so dang lovely.
More later when home in two weeks.
Where else but at a Santa stall.
I have been away from home for more than two weeks. I am sure it's more like three, but I am too lazy to check. I haven't seen one greyhound. If it weren't for Facebook, I'd have nothing.
Where are the hounds? I know Texas has them, and it's been plenty warm--no need to keep them inside. What gives?
As you can see from the photo, I am in the airport, which is empty of greys but full of dorky-ass businessmen yapping on their phones. There is no justice.
Looking forward to seeing Seka's mom, my own greys, and catching up on other Greycult members' blogs. It's really just dog p()rn for me.
How did this work? Posted from my mom's iphone.
I've updated about the body. He wasn't young; he was thin. I think the report said "skinny". I saw that in him and figured him for one of those tall, whip thin boys. It's given him more of a personality to me. He's not a floating dead body. He's a guy who eats heaps but never gains weight. The fiction keeps me sane.
This, however, is a dog blog. I'm not going to let it get too depressing. Dogs don't over ponder the death they see. To be honest, they'd want to roll in it.
We're getting a water tank. This is big news for us. We'll wash our clothes with grey water and feel smug and green. To do this, we had to dig a hole so that the tube to the tank had a 15% decline. By "we", I mean Mark.
Mark dug it, put a layer of crusher dust in it, and the cats pooped in it. It was the largest litter box ever! How cool are we? But the cats weren't the only ones playing in it. The dogs enjoyed the mounds of dirt. Did I mention that it rained? Yes, mounds of mud. Cool, glorious mud.
To keep the dogs out of it, we put some clam shells over it. Clam shells? What great piss targets. You block our way, we dig hole wider.
It's a race here. The water tank was delivered yesterday, but tomorrow is the day the plumbers come to set it in and hook it up. Between now and then, there are many checks to scoop poop, level the crusher dust, shore up the sides, and shovel out whatever the dogs pawed in.
Omo has some sense of shame. Omo tells me that he enjoys being anthropomorphised. He didn't just tell me using words. That's lame. He used an aldis lamp.
Tamale? No shame gene at all. These photos were taken 2 days after I gave them their baths and put the flea treatment on them. See Tamale's ridge? Yeah. What a phkn waste of time. At least cold, damp dirt brushes off easily.
When I get a job, I'm buying a margarita machine for these moments. I'll find the love at the bottom of a marg.
I was going to post something. I forgot.
This is why. It's not a good post. There is violence.
Going away for a while. First time home in more than three years. I'll be gone from my furkids for six weeks.
Will try to post when I feel it's okay to be light again.
Why she loves the dirt, I'll never know. Omo doesn't. Omo has one or two fleas on him. Tamale has SimFlea going on. She loves the dirt. He loves the appropriate bedding. She is manky. He is always on call for prom dates.
After digging a hole for the water tank (okay, half a hole--half the designated hole), I then had to weed. Do you get where I'm going? I had to scoop poop. I had to drag tree bits to the yard cemetery. It was a day of stooping. I was going to call it quits when I checked Tamale over. Sigh. It never freezes here, so fleas never die. If they live under a house that has two dogs and two cats, they just text their little flea friends for a mass orgy. Again, Omo, the priest, stays far away from vermin.
I'll call in dead tomorrow.
Brooke was sorry about her steamy affair with Omo and invited me along to the GAP volunteer playdate with puppies. I'm not an active volunteer since my foster dog, who was supposed to die and leave me heart broken, is still with me taking up foster space. I was grateful to be invited, and this means that Brooke is no longer on my poo list.
Brooke posted some photos already. One was whispering in my ear that it wanted to invade Finland, but I put him in the Blue Bucket of Punishment. Puppies shouldn't make unilateral decisions. Anyway, it just wanted to invade Finland to show off its youth. I'm okay with invading Finland for stealing a bike. The difference is that I'm quick: in and out. The puppy would just show off and stay a long time.
Here we are planning our invasion:
Note how I look concerned. Note that the other one is acting like nothing's going on.
ARE YOU SORRY NOW, PUPPY?!
Do you need another dunking by the Mistress of Dunkage?
Say you're sorry. Say it or we won't towel you all fluffy again.
Now isn't world peace so much nicer?
I thought we had the situation under control and relaxed a bit. The food was great; the volunteers were having a good time; the puppies were asleep.
Or so I thought. When I was reaching for another gingerbread cookie, I was ambushed. I think a pup put a chocolate soaked hankie over my nose. I passed out. That's all I know. When I came to, I was in the interrogation pen.
They hammered me with questions from all sides. What did I know about Finland? Do I know that Finland blocks puppy photos on the Internet? (they don't, but puppies read the gossip tabloids.) Did I know that they eat mämmi in Finland?! Yes, but it's a dessert, not a mommy. They didn't listen. It went on forever.
You guys will never get my ponytail.
Rat bastards!
It was hell, but I think I came out okay.
I'm a red-headed Britney.
Eventually I promised them that we could invade a country, you know, for funsies. I reminded them that the US needed some invasion. They thought Virginia would be good. No real US state could be called a Commonwealth. That state is clearly still loyal to the Queen. I say invade.
As you can see, this has made them very happy. I told them that there was an American in need of some hair tugging. Some doofus had this nice long ponytail and chopped it off. I say tug. When I told pup of the plan, I was rewarded with some luvvin.
All was forgiven.
For now.
I'm making Brooke take me back before I leave. She owes me. One trip out post Omo romp does not make her my friend that fast. To make things worse, I now have to worry about Tamale and her man-ho Matsie when we're in the US.
Trust no one.
