Reclaiming the blog.

Whatever So Many Feebs was supposed to be (still not sure), it’s turned into All Iggy All The Time. And hey, I love the little bastard, but he jumps on the furniture whenever he wants, he chases the cats when they’re minding their own business, and he hogs the bed — he’s not taking over the blog too. Because there have to be some ground rules somewhere.

So, just like getting him to put down a shoe by offering him a squeaky toy instead, I’m reclaiming this blog by offering up a whole other blog, dedicated entirely to Iggy and his issues:

The Iggy Dialogues.

That’ll learn ‘im.

Life, and how to live it.

Hi, folks — Iggy here! Like going to PetSmart, but hate having to walk all around a huge store? Do what I do — shriek like a stabbed banshee at everything that moves, and send every other dog in the store into a mad barking frenzy! Your human will become so desperate to stop you, she’ll put you in the cart so she can quickly wheel you around and shove you in the opposite direction every time one of you sees another dog.

Ta daaa — a cart ride!

I’m Iggy, and that’s my Hyper Schnauzer Tip of the Day.

All this can be yours.

“Hello, ladies.”
Stop that.
“What? Just chatting with the ladies. And don’t you all look fine today.”
Iggy, you’re fixed.
“What does that mean?”
Well… how do I put this —
“No matter. We can discuss it later. So, ladies, you know what they say about dogs with big ears–”
Oh, Christ. DOWN, boy.

The fidelity of dogs.

“Hi. I love you a lot.”

Aww, I love you too, Iggy!

“And I love Brian a lot.”

Well, Brian loves you a lot too.

“Did you meet the new next-door neighbors yet?”

I did.

“I love them a lot.”

Okay —

“And the guy that delivered the pizza on Friday night. I love him a lot.”

Yes, Iggy, I get it —

“And the UPS guy that stops here sometimes, I love him a lot, and there was this kid outside before, I saw him through the window, I love him a lot, and that woman that time at the dog park who filled the water bowl, I love her a lot, and there’s this other guy I heard of once…”

I feel special now.

Good one, dude.

Good boy.

I’ll be right here waiting for you until you come home.

Or until I get bored with licking the window and decide to chase a cat and bark at the top of my lungs at him until he plays with me or lets me lick his entire head or something. Although those sofa cushions look kind of tasty, so I might just nibble on one of those for a while.

But I’ll be here, is my point.

Well, at least he’s happy.

Iggy, you’re awfully calm. Mind if I take your picture?

“Okay.”

That’s perfect! What an adorable expression! Hold it for just a second long–

“CAN I SHOVE MY NOSE IN THE LENS?! YAY! Oh, look, a cat! I’m gonna go lick his back! No, it’s okay, he’ll like it this time! HEY CAT, LEMME LICK YOUR BACK!!”

It’s going well with him.

Who’s a good doggie?

Before getting Iggy the Wonder Schnauzer from a nearby rescue, I considered going to a breeder. I know, I know — why would anyone do that when there are so many animals looking for homes?

Well, for starters, you have a good idea of what you’re getting before you let the animal in your house.

See, at a rescue, all you have to go on is how the dog acts right there and then. A reputable breeder, on the other hand, would have lived with the dog, and would have records going back several generations. We could have said, “Hello, Breeder! We would like a dog that will grow up to be calm, intelligent, not likely to morph into a pan-dimensional hellhound, and maybe not too barky, thank you,” and that’s what we’d get. Instead, we have Iggy — a dog that needs constant supervision, tons of mental stimulation, and a priest.

But you want to know the scariest part? Look at the picture again. My husband is petting this thing.

Fuck.

This occurred to me today.

+

=

Poodles are just cotton-candy fruitbats.

I think about these things.

I should probably get more sleep.

Now I wanna be your dog.

We’ve begun to long for the pitter-patter of little feet – so we bought a dog. Well, it’s cheaper, and you get more feet. — Rita Rudner

We got a dog from a local rescue yesterday. If you were to ask me to describe him, I’d have to say “lethargic,” and maybe “sniffling.” Since these aren’t “personality traits” so much as “symptoms,” we had to take him to an emergency vet earlier today to treat the illnesses he didn’t exhibit until about 12 hours after we brought him home. He’s pumped full of antibiotics and he’ll be okay in a few days, but for now he wears the Cone of Shame — which is the ultimate humiliation for a new dog in a house with resident cats. Poor bastard.