Bulldog Ditty
(as overheard in Casa de Wren)doo be doo
doo bee doo bee
doo be dooLove them little TPs
TPs what I love to eat
Bite they little heads off
Nibble on they tiny feet
(With apologies to Kliban)
Monday Morning Mojo No. 17
A certain Boston Terrier I know loves to tear apart empty toilet paper rolls.
Our resident bulldog doesn’t believe in waiting until they’re empty.
WHAT: One Week’s Worth of the Mojo Toilet Paper Recovery Program
HOW: 75% of the humans in this household are male. After several years of close contact and careful observation, I have determined that males are genetically incapable of placing a roll of toilet paper on a toilet paper holder.
Sadly, this genetic disability leaves them with only two options: 1) place the roll of toilet paper on a nearby sink or stand, or 2) place the roll of toilet paper on the floor.
Guess which option our household males generally choose?
BONNIE’S REACTION: ANOTHER ROLL OF TOILET PAPER FOR CRYING OUT LOUD WHEN ARE YOU GUYS GOING TO LEARN!
SQUIRT’S REACTION: It wasn’t me!
TIGER’S REACTION: Squirt used the bathroom last!
HUBBY’S REACTION: Don’t look at me. I am exempt.
REPLACEMENT COST This was the worst week of Toilet Paper Death: 5 rolls at 45 cents each. I couldn’t even salvage them because they were kind of melted—partially dissolved under the corrosive power of Bulldog Drool.
Monday Morning Mojo No. 16
Woo hoo, this is a good one.
WHAT: One pair of sunglasses
HOW: I heard crunching noises coming from upstairs. I heard snorting, too. This could only mean one thing: Mojo was upstairs! Unsupervised! In our room!
I raced upstairs. His Royal Stinkiness was on Hubby’s side of the bed—who knew he could fly?—chowing down on a pair of sunglasses he snatched off Hubby’s night stand!
Allow me to repeat: he was on Hubby’s side of the bed. WITH HUBBY’S SUNGLASSES.
BONNIE’S REACTION: Ha, ha, ha, heh, heh, heh, ho, ho, ho, hee, hee, hee… (you get the picture) … (sniffs Hubby’s pillow) MMMMmmmm, eau de stinky bulldog! JUST the thing to help Hubby drop off to sleep.
Yes, sir. This is a good one.
HUBBY’S REACTION: Oh, no! Did he eat that piece? Will he be okay?
BONNIE: You realize, of course, he can pull stuff off your nightstand, now. Soon he’ll be opening the medicine cabinet! Reaching the top of the refrigerator! Shooting hoops! I’m telling you: nothing in this house will be safe from The Bulldog Jaws of Doom!
HUBBY: Let’s just be thankful he’s okay.
REPLACEMENT COST: None. They were old, an extra pair. And oddly enough his brother had just sent him a pair of sunglasses.
Highly suspicious, if you ask me.
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| But they were really tasty sunglasses |
Monday Morning Mojo No. 15
Did you hear that? It sounded like screaming.
Yep. Definitely screaming.
Oh, wait. That was me.
WHAT: The December Asimov’s
Normally my Asimov’s magazines are all stacked quite nicely in proper, chronological order in my science fiction bookcase. That way I can find the issue I want when I want it. The rest of the house may look like a cyclone hit it, but BY GOD MY ASIMOV’S ARE ALWAYS NEAT AND TIDY.
I thought December was a good issue, but I guess Sheila Williams didn’t edit it well enough for Mojo because he did a little editing himself: he took out the last three sentences ON EVERY. SINGLE. PAGE.
HOW: Okay, so I left it on the couch. So what! Lots of people leave their reading material on the couch! It was a momentary lapse! Can’t I leave anything on the couch anymore? For crying out loud!
BONNIE’S REACTION: ARRRRRRRGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGH!
REPLACEMENT COST: None, as my Asimov’s are irreplaceable. Dammit.
Monday Morning Mojo No. 14
WHAT: One Gaiam Yoga Block
Perhaps one of Mojo’s New Year’s resolutions is to get in shape by chewing on fitness equipment. Perhaps while in pursuit of said resolution he found dumbbells too tough and opted instead to improve his flexibility with a yoga block. Or perhaps he is JUST MESSING WITH ME.
BONNIE’S REACTION: Look what your dog did to my yoga block!
HUBBY’S REACTION: Heh! He’s trying to tell you what I’ve been trying to tell you, babe: that you won’t get big guns like this… (flexes his right bicep) …or this… (flexes his left bicep) …by doin’ yoga.
[Hubby’s subsequent lecture on how yoga—while excellent for core and flexibility work, doesn’t actually build any muscles in comparison to heavy weights, which build muscles suitable for framing, yadda, yadda—has been removed for brevity’s sake.]
REPLACEMENT COST: No need to replace it. After all, it’s still shaped like a block. It’s just kind of annoying to have all those holes in it.
Monday Morning Mojo No. 13
WHAT: Assorted Christmas Ornaments
HOW: He bypassed a Bulldog Barricade consisting of one sofa, one loveseat, one chair and one foosball table. Then he plucked his hapless victims from the tree. One. By. One.
We actually rescued several ornaments before they were inducted into the Cemetery of Chewed-Up Christmas Decor. We assume we didn’t catch them all; some are no doubt travelling through his intestinal tract even now, lost forever to us—well, maybe not forever, but you know what I mean.
REPLACEMENT COST: None. But I did snap this picture of the culprit returning to the scene of the crime. Note the guilty face.
Christmas 2005
Santa plowed right into Squirt’s foosball table last night.
All last week the foosball table was an integral part of the Anti-Bulldog Christmas Tree Protection System created by Squirt and Tiger—a protection system which not only proved useless, but which provided much amusement to the bulldog.
Yesterday morning I told the boys the battle had been lost the day we brought Mojo home, so we might as well put the furniture back. I also asked Squirt to move his foosball table elsewhere because really, it was just too much to have a foosball table in the living room with a Christmas tree, too.
So Squirt relocated the foosball table to the entrance to the bathroom door. Why he chose this location, I have no idea. Probably it has something to do with how much 14-year-olds love obstacle courses—just look at Squirt’s room and you’ll see what I mean.
Anyway, Santa apparently needed to use the facilities and in so doing busted his shins in a most spectacular way. In fact, if anybody had the right to explode on Christmas Eve, it would be Santa, but no, he held it all in like a champ. He just moaned in an aggrieved sort of way, and then moved on to do his business.
What a trooper, that Santa. Mrs. Claus is one lucky woman—I expect she’ll help him ice it this morning.
Here are my two favorite gift tags this Christmas:
To Tiger
From Squirt
Happy holidays, butthead
…and…
To Mothar [Squirt’s nickname for his mother, based on a Mike Meyers sketch]
From: Zombie Beheadding Master # 1, Squirt (you must be so proud!)
My favorite “just like his dad” moment went like this:
TIGER: What’s this strap for? I can’t figure it out.
BONNIE: What does the manual say?
TIGER: (disgusted) I don’t read manuals! Hmmm, I bet it goes this way.
Merry Christmas, everyone. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to help a certain someone with an iceway ackpay.*
Monday Morning Mojo No. 12
WHAT: One Ceiling Fan/Light Remote
HOW: When you live with a canine Cuisinart, eventually you learn three things:
- Never leave anything on the floor, or the sofa, or the lower shelves of your bookcases—in fact, if the item is at bulldog eye level, you might as well just say goodbye.
- Closing the door to a room seems to offer some protection to items in that room, but only if the door is tightly latched. Otherwise the bulldog will chuckle softly at your foolishness.
- Houseguests don’t really believe you when you tell them all this.
HOUSEGUEST NO. 1: I told him not to leave it there!
HOUSEGUEST NO. 2: She did not! (turns to Houseguest No. 1) And if you saw it, how come you didn’t pick it up?
HUBBY: (looking very stern) You left something on the floor, didn’t you?
BONNIE: Oh, no! Your book? Your shoe? Your cell phone? Omigosh, it wasn’t your wedding ring, was it?
HOUSEGUEST NO. 1: Nothing of ours, we’re sorry to say. (reveals the mangled remote) We’ll pay to replace it, of course.
HOUSEGUEST NO. 2: Yes, we will replace it!
(Bonnie starts to protest but Hubby raises his hand)
HUBBY: This is a very serious matter. You could have killed my dog.
(houseguests look stricken)
HUBBY: Mojo?
MOJO: (snorts) Snort!
HUBBY: He’s alive! He survived our houseguests! (turns to houseguests) You’re off the hook.
REPLACEMENT COST: None, because it still works.
Little Lego Jesus says, “Back off, dog!”
When Squirt was three, he ate all the homemade sugar-and-egg-white ornaments on the Christmas tree—or rather, all the ornaments he could reach. The ornaments were older than he was and kind of dusty, but he didn’t care.
Not to be outdone, our standard poodle, Casey Dog, ate all the plastic red apple ornaments he could reach—only he threw them up on the carpet later. I’d say Squirt won that little bout of ornament eating.
Turns out Casey Dog had a thing for little red plastic apples, because the moment he had an opportunity he ate all the little red plastic apples he could reach on my brother-in-law’s Christmas tree. Thank goodness my brother-in-law had wood flooring.
Then there was the year Casey Dog took the baby Jesus out of the manger in our nativity set and ate him, too. He could’ve eaten a camel, or a sheep, or even one of the Wise Men, but no, he had to eat the Main Event.
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| Little Lego Jesus, asleep on the hay. Sort of. He’s standing up because he’s got to stay alert and fight off household pets. |
I told him, “You may be going to hell because you ate the baby Jesus.” But he didn’t care, just sat there and licked his chops, like he was remembering how extremely tasty Jesus was and how easy He went down.
Now we use a little Lego man for our Jesus in the nativity set. Sure, we laugh about it, mainly because you know, these things happen sometimes.
Besides, Squirt finally came to understand the inherent wrongness in eating old sugar-and-egg-white ornaments, and we’re clean out of little red plastic apples that might tempt our Casey Dog.
Then Squirt said something today that brought my Christmas complacency to a crash:
Squirt: What are we going to do when we finish wrapping our presents?
Bonnie: Put them under the tree, of course.
Squirt: Mom.
Bonnie: Squirt.
Squirt: Mojo, Mom.
Monday Morning Mojo No. 11
WHAT: Our Christmas card scrapbook (top), Tiger’s baby scrapbook (middle), and our wedding album (bottom).
HOW: When Mojo proved himself capable of extracting shoes from shoe hangers and books out of bookcases, I took the precaution of pushing the sofa against the bookcase as a Bulldog Barricade.
Yeah, well.
You know, for a creature shaped like the Goodyear blimp, the way he can worm his way into tiny little spaces is nothing short of miraculous.
BONNIE’S REACTION: You $!&?%!! dog! Wait a minute…whew! The covers and the pages got chewed, but all the pictures seem okay. Thank goodness! Heh! Look, Hubby, here’s the picture of you sprawled out at the front of the church!
HUBBY’S REACTION: Hmph! I don’t think we’re really married, technically, seeing as how I was unconscious at the time. That padre…
BONNIE: …that padre declared you of sound mind and then you said, “I do.” It counts. I’ve got a whole church full of witnesses to back me up, too.
REPLACEMENT COST: $31.45