Subdivided We Stand Meets Marathon Man

Feeding Time at the Zoo

Many of you have written in, wondering what it looks like in our house when a dog biscuit accidentally gets knocked under the stove. 

As you can imagine, an event as exciting as "dog biscuit under the stove" gets pretty much the whole household worked up into an unbelievable frenzy.  It's the pinnacle of our day, really...and it looks...a little something....like....THIS:

But Do the Dolphins Still Make Him Cry?

Umm...Hootie?  Are you SURE that Burger King commercial was a good career choice?  (UPDATE:  here's the commercial.)

Jeez.  Maybe his career HAS tanked, but you'd think he would've made enough off of that first album to live comfortably for the rest of his days.  Wow that's painful.  And the poor Blowfish don't see a penny of it.

Since I don't have much today, I'll offer up a link to a site that never fails to provide me a chuckle -- the online Michael Jackson Support Petition.  I'm not sure which is funnier -- the "support" signatures or the anti-MJ posts. 

(UPDATE #2:  Here's a cheery little story from the Post-Gazette.)

And since I have nothing else, let's take a look at a couple of never-before-published pictures of Smithers as a puppy, shall we?

Dog

No fun and games today, and here's why...

I was just about home on Tuesday night, and had made the left onto the fairly busy street that leads to our lovely subdivision.  Dark, rainy, crappy night.

Up ahead of me, I saw the form of a mid-sized dog amble out onto the road.  I assumed that the car ahead of me saw it too.

He didn't, and either didn't know that he'd hit the dog, or didn't care.  I pulled over, and was on my way back to the dog (which by now was lying right in the middle of the road.)  The next car along apparently didn't see the lump in the road, and before I could stop him/her, he ran right over the dog.

I'm not sure what fortune was smiling on the pooch at this point, but that car cleared the animal -- at least from what I saw.  When I reached her, she was lying motionless.  It took a few seconds, but eventually I did realize that she was, in fact, breathing.  Not particularly enthusiastically, but she was breathing.  A sheltie.

So there I am, in the middle of a fairly busy road (Sutter, for those who know the area) on a dismally dark and rainy night -- trying to ward traffic away from the casualty.  What do you do here?  If I left the dog and went to knock on a door, the dog would almost surely have been run over.  But what good was it to just stand there and direct traffic if no help was on the way?

Again, fortune smiled on our canine pal.  A resident noticed me, and brought out some flashlights, which helped immensely in directing traffic.  Her husband then came out, recognized the dog, and summoned the owner.

Now here's the part that pisses me off.  After the husband came back to help me direct traffic, he said that the dog was deaf and blind.  Eventually, the owner shows up, and tells us that she'd only let the dog out about five minutes previous.

My question to you -- what sort of a-hole lets a blind and deaf dog wander around by itself, just a few feet away from a street where traffic routinely travels at 40+ mph? 

Get a fence, buy a leash, do SOMETHING for Christ's sake. 

At this point, you probably want some closure to the story.  I don't really have any.  When I left, the owners were wrapping the dog in a sheet and getting her ready to take to the vet.  There was only a small streak of blood on the highway, and there didn't seem to be any broken bones, so I'm hoping that she was only stunned.  But she was an old dog, they said, and it's possible that this trauma may have been to much for her.  I'll keep an eye out for people on that stretch of road, and maybe somebody will have some info.

Have Yourself a Mary (Worth, that is) Little Christmas

Subdivided We Stand will be on hiatus until Monday, January 3. 

Rough Night

UPDATE:  Anne, of Creating Textiles, has posted some photos of the "Adoration of the Cheese Danish" nativity scene from a bakery window on the South Side.  Enjoy.  (The subject came up in the comments section of my entry from yesterday.)

(Warning:  Today's entry discusses various substances that have been emitted by various members of the Subdivided clan over the past 24 hours.  If that's not your thing -- and really, there's no reason it SHOULD be your thing -- well, then, you may want to take a pass today.  I will try to keep it as un-icky as possible.)

Oy.  Tired today.

Yet another cold has crept in.  Our house is afflicted with the plague, I'm afraid.  This time, the prominent feature is nasal drainage, resulting in a nose that ran like a faucet when I was lying on my back last night -- or, when I flipped over, all that gunk ran into my throat and made me cough like the bejeebers.

Finally got to sleep around 2 am, I think.

At 4, I heard the hound whining downstairs.  That's the "I need to go out" whine, but sometimes when you ignore it for a minute he gives up and goes back to sleep.  On occasion, he keeps up the whining until there's no choice but to go let him out.  This was one of those nights.

As soon as I got downstairs, I knew something wasn't right.  Both mutts wanted out, so I ignored the gnawing sense that bigger issues were ahead, hitched them up and out we went.  Smithers clearly was having some booty trouble.  He was in the arch, but no results.

Upon returning inside, I found out why.

The hound had had results, all right -- all over the dining room.  In 43 (yes, I counted) different spots on the dining room floor.  It took me 45 minutes to clean the mess, and by that time, I was too awake to fall back asleep.  Aaargh.

Let's hope the rest of the day goes better.  I do know that much of tonight is going to be spent behind a rented steam cleaner...

Back Seat Driver

Due to circumstances beyond my control, we've recently taken a few drives with the following in-car configurations:

• Julie -- driver
• Smithers -- front seat passenger side
• Adam -- in his car seat, in the back
• Me -- also in the back seat

This configuration generates some bemused looks on the faces of people in other cars -- especially at traffic lights. One guy, in fact, pulled up next to us, got our attention, then pointed to the hound in the front seat, me in the back, then back to the hound up front, then to me in the back -- and then pointed to Julie and gave a big "thumbs up."

What can I do, though? The dog called "shotgun."

Weiner Dog

Just a couple of tidbits today...

Smithers (our dopey but loveable basset hound) is a notorious crowd pleaser. Wherever we go, the dog draws attention -- and he loves it. (Kelsey, the mutt, forever lives in S-man's shadow, but since she's less outgoing, it's probably for the best.)

In general, kids especially love the hound. But I can count on pretty much one kid a night staring at Smithers, and shouting to his friends: "WEINER DOG!"

Sometimes, like tonight, some little kid will even ask me "Is that a weiner dog?"

I don't know the correct answer to that. In my mind, the true weiner dog is the dachsund. But I don't think there are any hard and fast rules as to what constitutes weiner-dom, so I generally just say that yes, he's a big weiner dog. I'm always tempted to say that he's more of a bratwurst, or perhaps a Hickory Farms beef log, but no kid wants to hear that crap. They just want to yell "WEINER DOG!"

Here's a picture. Judge for yourself as to whether this is, in fact, weiner-esque.

Meanwhile, in baby-land (and somebody is going to read something into the fact that I led with the dog over the baby, and I have no excuse other than that I'm going strictly without a script tonight...), I think we can now officially say that young Adam is walking. He's been taking two or three steps at a time for the past couple of weeks, but last night he walked down the hall and through the kitchen. His destination, I should add, was Smithers. He flooped to the floor and gave the goofy mutt a big hug, which I think is a pretty swell conclusion to the story of Adam's first real stroll.

Alert reader Culli did a little detective work on the Pittsburgh phrase "nebby," and came up with the following:

I went to the Thesaurus for the word "curious" and it had listed the word "nibby":
Entry Word: ||nibby
Function: adjective
Text: Synonyms CURIOUS 2, inquisitive, inquisitorial, inquisitory, nosy, peery, prying, snoopy

I bet somehow, "nebshit" morphed from this.

I'm thinking that Culli is probably right. I'm going to try to do a bit of detective work on the word "nibby" and find out its ethnic origin.

Hmm, what else. Oh yes, I'm going to avoid the Mary Worth pit of despair for a while -- but jeez, take a look at Tommy's new 'do. And elsewhere on the funny pages -- Blondie! Hubba hubba!

Dog n' Pony Show -- Sans Pony

(Late update: My entry is banal today at best. Read if you must, but your time would be far better spent reading Tube City's take on two of my personal favorite writers -- Lileks and Keillor. It's the August 23 entry.)

Things just go from bad to worse for our poor dogs.

First, we bring that little screechy thing home -- and now, nearly 15 months later, little screechy is careening around the house behind his little push-cart, and it just about scares the poor beasts to death.

Really, though, I've got to hand it to Smithers and Kelsey. In spite of the fact that Adam is a holy terror behind the wheel of that thing (it kind of looks like a kiddie-sized lawnmower, if you don't know what I'm talking about, but with a solid triangular base just perfect for the almost-walking set), the mutts handle it with aplomb. They see him coming, and head for the hills.

I suppose at 15 months Adam is a wee bit behind schedule as far as walking. Ah well. It'll happen soon enough -- he's still somewhat large for his age, so that may be keeping him from getting all of his limbs co-ordinated enough to walk. We don't worry about stuff like that. It'll happen when it happens.

Meanwhile, the dogs and I continue our daily rituals. As soon as I get the dinner dishes cleaned up while Julie plays with Adam in the living room, the dogs know what's coming. Smithers pulls the flat-bassett routine (where he flattens himself on the floor, ears flooped out to the side) while Kelsey paces back and forth in anticipation. The know what's coming, and they know what's expected of them.

As soon as I go to the closet to get my shoes, Kelsey starts jumping up and down and yipping in her high-pitched, annoying manner. Smithers makes a beeline for the den. By the time I grab three plastic Post-Gazette bags, Kelsey is in full hysteria and leaping about like a lunatic. Eventually, I chase her down and get her collar on her -- just in time for the bigger challenge.

This is Smithers' favorite event of the day. Makin' ol' dad look like an idiot time.

As soon as I make a move towards the hound, he goes into his crouch. His "let's play" crouch. That means it's time for me to chase him upwards of twenty times around the coffee table. You wouldn't think a bassett -- and a big bassett at that -- would be very nimble. Well, keep in mind how low to the ground he is, and that he's quicker than you think. Every night I pray that no one is looking in the windows while I chase the idiot beast around the table. And every night I get a little ticked at having to go through the ritual. But the truth is, it's all part of what makes our dogs our dogs, and I wouldn't change a thing about them.

Well, maybe I'd make Smithers smell a little better, and Kelsey a little less yippy. But still, they're ours and like Mr. Rogers I like them as they are.

Other people must, too. There are a number of kids on our walk route who wait every night for the arrival of our dynamic duo. Tonight, one woman on the route (with whom I've only had a nodding acquaintance up until now) stopped me to tell me how much she enjoys watching the dogs go by each night.

Once again, our dogs are far more popular than I'll ever be.

(By the way, there's a small photo gallery of the mutts over at my wretchedly awful other site. Feel free to get a gander at them, but for the love of God, please ignore the horror of the way that site looks. I swear I'm going to get around to fixing it soon....)

Dog Do

I've long since resigned myself to the fact that the dogs are more popular in the neighborhood than I am. Last night, the five of us (Julie, Adam, Smithers, Kelsey, and yours truly) packed up and went on our nightly constitutional.

Lots of petting and lovin' for the doggies, and the baby of course. For me, a few grudging nods of heads. When we get home, there's a small foil packet between the screen door and the regular door. I know immediately what it is—and so do the mutts.

A neighbor of ours occasionally brings over leftovers for the doggies. But not just any leftovers. She brings....steak.

This time, not just any steak, either. T-bone. A beautiful cut of meat, accompanied by some veal romano. Julie and I had burgers. So not only are the dogs more popular—they eat better, too. Why our neighbor doesn't save leftovers, I'll never understand. The dogs appreciate it.

And so will a certain blogger I know who'll be having steak salad for lunch tomorrow.

Kelsey has developed a new and annoying habit. Namely, she has now decided that the grass at the end of our driveway, formerly known as "doggie toilet land," is now enemy territory. No amount of coaxing, commanding, pulling, griping, etc. will get her to venture beyond the end of the driveway. Pull her towards the grass, and she begins hopping around like a bunch of Kansas City....

Er. Anyway, this is the new dance I do. Smithers lopes onto the grass to do his thing, always pulling as far as he can. I stand in the middle, one arm stretched to the max trying to hold a 70-lb basset, while the other arm is busy trying to maintain control of a long-furred leaping gnome. It may well be comedy for the neighbors, but when you're in the middle of it, and running late for work (again)—well, ok, it's kinda funny then, too. Unless it's raining. Then it just sucks.

Bagel Hound

It's been a while for a dog blog, so here goes...

The Sunday brunch with the neighbors program concluded this past Sunday, with a lovely morning on the new neighbors' side porch. As usual, the dogs were not invited—everybody loves 'em, but Smithers is NOT a cordial guest when food is involved.

This time around, it was our turn to bring the bagels. Now bagels make an important element of a nice brunch, but when there's french toast and eggs and bacon and sausage and pancakes and doughnuts and fruit and god knows what else, well, the bagels usually go begging. And so, we had about eight bagels to bring home.

Not a problem. We'll give 'em a good home. But the new bagels reminded me that it was time to throw out the OLD bagels, leftover from two weeks ago. I tried to rip them up, to be thrown out for the birds—but 14-day-old bagels defy ripping. So I nuked them for 20 seconds.

A little better, but still a pain in the arse. I shredded one, and threw it off the side porch and forgot about it. The rest went into the garbage.

A little while later, I took the dogs around back. Big mistake. They smelled the bagel, even though it was safely hidden beneath the below-the-porch vegetation. They did their thing, and I marched them back into the house.

At this point, Adam had performed a true rarity—he'd gone down for a nap. Normally, he is the baby who WILL NOT NAP, but brunching seems to take a lot out of him. With the baby snoozing, Julie decided to catch some zzz's herself.

Smithers has a special way of letting us know when he needs to go out. We've tied two jingle bells around the door handle, and when he needs a breather, he nudges the bells. Works great, except that he also occasionally nudges the bells simply when he feels he's not getting enough attention.

With wife and baby asleep, I sunk into the sofa with the Sunday paper, planning to alternate between reading and dozing.

RING RING RING RING

Ok, Smithers, I'm coming... Let the dog out, and he starts pulling. Usually, this means he'd like to be hitched up to the stake in the front yard. I stake him up, and go back inside to my comfy couch and newspaper. Whine whine whine whine whine.

Ok, the dog wants back in. I trudge back out.

The cycle repeats about five times, a new record. I take the bells off, and he sits at the door and whines.

It's then that I realize what he wants. And I'm too tired to fight him.

We put on the leash, and marched around to the side of the house, and had a feast among the stale bagel bits that are lying beneath the weeds. Yum. Stupid dog. Great sniffer—but stupid dog.