Dog of Night

He was a rotten-lab.
200+ pounds of sweetness.
That is wee child #1 at 5, and Hawkeye the dog in his dotage. I think he was 11 or even 12 years old in this picture.
He was Caprice's dog.
Although he was a bread thieving, cat killing, can popping, cow chasing, sheep shit eating dog. I really loved him.
We had our disagreements to be sure, two strong wills that are in the same weight class, four legs or two legs, invariably will.
Most of our disagreements involved the bed.
We both wanted to sleep next to Caprice.
At first I would just say his Name and he would roll off the bed, after a while though he just started to scoot over. He would brace his back against the wall, wait for me to doze, and then kick me off the bed with all four feet.
Then we started to wrestle for the privilege.
I did not always win.
See, his mouth was very large and full of very sharp curved teeth. He would clamp his mouth over my wrist, his fangs actually touching on the one side, teeth just dimpling the skin. Then he would smile at me with his big slobbery lips and I would acquiesce.
In his prime he didn't bark much.
He would creep about silently through the house and yard.
Doing whatever it was that he did, pee, guard against trolls, chase off the evil kitties of the neighborhood?
I never knew.
Until one night.
Caprice and I were at her Mom's house watching a movie. He was laying content with us, gnawing on the femur of some hapless bovine.
In no hurry at all, he got up, stretched and ambled off. He had a "dog" door in the back and he headed in that direction.
I say "dog" door, it took up the bottom half of the door. I could fit through it with ease. It was more of an ommpa loompa door.
He was gone less than a minute or three, the movie played, the night was full of night sounds, all was well with the world.
Then the screaming started.
No warning, no bark, no growl, no clickety clack of 200+ pounds of rottweiler-lab mix sprinting across concrete.
Just sudden screams.
Really really loud screams.
So I ran outside.
And what to my wondering eyes did appear? A dog (Caprice's Dog) playing tug of war with a man.
The man did not seem to be enjoying it. He was the one screaming.
See, Hawkeye had his calf clamped in his mouth and was doing his best to pull the man back into the yard. The man was trying to finish climbing over the fence. He had everything but the leg almost over.
He was screaming.
Hawkeye was smiling. All four feet planted, slowly backing with a little shake of his head now and then.
I laughed.
Probably not the best thing in the situation.
But oh my Honking Hell.
You just don't see many things funnier than that.
The Caprice and The MIL were screaming from behind me for the Hawkeye to let him go.
He (Caprice's damn dog) Just smiled and winked at us, still slowly backing away.
There was a ripping squishy sound and the man continued his descent, not gracefully, to the other side of the fence.
Then he ran away. Limping.
Hawkeye (Caprice's Freaking Bear) ambled over and dropped the man's pant leg at my feet. It contained a rather large chunk of the fleeing mans calf.
I really loved that dog.

I will never drink V8 again

It was the child.

We know this now. At least, I know this now.

The child #2 was to blame.

She was helping.

We were camping and had been raided by evil denizens of the dark, furry masked marauders.

Raccoons.

Every night. they had decimated our food supply and even scattered empty beer cans all over the campsite in their silent semi-drunken debauch.

So #2 took matters into her own hands.

She made a trap.

A coon trap.

None of us saw what she had constructed. From what I have ascertained after long hours of interrogating it was made of a white plastic grocery sack, pieces of chicken, cheese, chicken in a biscuit and two used paper plates. A stick and some string attached with my amazing flame duct tape (SERIOUSLY HOW COOL IS THAT! FLAMED DUCT TAPE!) completed and triggered the mechanism.

We were in the girls tent.

Laying about on cots, making our nighttime noises before sleep.

Mine and wife's tent a few feet away.

Suddenly, a noise outside. A growling thrashing sound.

Some weird squeaking.

Ever alert (right) Mr. Dog jumped up and bolted outside to see what the disturbance was.

#2 Sat upright in her layers of sleepy bags and laughed, like a small deranged tyrant. In the midst of her laugh she said, "It worked! IT ACTUALLY WORKED!"

We sat confused.

The thrashing got louder and the MIL and I ventured from the tent to see what was amiss.

That was when the dog, went from growling to gagging. Really gagging.

Then the little dumb ass furryhead ran back into the tent. And puked. (my favorite part) Right on the MILs sleepy bags.

This is a glimpse of what the MIL saw.

I ran into the tent.

The numbers screaming.

Because now Dog was foaming.

and still retching.

So I collared him.

and dragged him outside.

and he coughed and sneezed and gagged the foam right into my face.

and I joined him in retching.

If you have ever had this experience. I am sorry.

Truly I am.

Smelling a skunk that you pass on the freeway is pleasant.

Compared to this.

bratwurst, covered in sauerkraut, laced with mustard and raw onions, then put into a covered container and baked under a sunlamp for three days.

Doesn't even touch the acrid, chemical, vile, choking effluvium that a skunk sprays.

Dog was Gagging, I was Gagging, the numbers the wife and the MIL were all choking and gasping.

It was awful.

So I dragged Dog over to the communal hose and started to spray him.

The smell got worse.

Other campers started to come out of their tents, and duck back in.

Instant pariahs.

Wife came over carrying all of the cleaning stuff we had.

I dosed the Dog with all of it.

Rinsed him off.

Now he smelled like skunk ass, that had been wiped with a dirty rag.

We argued, what to do?

We discussed myths and legends and facts and killing the dog.........

amazingly, when we agreed on tomato juice as the best alternative.

we were stuck. I mean, Who the hell has tomato juice camping? At o dark o clock?

Insomniac Italians?

The MIL (Mother in law) gets this weird look. I imagine the oracle at Delphi had a similar look when she spoke.

"I don't know what came over me, I just had this feeling, when i was shopping for this trip, I saw it, I hate it, I never drink it, but. I . Bought . A . Whole case............."

At this point I should interject that I had no patience left for the oracular voice.

so i swore, and asked her to please say whatever it was she had bought that she thought might help.

"IBOUGHTAWHOLECASEOFV8TJUICETHESPICYKIND!

Praise to the bargain shopping gods!

So the case was fetched. And dog was covered in three bottles of spicy V8. I even made him drink a bunch, and snort it and for holy hells sake I covered him in it.

It worked.

It actually killed the smell.

Mostly.

Then I smelled me. I smelled wife.

and I gagged all over again.

We got a bottle each.

i washed my whole self with spicy V8.

i almost wish someone would have taken a picture.

I looked just like

this

I will never be able to drink spicy V8 again.

Our furry friends

 *NO ANIMALS WERE HARMED IN THE MAKING OF THIS BLOG*

Except me.
As you may, or may not know, I have a cat. His name is Fat Jack and for the most part.
 He is a bad ass.
He was the first Feline to be Issued a man card.
He likes his women and his food ready and waiting for him.
He sounds like Barry White. (But I am the only one that can hear him)
He had a staring contest with Chuck Norris and not only did He win, he went to Chuck's house after and peed on all of his sunglasses.
Yeah.
Fat Jack is a pretty cool dude.
He got his name because, well, he is fat. 25 pounds of lean mean sleeping machine.
A few weeks ago he Jumped a full size Raccoon.
From the sounds of things it was apparent that Jack had been leisurely eating his midnight snack out on the front porch and Vladimir the coon came sauntering over.

Thats when Jack jumped him.

Thats when the coon got a hold of Fat Jack and bit a coon sized mouthful right out of his ass.

Thats when Tom shot Vladimir.

You get the Picture?
Good.


Cause now a couple of weeks have gone by and Fat Jack is all but healed. He lives outside so I haven't worried too much about the blood clots and dried yuck and coon spittle all over his fur.
At least.
Not till yesterday.
That was when Child #2 informed me that Friday is the "GREATEST DAY EBER!!!!!"
Pet Day.
and she was going to be taking Fat Jack cause he is the coolest most famous cat eber.

So.

He needs a bath.
I had never bathed a cat before.
I have seen movies of lions swimming rivers with little lionets in their mouths, and I have seen the sister in laws Russian Van Kitty happily playing under a running faucet, so I figured it would be simple. Easier than the dog anyway.
I mean, geez, he may be THE FAT JACK, but he is still just a little kitty.
I should have a theme song. Something like "Tom is dumb, he is just dumb, he is really really dumb" and just insert it into the soundtrack during these moments.

I filled the tub up with about four inches of warm water and had #2 standing by with the Johnsons baby soap, perfect for babys and kitties.
Then I grabbed Fat Jack and
pay attention here it goes pretty fast
I tried to set him in the water but those ten, inch long razor tipped weapons of death started spinning at mach 8 or so and his 25 pound body proved to have not an ounce of fat on him as he turned and yowled and spit and snarled and twisted and turned and somehow jammed his paws, all four of them, onto the side of the tub as I pushed him towards the water.
At this point he began to scream for help and his Buddy, my yellow-bellied neurotic IBS afflicted Mr. Dog ran in and bit me on the leg.
Then Jack gave me a little love bite on the wrist.
So he earned a moments grace while I slammed the door of the bathroom with the dog in the hall and me and Jack and #2 in the bathroom. She is still standing ready, holding the soap, giant tears running down the sides of her face.
Because.
I was hurting her Kitty.
Here I thought that the damn cat was kicking my ass, silly me.
So I manned up, looked at the spot where Jacks used to be, and dunked him.
then I held him while #2 dumped the entire bottle of soap on him. I figured, why stint?
I was holding him still with one hand and soaping the gross of off him, all was well.
Then he started crying.
Not soft manly sobs either.
he was wailing, sobbing, heart broken and letting the entire world know it.
#2 joined in, then Mr. Dog, never one to pass the chance, chorused in with Howling from the hall.
This went on. Through the soaping and the rinsing of the cat.
He even continued as I lifted him up out of the water and wrapped him in a dry towel.
At which point he did three things.
Bit me, farted and then started purring.
He lost his man card.
The women are gonna make him do some chasing for a while.
and worst of all.
Late late last night.
Chuck Norris called.
He wants a rematch.

                                                                                love taps