Seven 9s and 10s

Showing 11 posts tagged dogs

High-res monkeyfrog:

The truth is, I love your pets. I recognize them as I scroll before I see your names. I know most of them by name. 
I won’t lie, I have favorites. Maggie, Jeff, and Summer’s dog whose name escapes me at the moment are a few. They remind me of my dogs, especially Chuckles the Difficult, and they make me laugh and appreciate the specialness that goes with the insanity.
I love that Steve adores Chuck as much as I do. It’s our special bond and I get a strange amount of joy out of it.
This is a photo of Chuckie puppy at I think around eight or nine weeks old. I mean, COME ON. That face.

There’s no denying that Chuckie is my favorite Tumblr-dog. He’s all the evidence I need when people ask if you can love someone you’ve never met.
When I finally make a trip back to Chicago, I will not leave until I’ve made my way over to Farmlandia to finally meet Cary and Levi, Chuckie and Duff, and all the others in the barn.

monkeyfrog:

The truth is, I love your pets. I recognize them as I scroll before I see your names. I know most of them by name. 

I won’t lie, I have favorites. Maggie, Jeff, and Summer’s dog whose name escapes me at the moment are a few. They remind me of my dogs, especially Chuckles the Difficult, and they make me laugh and appreciate the specialness that goes with the insanity.

I love that Steve adores Chuck as much as I do. It’s our special bond and I get a strange amount of joy out of it.

This is a photo of Chuckie puppy at I think around eight or nine weeks old. I mean, COME ON. That face.

There’s no denying that Chuckie is my favorite Tumblr-dog. He’s all the evidence I need when people ask if you can love someone you’ve never met.

When I finally make a trip back to Chicago, I will not leave until I’ve made my way over to Farmlandia to finally meet Cary and Levi, Chuckie and Duff, and all the others in the barn.

Letting Pooping Dogs Poop.

btothed:

I will never not find a pooping dog funny.

Pooping dogs always have that look. That look of knowing. Knowing that what they’re doing looks awkward. And frustrated that while we get to go barricade ourselves in a room somewhere while we vacate our bowels, dogs instead are paraded around in the open and forced to do their business in front of a public’s very watchful eye.

I’ve never not seen that look in their eyes.

The rumpled eyebrows that are equal parts grunting-induced and “really? You’re just gonna stand and choose this very moment to lock eyes with me?”

A pooping dog looks like a muscle-headed body builder in the middle of a flex during a competition, hunched over and contorted in an unnatural pose while grunting.

Like baseball players, pooping dogs have difference stances.

Some will just stand in the batters box, get it done, and walk away trying to forget what they just were relegated to doing. Others do what I like to call Shit Walker, Texas Ranger [for those of you who are Chuck Norris fans]. These dogs look like they’re done going, but then begin walking around the lawn and finishing their business still half-humped over and half-walking. Then, of course, you have the dogs that finish going and let you know they are done - by doing their impression of a bull. They finish, move forward a step or two, and then violently kick their back feet a few times to kick up grass partially to cover their dookie, but mostly, to show their owners who is boss.

Eight or eighty years old, it won’t matter.

I’ll still laugh at a pooping dog.

Ask anyone who knows me and they will tell you how often I talk about dogs pooping. Bruce hit the bullseye with this post.

The look in their eyes, man.

The. Look. In. Their. Eyes.

I used to have a coworker that I really liked a lot but now she is dead to me because she sent me to the craigslist posting for this beagle/pointer mix named Patch.

I want a dog. I really really really want a dog. And Patch looks pretty much ideal.  But, I just can’t have a dog in my life right now because I know I don’t have the time to commit to a pet, especially a very young, not-neutered, beagle-mix.  Maybe if I was living with someone that could share the responsibility, then I’d be able to give it more serious consideration, but that’s not the situation.  I hope whomever adopts Patch gives him the best life any dog could ever hope for.

And so, I used to have a coworker that I really liked a lot, but now she’s dead to me.

A girl and her dog.

Sometime in the spring or summer of 2007 is when I first noticed her.  I was 27 at the time and it was the first time I had seen someone my age walking around my neighborhood.  It’s a cookie-cutter suburban housing development, like so many thousands that sprang up across America in the Fifties and Sixties: carved into what used to be a forest, houses of 4 or 5 different designs scattered amongst twisty streets that are laid out in no discernible pattern, no sidewalks.

She appeared to be of similar age to me and she had a waiflike and aloof appearance: like Liz Lemon when she’s not at work.  She wore well-worn hoodies and corduroy pants of varying shades of drab.  Her hair was long and brown, her glasses - thick and heavy - also brown, and she stumbled along the street and past my house - being tugged along by an adorable Chocolate Lab puppy: lanky, full of energy, and… brown.

Every morning around 7:45AM, as I would be getting into my car to leave for work, that dog would be yanking her along the street past my driveway.  There’s no doubt in my mind that if she were to strap on rollerblades or a hop on a skateboard, that puppy would have been fully content running around the neighborhood for hours, towing it’s equally-adorable owner along behind.  Even as summer turned to fall, and fall to winter, they would still be there every morning.  If nothing else - they were punctual, and she was clearly dedicated to making sure that puppy had a chance to expel a bunch of energy before the bulk of the day even began.

We never really communicated beyond a passing “Hello,” or “Good Morning!” but there was always a moment of awkwardness as we caught each-others eyes.  You know: that awkward feeling you get when you see someone consistently but you don’t really know them enough to converse.  Somedays I’d already be in the car and ready to back into the road as they moved past; there I’d wait patiently for them to clear as I’d catch a glimpse of them in my rear-view mirror.  Somedays I’d be picking up the newspaper.  Somedays I’d be hustling to brush inches of lake effect from my Subaru.  Yet, the one constant was that they’d be there, every morning.

I can’t remember specifically when I stopped seeing them, but it must have been sometime in March or April of 2008.  The mornings felt relatively empty without them.  We were total strangers, but after several months of seeing them I couldn’t help but feel like I knew her and the dog on more than just a passing-hello basis.  As time passed by, through the spring and summer, I would catch myself glancing up and down the street on occasion, checking to see if they were anywhere to be seen.  No luck.  They had seemingly vanished.  Perhaps they moved away, or maybe something terrible had happened to her or the dog?  Maybe the reason she wasn’t walking by anymore was because the dog was gone?  Whatever the reason, I was certainly curious and admittedly a bit sad - the kind of sadness you might feel when watching a Purina commercial about the ethical treatment of animals.

This past Wednesday morning, I saw them again.  There they were, walking past my driveway again, at roughly the same time - but a few things were different.  She still looked the same: brown glasses, brown hair, drab clothes.  The puppy had grown into its ears and it’s legs no longer flailed around wildly as it strolled down the street.  But the biggest difference provided a logical explanation for their 7 month sabbatical; there was a new addition to their team: a baby stroller - brown, of course.