The Austin Chronicles - Part 6

Sometimes there's nothing better than fried fish during a Sunday afternoon Saints game. So a couple of weeks ago, that's exactly what we had. Stew pulled out the burner and cast iron pot, a few gallons of vegetable oil, defrosted some trout and we got our fry on.

The weather was unusually fabulous, so after the game Stew took the boat out with a friend and Suzie decided to stay home, open the windows and leave the back door open for Mr. Austin to roam in and out at his discretion. After an hour or two of napping lazily on the sofa using my Sunday afternoon to do productive things around the house, I started to smell a certain greasy, fast-food like aroma. Odd, since we cooked the fish outside several hours ago. The smell seemed to increase as I got closer to a certain guilty-looking puppy. I ran outside to inspect the fryer setup and realized that Stew had left it out, top off, to cool down. It was cool alright, but the pot was missing about 2 quarts of its original contents. Anybody want to guess where that oil went?

For the remainder of the evening, Austin moped around the house with his tail between his legs. That night, we heard a strange sound which I can only describe as a cross between Chewbacca, the principal from Forrest Gump, and a deranged goat. We dashed into the (carpeted) front room and found a freshly deposited pile of puke, which had the consistency of sticky marshmallow creme and gravy. Barf #2 came about an hour later in the (carpeted) living room and was brought on with the same guttural fanfare. This particular specimen was less taffy-like and more slimy, but with a topping of foamy meringue. Thirty minutes later in another section of (carpeted) living room, my oil-spewing pet started revving up and I quickly tried to herd him to the back door or at least to a tiled floor, but he shot back onto the carpet and firehosed another installment of his special brew. This one contained about 3 cups of unchewed and undigested dog food pellets, and a roux-like mixture of burned oil and stomach acid. In fact, imagine you're eating a big bowl of Cocoa Puffs. Except, instead of milk, you pour gumbo on top. Now you get the picture, right? His stomach contents did not, however, contain any sort of household cleaning device or edible fungi. For your reference, the color of this link provides you a handy example of the particular hue of the aforementioned upchuck.

The following day concluded with 2 small batches of french onion soupy stomach acid regurgitations, again on the carpet. Of course. I know what you're thinking. That's a lot of friggin oil. Ha! That's what BP said...

Good news is that Oily McGreaserson is now back to his normal, non-vomiting self. One question though: Do you think we'd qualify for an oil spill claim?

The Austin Chronicles - Part 5

It's no secret that my dog is a serial snuggler. He's not allowed on our new sofa, and he's not allowed on our bed. This has caused him to become quite resourceful. Most of the time I'll find him in the corner curled up with something he dragged out of a closet to use as a makeshift blanket. Nothing is safe. My 5x7 area rug, the Christmas tree skirt, my Snuggie, Stew's old Air Force uniforms, a duffel bag, dirty (or clean) laundry...all have fallen victim.

The latest:


That pile of old egg crates came from the guest bed. I didn't even have time to throw them away before Snugglepants swooped in and got cozy. He could teach a bird a thing or two about nest making.

The Austin Chronicles - Part 4

You ever have one of those moments where someone says something seemingly innocent and insignificant, but later on you realize those words were the most profound statement EVER?

Yeah, well that picture up there reminds me of one such moment.

Back in August 2001, Stew and I were living in Washington. State, not D.C. We selected a local breeder and drove out to Puyallup (pronunciation: pew-al-up) to go select our brand new, 6-week-old Chocolate Labrador Retriever puppy (translation: money pit). Everyone had told us to choose the puppy that runs up to you and wants to play, because that is a sure-fire sign that the puppy will grow up to be vibrant and full of energy (translation: a combo plate of hyper and stubborn. with a side of crazy). Sure enough, one cute little brown furball wobbled right up to us and started licking my hand and chewing my thumb (translation: Pick Me!). I scooped him up, he snuggled up to my neck and I. Was. Sold. The breeder's young daughter exclaimed "That one's named Buster. Cause he'll bust your house up!"

Pause for a moment to let that sink in. Because I should have. And didn't. However, Little Buster (translation: Austin) had already stolen our hearts. And our common sense too, apparently.

On our way back home, we stopped at the pet store to pick up some last minute essentials (translation: stuff we forgot to buy BEFORE getting a dog). We browsed through collars and leashes and toys for a few minutes until Austin spied an employee tediously stacking VHS tapes (it was 2001, remember) to display on the end of the aisle. Austin jumped straight out of my arms and proceeded to haul his tiny, 10 lb. body right towards the 4-foot-tall tower of videos. At NASCAR speed. I yelled his name, "AUSTIN!" (translation: stupid move on my part because the poor dog probably still thought his name was Buster). I rounded the corner just in time to witness him plow right through the display and send 300 video tapes crashing to the ground all over the place.

The kicker? Those videos were DOG TRAINING VIDEOS (translation: irony. and shame).

We purchased one out of necessity (translation: guilt) and sadly it didn't teach us how to prevent Mr. Buster Brown from eating the baseboards off the wall. Or to poop standing still. Or to stop eating Irish Spring Soap. That would have helped. However, with the aid of that video, Austin can now sit, lie down and stay, all by commands given via sign language (translation: cool party trick).

Moral of the story: Pick the fat, lazy puppy who pays no attention to you. Then have his teeth and legs removed just in case.

The Austin Chronicles - Part 3.5

Update: This is what's left of Austin's BONE!

Only a nubbin of its original HUGENESS of a week ago.

Pretty impressive, considering we had to confiscate said BONE! for a couple of days due to the fact that Austin's farts were starting to smell like HOT GARBAGE.

The Austin Chronicles - Part 3

Austin has a best friend. His name is Eric. Eric lived with Stewzie for 6 months following Hurricane Katrina and Austin fell into a deep bromance with Eric. Eric isn't a dog. Eric is a human. Eric used to be Stew's best friend, but Austin changed that. Now when Eric comes over, it's not uncommon for me to have to perform the Heimlich on my dog because he went and choked on his excitement. Again.

The other day, Eric not only came over, but came over WITH A GIFT! for his buddy Austin. Pause for a moment to visualize the heart attack Austin had when he saw this:

This is what I like to refer to as the MOAB (Mother of all Bones) - pictured above next to Stew's truck tire for size reference.

Not sure if I've mentioned just how OCD Austin is before, but his reaction to this rawhide monstrosity was similar to his reaction to anything out of the ordinary. The look in his wide brown eyes quickly turned to panic because THE BONE! THE BONE IS NOT A REGULAR SIZED BONE! His anxiety quickly became unbearable and he cried like a baby because THE BONE! I DON'T KNOW WHERE TO START CHEWING THE GIANT BONE! He was completely exasperated. Once he had received sufficient parental reassurance and instruction to SHUT UP AND LIE DOWN WITH YOUR BONE, his fear turned to excitement and he was all THE BONE! I GET TO CHEW THE BONE! BONE! BONE! BONE!

Then, guess who made the mistake of kneeling down next to her little brown pup to share in the fun, only to get smacked in the cheekbone when said brown pup raised the MOAB up and swung it around like a light sabre?

You guessed it. Ahhh, the joys of pet ownership Austin ownership.

Why I love Mardi Gras: Reason #312

Free stuffed animals for your dog to snuggle with.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

The Austin Chronicles - Part 2

Because I'm such a softie and enjoy spreading the holiday cheer, we hosted a little get-together at my house a few weeks ago to celebrate the upcoming Christmas season. Also, I like a good excuse to use my fancy, company's coming serving dishes and stock up my pantry with all the leftover boxes of Wheat Thins that people leave behind.

We I (with the help of pals) threw together a nice little menu of party-friendly foods. Pulled pork on pistolettes, spinach and artichoke dip, pinwheels, red velvet cupcakes, amaretto chocolate chip cookies, (thanks Me!), chicken wings (thanks, Lisa!), marinated cheese (thanks, Amelia!), jalapeno dip and Zea's Mediterranean hummus (thanks, Frances!), and an assortment of yummy desserts (thanks, Cassie!).

Back to the pinwheels. They're actually called Nancy's Deli Spirals, and I don't know about you, but I think that Nancy is one whiz at deli-spiral-making. I'm pretty sure pinwheels got their nickname and popularity as a go-to hors d'oeuvre from my friend Linda (hi Linda!) because all you have to do is take them out of the freezer and defrost them for 30 minutes. No cooking involved. Which means Linda is all over it like white on rice.

Sidenote: There was a small glitch in acquiring the much-loved pinwheels this year. They're usually available in a 60-count box at Sam's Club for $9.98. Both Sam's Clubs in the area were out of stock. Being the stealthy shopper that I am, I found them for sale at Winn Dixie, only in a much smaller 32-count box that still sold for $9.98. Winn Dixie is always a ripoff, but I figured it was a small price to pay for the happiness of my guests.

Again, pinwheels. I arranged them on a pretty fleur de lis plate on my counter. I crammed the empty box into our already-full garbage can, then stepped outside for about 20 seconds to take out the trash. I walked back inside the kitchen door and immediately saw the empty plate. With one rogue pinwheel dangling off the edge. And Austin looking up at me with his crooked head and wide eyes and wagging tail. Waiting for my reaction. To the fact that he just ate NINE DOLLARS WORTH OF OVERPRICED PINWHEELS.

Now, before you get all "Suzie is such a miser for whining about a few bucks worth of appetizers," consider this: My most vivid memory of childhood is Sunday lunch at my Granny's house. Which we had to wait for until my dad finished clipping coupons from the glossy newspaper inserts. And also the fact that my mother has never purchased a single article of clothing that wasn't on sale. Even if the pants are only 99 cents at full price. She physically cannot bring herself to purchase them unless there is a sale sticker on the tag. You see how deep the roots of my frugality are embedded.

Once more, pinwheels. What else can you do when your dog's nose is countertop height and when he's in the vicinity of food he has the self control of one of those people who eat 33,000 calories a day and spend 12 years of their life confined to bed until they have to be lifted off by a forklift and extracted from their bedroom with the aid of a hacksaw and the jaws of life?

Do you hope he made himself sick inhaling all those pinwheels in one fell swoop then regrets his actions when he's puking them up later? Do you make him get a job cutting the neighbor's grass one weekend so he can pay for the box of pinwheels? Do you take away his cell phone and ground him til he's 20? Or do you just laugh?

Survey says: Laugh.

Then make him send handwritten apology letters to your friends for being such a bad dog. BAD, BAD DOG.

The Austin Chronicles - Part 1

This is the first installment in a 10 (million) part series I like to call "The Austin Chronicles." If you're scratching your head wondering who Austin is, well then you haven't seen this or this. In a nutshell, Austin is our 8-year-old Chocolate Lab, who eats Irish Spring soap, thinks my 5'x7' zebra rug is his personal blankie, and is just an all-around hoot. Especially if hoots weigh more than the average teenager and cost you more in medical bills than the average budget of a major metropolitan city.

The Austin Chronicles, though numbered for easy reference (who ever said Stewzie doesn't care about the blog-readers?), will not necessarily be in any chronological order. I figure, if Austin is unpredictable, so too should be his chronicles. This series will likely include:

1.) That time he broke his leg and it cost us our life savings BEFORE we had pet insurance.
2.) That time he cut the tip of his tail and left a trail of high velocity blood spatter across the entire U.S. of A. and didn't stop bleeding for SIX months.
3.) That time he got a chunk of wood lodged in his soft palate.
4.) That time he ate the baseboards off our walls, the hair dye in my purse, the only roll of film from Stewzie's first Thanksgiving and Christmas, bubble gum lips, and a wallet IN ONE DAY.
5.) The time he kinda-sorta broke-dislocated his tail.
6.) The time he ate a whole platter of blackened redfish in 10 seconds.
7.) The time he escaped from the backyard and caused his normally fully-clothed mama to run up and down our old neighborhood in her PANTIES searching for him. Oh, and our old neighborhood was located 10 feet from a major highway and directly across the street from the largest Baptist church in the city and it just happened to be Sunday at noon.
8.) The time he committed grand larceny of the neighbor dog's frisbee.
9.) The time he found a sea turtle in our suburban back yard.
10.)The time he fell in a pool 3 times in a row, not realizing it was there. Oh, and he is TERRIFIED of water. You read that correctly. A LABRADOR RETRIEVER. TERRIFIED OF WATER.

So, here goes Part 1...

The Brillo Pad

A few years back, I got home from work one day, and like the good wife that I am, I set out to clean the bathroom. Step one was cleaning the bathtub. I got out a fresh, new Brillo Pad, and then the phone rang. I set the Brillo Pad down on the tub and walked into the living room to answer the phone. Wrong number, it turns out. So I go back into the bathroom, and am greeted by my little brown helper, who has blue soap powder all over his little brown snout and lining his little puppy lips. And there is no trace of said Brillo Pad, save for a tiny shard of steel wool lying at his feet. I opened his jaws as wide as a Hungry Hungry Hippo, and see a streak of blue going all the way down his little puppy throat. I then uttered the strangest sentence of my life. "My dog ate the Brillo Pad."

I frantically called our Vet, but remember, I had just gotten home from work. Which means it's about 5:30, and the regular Vet closes at 5:00. So I call the Emergency Vet. They don't open til 6:00. Of course. Whoever left a one hour span of Vetlessness between regular Vet hours and Emergency Vet hours has obviously never owned an Austin. Anyway, after about 72 desperate voicemails left by yours truly, they called me back. I explained the whole thing to the skeptical receptionist, who informed me that I could try to make the dog throw up by feeding him peroxide, but then the B.P. might get lodged in his esophagus and choke him. I vetoed that option. Even though choking him did sound tempting. But we're talking about the same dog that used to lick the hot pepper "don't chew the furniture" spray like it was coffee table seasoning. I doubted peroxide would affect his iron belly negatively. Our other option was to let him try to digest and poop out the B.P., but since it is literally made of tiny strands of sharp metal, I vetoed that option, fearing canine colon surgery might be in our future. And if anyone in our household is going to have colon surgery, it's not going to be an animal. Or me. So Stew and I loaded up Black Betty and drove our little Austin Ambulance down to the Emergency Vet.

They put us in a tiny exam room and lined about 95% of the floor with newspaper, you know, for the REGURGITATION. The doc then explained that the solution to our little "issue" would be to give the dog a couple vials of this powder stuff that gets put in the dog's eyes, which then causes their central nervous system to freak out and make them nauseated, and then puke up the "foreign object." He assured us that 2 of these vials usually do the trick. If not, you wait 10 minutes and then give 'em 2 more vials. Never has it taken more than 6 vials. TEN vials later, my pup starts drooling and stumbling and we're all "Oooh, he's about to vomit," and he makes his way over to the only corner of the room that's not lined with newspaper (of course) and with a giant heave-ho, ralphs up.....a MUSHROOM SLICE. Not a Brillo Pad. But a slice of friggin' fungi. The Vet shoots me a cynical glance and I'm all "I swear to you, He really did swallow a Brillo Pad. And no, I don't have a clue where he found a slice of mushroom to consume." So 2 more vials (for a total of TWELVE) and the dog finally yaks up the piece de' resistance - a whole, intact Brillo Pad. I'm assuming that B.P. soap is not toxic, because in no way were his stomach acids tinted blue, so he must have digested that part without a hitch.

Just shy of $300 later, we were on our way home with a furry brown stomach that was as empty as our wallet. Luckily, we were wise enough to enroll our little health hazard in a pet insurance plan a couple years earlier, and they reimbursed us almost 2/3 of the bill. Much easier to swallow, pun intended.

Moral of the story is to never clean your bathroom. Or just have your dog's jaw wired shut. Either or.