We always buy the muffin pack from CostCo and Kevin takes one each morning for breakfast. Now, before baby, after a CostCo run, I’d individually wrap each muffin so they’d be ready to go in the morning and prevent them from getting stale. With Leina in the picture, little things like wrapping muffins have fallen by the wayside. A stale muffin is par for the course now.

So yesterday, Kevin woke up, grabbed a new flat of muffins, opened it up, and took one to work. A few hours later, I ambled into the kitchen and found the open muffin pack sitting on the kitchen chair, crumbs all over the ground around it. I grumbled at Kevin for leaving the muffins open to get stale but that’s all the time I had.

That night, Kevin came home and asked me, “wow, you ate three muffins today?”

“Uh, no, I didn’t have any,” I replied, slightly confused. We both turned to the muffin flat. There were four muffins missing.

“Did you take them to work?” I asked.

“No, I just took one,” Kevin replied.

“Well, that’s wierd because this morning there were four missing and crumbs all over the ground. I wonder what happended? Maybe a mouse?” Kevin and I looked at eachother for about two seconds when a light bulb went off.

“ARTIE!”, we cried and turned to look at our dog who was sheepishly hiding under the table, wagging is tail as if to say, “but guys, you left it open and right at my height, what did you expect????”

Muffin mystery solved.

So my dad is a big teaser. This is a well known fact. As a kid, he used to tease his dog which was a little cocker spaniel. I guess old habits die hard because when he comes to visit, he loves to tease Artie too. Now, there is one very large difference between Artie and a cocker spaniel… about 60lbs as my dad found out the hard way.

It started out innocently enough. One afternoon, we hooked up the pooch and set out on our afternoon walk through the neighborhood. Artie was huffing and puffing along like the fat sausage he is when we hit the park blocks. These are four blocks of green grass and trees in the middle of our neighborhood. It’s popular with dogs and kids playing ball. My dad must have been feeling frisky because he turned to me and said, “I want to run Artie up the block.” Now, Artie isn’t big on running. He’ll lope along for a while but he usually gets tired and plops down under some shade once he’s had his fill and my dad was going on about how fat Artie was and how he could out run him so I handed over the leash and they took off.

Sure enough, Artie sort of lumbered along and my dad had no problem keeping up with him. At the end of they block, they stopped and waited for my mom & I to catch up. When we got there, Elmo decided he was going to run another block with Artie to really exhaust him so he took off again. Only this time, Artie had different plans.

For whatever reason, Artie perked up. He decided Elmo wanted to play and he turned on the energy. He started jumping up and down, bouncing off my dad and nipping at him. In his excitement, he grabbed my dad’s arm and actually drew a little blood. Nothing major but Elmo stopped running and handed the pooch back to me to calm him down. Artie was disappointed that the fun was ending but settled down nicely as we headed my home. Round One to Artie.

The lesson was simply enough – no running with the dog. Right? Wrong.

The very next day, we head out for the afternoon walk. All goes well until we’re about two blocks from home and Elmo spots these two fat squirrels sitting in the middle of the road. Instantly, he turns to Artie and starts to egg him on. Now, on Artie’s list of favorite things to chase, squirrels are in the top three. By the time Elmo was done, Artie was straining at the end of the leash ready to make a dash for the squirrels.

“Dad, stop teasing him or he’s going to pull me off my feet!” I told my father.

“Give him to me,” Elmo replied, “and I’ll let him chase those squirrels.”

“He’ll lung and pull you off your feet,” I warned my dad.

“Nah, I can keep up with this fat dog,” my dad replied confidently.

Now, at this point, I should have stopped and taken a moment to recall the last time my dad took the leash but I didn’t. I did the unthinkable and handed my dad the leash.

“Hey Artie”, he cried, “go get those squirrels!!!!”

Artie didn’t need to be told twice. He took off at top chasing speed across the street after those squirrels. The squirrels weren’t slouches either and took off for the nearest tree. Poor old dad. He also took off at top speed but he didn’t stand a chance. Much to his surprise and dismay, after only a few moments, Artie reached the end of the leash and kept on going. Elmo’s momentum was already forward since he was running at top speed and the result…. well, when 90lbs of dog flesh hit the end of the leash, Elmo was whipped off his feet.

Elmo didn’t just fall. He hit the pavement, flipped a summersault, and was dragged across the street. His only saving grace was that the squirrels ran up a tree and Artie stopped at the base. Otherwise, it’s anyone’s guess how far he’d have been dragged. My mom and I rushed over and once we confirmed there was no permanent injury, we began to laugh. Poor daddy lay sprawled in the middle of the street bleeding from both knees. He looked like a 12 year old kid who was just learning to skateboard thanks to the massive strawberries that were bleeding down his leg. His left hand, which was holding the leash, had been dragged along the ground as well. The result looked like he’s been a bar fight since every knuckle was bloody. Thank goodness he had a long sleeve shirt on or his elbows whould have been minced meat as well. Round Two, Artie.

He hobbled home and I broke out the first aid kit. Seven bandages and half a tube of Neosporin later, he was patched up but I don’t think I had stopped laughing. It was like something out of a Road Runner/Coyote cartoon. I mean, how many people get to see their dad dragged down the street by a fat dog chasing squirrels? If only I’d had my video camera, I could be rich.

The good news is that I think Elmo has finally learned not to run with the dog.

At least, I hope so.

It is a well known fact that I have more than a little bit of my dad in me. But lately, it seems to have increased and it’s scaring me. Don’t get me wrong, I love my dad and all but he’s not exactly the model of a “good citizen”. To back up this statement, let me merely say…. rocks.

But I’ll let you decided. The other day, I was out walking my dog. We were heading home after a very nice stroll through the neighborhood when we hit the yappers. There is one house on our way home that has a pack of small, mangy, yappy dogs. They’re little toy breed things that, fully extended, may reach the height of your knee on a good day. Every time we walk by, they rush the gate and start yipping. Not barking like a real dog, but this annoying, high pitch yap. They shove their mangy little muzzles right through the chain link fence and have the gall to bark at Artie.

Now, I’m quite sure that Artie has topped 100 lbs and I’m also equally sure he has a fair amount of pit bull running through his veins. These little hairballs probably weigh 7 lbs each or 5 lbs if you shaved off all their hair. Obviously, they are none too bright. I mean, Artie could probably chew two of them at the same time. Every time we approach this house, he turns his big brown eyes to me and seems to plead with me, “please mom, please let me eat one of those annoying things. I’ll be good for the rest of the day. Please!” There are some other big dogs on the block and it is with much shame that Artie if forced to retreat from these little yapping rodents.

And up till now, I’ve been good. I’ve tightened the leash and made him walk by without a single bite. But the other day, the Elmo rose in my veins and I found myself pausing before that fence and looking to see if anyone was home. I was tired of these annoying little rat dogs and their incessant barking. They should learn not to challenge a big dog. They needed to be taught a lesson in the facts of dog life and I was here to instruct. So I found myself peering into windows and checking for a car in the driveway.

Artie must have sensed my hesitation because he started to get excited. With his tail wagging, he turned to those little rat dogs and began to growl. You know, the kind of growl where they raise their gums and show you their long teeth. And instead of pulling him back, I laughed. I wanted to see those mutts turn tail and run. I couldn’t wait for Artie to let fly at them and send them whimpering back to their house. I wanted them to be so scared, they pee’d their, well, fur.

I was Elmo.

Thankfully, the owner was home and, hearing the growling, stuck her head out the door. “Muffums, Princess, Sir Reginald, you stop that barking right now or momma’s gonna come out there” she called through the doorway. Since we were caught, I merely raised my hand in a friendly wave and smiled. Artie was disappointed but I consoled him. Sooner or later, that owner would be out of the house, and when she was, we were going to have some rat dog treats!

You see. You see what I’ve become??? Ah well, at least my dad would be proud of my attempt!

Animals……grrrrr.

Actually, this time it’s partly my fault. Last night I made this very yummy pork chop casserole. We were munching away and poor Artie was watching us with his big brown puppy dog eyes with rivers of drool slowing puddling around his feet. Ok, the drool part wasn’t so cute but his little puppy face was heartbreaking so Kevin and I gave him our pork chop bones.

I don’t know what we were thinking. Maybe that, like a normal dog, he’s just chew on it for a while and then leave it on the sofa. But no, not our wonder pooch. He actually ate the whole thing.

Now here’s a good lesson for you. Dogs can eat raw bones just fine. (I guess their soft enough to digest or something.) However, they cannot – repeat CANNOT – digest cook bones. Of course, neither Kevin nor I realized this until early this morning when the bones reemerged in a pile of bile. Kevin took puke round #1 and then had to leave for work. I’ve covered round #2 and #3 and am hoping that’s the end of it. Poor puppy looks just miserable.

And so, I am wide awake at 9am with a bottle of 409 and a roll of paper towels following around my sick dog.

Grrrrrrr.

We like to buy the danish pack from Costco. These packs come with twelve danishes. The three flavors, in order of Chrissie preference are, apple, blueberry and cherry. The cherry ones are, in my opinion, too tart and so I leave them to Kevin who (as far as I can tell) has no danish preference whatsoever. This means that the standing rule in our house is no one gets to eat the apple danishes except for me. Simple rule, no? Well, this weekend it was horribly violated.

Picture it. Sunday morning, 9:30am, Kevin is up and about while I am catching up on my beauty sleep. Hungry, Kevin decides to bring up a danish pack from the freezer in the basement. He rips it open and removes a non-apple danish. (What a guy!) He is, however, in a rush as he wants to hit Home Depot before the crowds and so he leaves the open flat of danishes in the kitchen and heads out the door. So far, no violation of the danish rule, right? Bear with me, its coming.

Kevin shops for wood, I sleep like the dead, and unbeknownst to either of us, the great danish tragedy is underway.

Kevin returns from Home Depot to find that someone has ripped into the danish supply. Three of the four apple danishes are completely gone. Gobbled up no doubt without a speck of evidence left behind. However, there are two partially eaten cherry danishes still on the ground. Upon closer inspection, Kevin realized that the culprit had carefully eaten around the cherry filling, nibbling only the outer pastry, and leaving that cherry remains strewn across the kitchen floor. Oddly enough, the blueberry danishes went untouched.

The culprit was easily located on the sofa. When confronted, he confessed all, rolling onto his back, exposing his now engorged belly, tail beating wildly, ears back, with a very sad – I’m-so-sorry-but-I’m-just-a-dog-and-you-shouldn’t-have-tempted-me-by-leaving-them-open-and-within-my-reach look.

And so, when I rolled out of bed at eleven or so looking, I might say, quite beautiful, Kevin had to break the bad news. From the fresh pack of twelve danishes, only six survived that morning and a mere one apple left. The danish rule was horribly violated. But really, I can’t blame Artie. The apples are, by far, the best tasting of the group. My dog has good taste, I’ll give him that.