(www.meowbarkblog.com) — I’m either a glutton for punishment or just slow on the uptake, because I thought I could run out to the post office for a few minutes the other day without worrying about the dogs making some kind of mess. We don’t let them loose in the house when we leave anymore because they’re so darn creative and brilliant at getting to things the shouldn’t have, and I figured there was nothing that would appeal to them in the mudroom or garage in the 15 minutes I was gone.

I was wrong.

I managed to pick up most of the dog food before I thought to take a picture, and about half of the paper towels were somewhat salvageable, however slobbery. None of them can go on a paper towel holder, though because the dogs ripped through so many layers that the individual sheets are no longer connected in most cases.

Sigh. When will I ever learn?

Contents Copyright © 2009 Kristen King

(www.meowbarkblog.com) — If there’s one thing Ty loves, it’s stuffed animals. And he’s going to get them, no matter what it takes! See what I mean?

We call him Mr. Barky Buns Big Head. I’m sure you can figure out why.

Contents Copyright © 2008 Kristen King

(www.meowbarkblog.com) — After putting it off for more than a year, I finally read the last three chapters of Marley & Me, in anticipation of the film release later this month. I don’t mean to be giving any spoilers here, but the dog dies at the end, as dogs are wont to do. And it’s not a particularly horrible death except for the horribleness that is death.

I bawled. I’m still sniffling, tears sneaking out despite my best efforts to remember that (a) it’s not MY dog and (b) it happened years ago and (c) he had a good long life for a dog anyway, with people who clearly loved him, so it’s not that sad. Those things mean NOTHING. Marley’s death is possibly the saddest thing I’ve ever read, and I’ve read a lot of sad stuff.

I think what did it for me was thinking about Murphy and what a bad dog he is even though he tries to be good. Murphy is Marley in mastiff form. And as much as he drives us crazy with his insane behavior and his eating everything that’s not nailed down (and some things that are, come to think of it: case in point, the patio steps), when he goes it will be gut-wrenching.

What is it about bad dogs that make them the most lovable?

We had been reading Marley & Me together, my husband and I, because we had both wanted to read it and he didn’t want me to do it without him. So every night before bed, I’d read a chapter aloud. But toward the end there, I was crying too hard to speak and I could barely see the words on the page. That’s why we ultimately set it aside.

“You should finish Marley,” my husband told me tonight as after he answered my cries to rescue Pickles from the soaking tub in the master bath. (She had chased a cat in and gotten stuck). I was lying in bed, sick, and it seemed like a good idea. But it was NOT a good idea. Bawling and heaving big shuddering sobs while you already feel like your sinuses are about to explode is not something I recommend.

But now that I’m mostly calmed down, I feel a kind of lightness that I needed to feel. Maybe just the physical act of crying did it, but I think it probably had something more to do with knowing that I’m not alone in loving a terrible dog who no one else could ever love, a good dog trapped in a bad dog’s body.

Contents Copyright © 2008 Kristen King

(www.meowbarkblog.com) — Okay, so maybe we were a little bored. And tired. And punchy. And maybe we’d both had a few drinks. That’s probably why we thought it would be fun to tie bandanas on Pickles and Murphy.

Meet Babushka Pickles

Murphy is Too Cool for School

“Take THAT, bandana!”

And that’s probably also why Murphy, after taking it off, proceeded to tear it into five pieces after playing a brief bout of tug of war with Pickles.

Time for a new bandana!

Contents © Copyright 2008 by Kristen King

(www.meowbarkblog.com) — We’ve opened a new chapter in our ongoing discussion of what my English mastiff puppy, Murphy has ruined. Several weeks ago, he appropriated the cordless phone, which Jesse had left on the coffee table. After hearing crunching sounds, Jesse raced in to find the slobbery phone cracked and chewed, but still functional. He placed it out of Murphy’s reach and went about his business.

About 10 minutes later, Jesse heard more crunching. He raced into the living room again to find that this time, Murphy had gotten Jesse’s cell phone, which had been on the coffee table right next to the cordless phone but which Jesse had neglected to remove from chewing range. Not only was it chewed, but it was essentially destroyed. It kind of rang and you could kind of hear things and sort of dial, but the screen was completely shot, and teeth marks were like razors. It had to be replaced, which set us back about $400 because it was one of those fancy deals Jesse had for work.

Flash forward to yesterday, when I came out of the bathroom to find the already chewed up phone that I had left on the bed now lying on the floor, sans antenna. Yes, that’s right, Murphy went back to finish the job and polished off yet more of the phone.

May I remind you that he’s already destroyed one wallet and eaten a bottle of Xanax, too? He’s on a roll, this one…

Contents Copyright © 2007 Kristen King

When Jesse started freaking out, I didn’t know what was going on. “Kristen, come here RIGHT NOW!” he hollered from the kitchen. I dropped everything and ran to him, but skidded to a stop when I saw Murphy lying on the floor looking googly-eyed and Jesse whitefaced, holding an empty, chewed-up up prescription bottle with no label.

“What was in this bottle?” he asked.

I didn’t know. We dug through cabinets and drawers and wracked our brains, and couldn’t come up with a single prescription that wasn’t accounted for. But we had proof that one was missing. We called the vet immediately and told them what happened, but since we didn’t know what he’d consumed, they didn’t have specific protocol for us. The pharmacy and our doctors’ offices didn’t open for 2 more hours, so we couldn’t get our list of recent prescriptions and figure out what he’d eaten until they were answering the phones. Our only option was to induce vomiting.

We would do this, the vet tech told us, by forcing hydrogen peroxide down Murphy’s throat with a turkey baster. Easier said than done, but highly effective. About 5 minutes after we dosed him, he started puking like crazy. But no pills came up — only parts of the prescription label that were completely illegible.

Hours later, we finally narrowed it down: He’d eaten about 30 tablets of Xanax. The vet told us to call Animal Poison Control, which we did. After running calculations based on Murphy’s weight and the total maximum dosage that could have been in the bottle, the vet assured us that he’d be fine, just a little loopy. Apparently, Xanax is even used to treat dogs with serious separation anxiety, so it wasn’t that big a deal.

He was stupid and uncoordinated for a while, but mostly sleepy, and seems no worse for the wear.

We, on the other hand, have been traumatized thoroughly. And we have yet to figure out how he got the bottle in the first place.

The mind boggles.

Contents Copyright © 2007 Kristen King