Greatest American Suckage

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I admit it – I’m not a fan of reality TV. What I mean here by ‘not a fan’ is that I loathe it to the very depths of my soul. I think it’s the bastard child of the devil, and a room full of mentally deficient monkeys given access to typewriters and unlimited amounts of Starbucks. Reality TV manages to simultaneously both blow and suck.

That said, every other freakin’ blogger I read seems to be addicted to “Greatest American Dog”. When I read rave reviews of this show on both  Pet Connection and Poodle and Dog Blog, I become sorely tempted to take a quick look see. Christie’s exposure of the huge amounts of suckage in last week’s episode just made me even more curious about this phenomenon that has my other dog friends refusing to answer their phones while it’s on (or even to post to the dog lists! Gasp of horror, faint from shock, etc).

So, last night I sat down to watch, and all I can say is — holy crap, people? How the hell can you stand watching this show? Forget about animal cruelty – half an hour of this mind numbingly stupid crap and I was tempted to give myself a lobotomy with a spoon.

The faux ‘dramatic’ soundtrack, the forced poignant moments, the grimacing facial expressions of the contestants – it was excruciating. I love dogs, and I love dog sports. I attend Sheepdog trials, although I own no sheep, and no Border Collies. I watch Dock Diving, although my own dogs would sink like rocks if they tripped and fell in a puddle. I even love reading about Patrick working his terriers, despite the fact that I’ve been a life long anti hunting proponent.

But this? I couldn’t even watch it. I couldn’t watch people working with dogs, which is tantamount to an alcoholic saying “No thanks” to a second glass of wine (or me saying no to a triple latte).

The capper was watching trainer/judge Victoria Stilwell go on a vitriol laced rant against a competitor who had the audacity to ask his dog to sit and stay during the final portion of the show. Oh, the cruelty! Oh, the horror! Then came the obligatory blather about Cesar Milan being the anti Christ, which pretty much seems to be the party line of every competing dog trainer out there.

All of this was followed by a sugar sweet group hug a thon where Stilwell and fellow judge Wendy Diamond played a rollicking game of “No, you’re the better person” with each other, all while simpering sweetly and fluttering their eye lashes for the camera. Douglas Coupland called that “Telethon-ese”, in one of his early books – the act of celebrities mutually back slapping each other into simultaneous comas of self congratulatory bliss. To her credit, Stilwell seemed to be visibly holding back a grimace of hatred during the process. Selling your soul — not so painless after all, apparently.

And neither was watching this show. I felt bad for the dogs, most of all. They gave truth to the old saying “People often get better dogs than they deserve”.  What seems to be also true is that dog people get worse television than anyone deserves. Greatest American Dog — Worst American TV Show.

Since this all seems rather grim, here are some cute photos of the dogs being sillyheads around the swimming pool yesterday.The whole set is over here on Flickr (and includes some rather handsome shots of Elliott, daddy to be, looking studly in spite of his recent dip in the pool).

Oh, and Delilah has now made Swiffer dusting cloths redundant at our house, due to her habit of burrowing into every dusty, cobwebby, dead bug filled crevice she can find. To my credit, this was in our pool house, since even I am fairly diligent about semi monthly cleanings of the rabid dust bunnies inside of our house.

Dustmop Delilah

Delilah has a Twin and Nell is on Strike

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We spent the day at the Hanover Fall Fair on Sunday. The usual fall agricultural fair stuff – 4H kids with their dairy cattle, prize winning chickens, heavy horse pulls, miniature horses and the steer competition.

It was during the steer competition that we met our new favorite cow steer –  a rather aggravated looking black Angus with the most recalcitrant, stubborn expression on his face. While the other cattle were lining up nicely, feet perfectly placed and still as statues, this cow non coew steer was pissed off about the whole ordeal. He stomped from side to side, refused to put his feet where they belonged, and was muttering under his breath that it was ‘all pointless’.

The thing is, he just looked exactly like Delilah — well, OK, not exactly. I mean, Delilah is a twenty two pound French Bulldog, not a two ton steer, but it’s all in the eyes. He had has her same black, deep, shoe button eyes, and her precise expression of mutinous, stubborn will power. If they both had a saying tattooed on their sides, it would be “Don’t wanna“.

Don't Wanna Be a Show Dog

I picture Delilah behaving in the exact same way if we were ever stupid enough to try to stick her in the show ring. Plus, we’re not allowed to use those hook thingies to poke our dogs into place — although with some dogs, we should be (she said ominously, shooting a dirty look at the small black dog sleeping on her feet).

Penelope, who resembles nothing more than a brindle basketball on four legs these days, is on a mid pregnancy hunger strike. She is not making this whole impending motherhood thing easy, that’s for sure. Currently, she will only eat her food if I:

a) poach and shred a chicken breast onto her raw food
b) artfully arrange the chicken so that it wraps around the raw food, camouflaging it
c) I then poke the little balls of chicken camo raw food into her waiting mouth, like a stupid floor sitting mommy bird feeding her evil little offspring

The other dogs, of course, gape at this entire procedure with their mouths hanging open. Sailor has started to let out shrieks of outrage, which, if translated into person-speak, would no doubt sound like “Are you freakin’ kidding me? You’re hand feeding her? Me, I got a hunk of raw chicken to eat, and I liked it. Tell princess I’m going to come and smack some sense into her thick little skull.”

Penelope just rolls her eyes, yawns, and tells me to get my pedicure kit and do her toe nails in a prettier shade of pink. It’s rough being the center of the universe.

Here’s Elliott, after I told him that his paramour was refusing to eat poached chicken breast –

Immediately after wards, he rolled off the couch in shock, bonking his head on the floor. Luckily, he’s a boy Frenchie, which means his head is full of rocks, so the only damage was a dent in my floor.

Of course, Paris, who is Penelope’s mortal enemy, kindly offered to finish off any food Penelope didn’t want, and even some she did. She’s always helpful like that.

Puppy Mill Awareness Day

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As you can probably tell, things are just a little bit busy over here. I’ll be posting less this week, but I’ll try to toss something up here from time to time.

First off, mark this date on your calendars — Saturday, September 20th is Puppy Mill Awareness Day.

In case you’ve been living under a rock, puppy mills are alive and well, and just as lucrative as they’ve ever been. In fact, the advent of the internet has given puppy mills an entirely new market – the long distance buyer.

Look, I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating — pick your puppy up in person. Good grief, you’re about to spend thousands of dollars on a dog that you want to be a part of your family for years to come – isn’t that worth a little bit of a drive? If you can’t drive to the breeder you’ve picked out, then find one who’s closer. Yes, you might have to wait a little bit, but so what? Puppies aren’t supposed to be about instant gratification – there just might possibly be a little bit of work involved on your part.

I’m tired of hearing about sick dogs who came from puppy mills and mid west brokers. People! Stop the freakin’ madness! If you stop the demand, they’ll stop the supply.

A breeder who refuses to let you see where they house their dogs is a breeder with something to hide – possibly something big, like a barn jammed to the rafters with hundreds of dogs. Go and check it out, with your eyes open and your heart ready to just say no and walk away. There are always more puppies, and you’re not ‘saving one’ when you buy from a bad breeder or a pet store.

Are you one of those people who still think that French Bulldogs can’t possibly come from puppy mills? Have a look at this video —

Now, this isn’t going to be popular, but it needs to be said —

If you bought your French Bulldog (or your dog, period) from a Pet Store, you just saw where your dog came from.

Yes, even you, Mr. “My Pet Store Is Different”. No, no they are not. Pet stores lie. They lie like rugs.

Take a look at your cute dog, and take another look at that video. That Frenchie? The one living in a wire pen smaller than your dog’s bed? That’s your dog’s mother. Or sister. Or brother.

I’m sure of it. If you bought your dog from a pet store, your puppy came from a filthy, cramped, wire run hellhole like the ones in the video. You love your dog? Good. But it’s still the truth.

And, because you bought your dog, your pet store placed an order for ten more just like her, and another ten Frenchies got crammed into wire pens like the ones you just saw, and bred until they died.

Stop. The. Demand. Stop buying from Pet Stores.

Or, keep on doing it, and accept the karmic debt load that comes from the torture of dozens of dogs, just so that you can buy that kyooooot little puppy in the window. It’s really up to you.

Polka Dot Matriarch, Penelope Swells & Zucchini Banana Bread

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La Grand Dame of ear polka dots, Ms. Lola Banana, presents her deliciously butterscotch colored ear spots for your viewing pleasure —

Rumor has it that, just like a Pug, she smells faintly of scented kleenex, in addition to having soft, downy, double coated fur.

I was planning on sharing a nice post about some lovely UK dogs, but their owner never got back to me with permission to publish their photos. C’est la vie. If you’re showing Frenchies in the UK, send me a note and some photos, and I’ll write a blog post in which I blather on about how cuuuuuute your dogs are.

Seriously, I’d love to know how things are over there — Frenchies in North America are getting more and more group placings, and more Best in Shows than I’d have believed possible just ten years ago. Has the same happened in the UK?

Penelope is swelling up like a zeppelin. She can’t seem to lie on her tummy anymore – she has to lie on her side, or flat on her back, with all four legs waving in the air. She looks like a beached manatee.

Tula is carrying her weight low, but Penelope is carrying hers wide – she’s swelling out on the sides. Some days, it looks like she’s going to explode. As you can tell from her expression, she’s un thrilled about impending motherhood.

That crust on her nose is because I let her lick the spoon after I made a batch of zucchini banana bread. Yes, yes, bad me for spoiling her, but it was just a spoon, and she seemed to deserve a treat. She’d said what she’d really prefer is a surrogate mommy Rottweiler. Since that isn’t happening, I’m going to feel free to let her have the occasional treat.

The zucchini banana bread is pretty good, by the way — but I skipped the cranberries, and added chocolate chips in half the batch. Health food – yum!

Here’s the recipe, just in case you are also swamped with zucchini, and are running out of things to do with it.

Banana-Zucchini Bread
Submitted by: heather duncan
Rated: 4 out of 5 by 28 members		 Prep Time: 15 Minutes
Cook Time: 50 Minutes		 Ready In: 1 Hour 5 Minutes
Yields: 20 servings
“This moist and delicious breakfast bread is a blend of two all-time favorites. The flavors of banana and zucchini intensify when the bread is cooled. Serve this walnut and cranberry studded bread with sweet cream butter or your favorite jam.”
INGREDIENTS:
3 eggs
3/4 cup vegetable oil
2/3 cup packed brown sugar
1 cup white sugar
1 cup grated zucchini
2 bananas, mashed
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
3 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon ground cinnamon
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup dried cranberries
1/2 cup chopped walnuts
DIRECTIONS:
1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees F (165 degrees C). Grease and flour two 8×4 inch bread loaf pans.
2. In a large bowl, beat eggs until light yellow and frothy. Add oil, brown sugar, white sugar, grated zucchini, bananas, and vanilla; blend together until well combined. Stir in the flour, cinnamon, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Mix in the cranberries and nuts. Divide the batter evenly between the two prepared loaf pans.
3. Bake in the preheated oven until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean, about 50 minutes. Allow to cool in the loaf pans on a wire rack before removing and serving.

Petal Freaks, Lola has a B-Day and Butterscotch Ear Spots

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Happy Birthday, Lola! Happy Birthday to youoooooo!

Lola's Birthday Party

Ms. Lola Banana – aka Bullmarket Chiquita Lolita – celebrated her 10th birthday this past weekend. Birthday cake (OK, grass fed beef burgers), party hats and presents were on hand, and Lola’s little ‘sister’, Sushi, was more than happy to share in the booty, even if it meant wearing an octopus hat as partial payment.

Octopus Hat Sushi

Maggie, mom to Sushi and Lola, asked if Lola and Weezie were related. The butterscotch ear polka dots and wanton toy chewing just seemed to be too much of a coincidence. They are related!

Lola is mother to Diva
Diva is mother to Bunny
Bunny is mother to Weezie

.. that makes Lola Weezie’s great grandmother. Here are Bunny’s ear polka dots –

Bunny's Ear Polka Dots

.. Now I just need a photo of Lola’s ear spots, and we can make a sort of ear polka dot family album. God, I need a hobby.

Poor Petal is having a hard time adjusting to life as a house cat — well, to life as our house cat, that is. I suppose part of it is having lived as an outdoors cat for this long – she gets panicky if she doesn’t have constant access to a door open to the outdoors.

Petal Blends In

We’ve arranged sort of a compromise. I leave the door from the kitchen into the garage partially open, and the door from the garage to the outdoors cracked open a bit. This lets Petal go in and out of the house when she feels panicked or threatened (She’s not used to the dogs yet, even though they mostly ignore her). She spends a lot of time sleeping on an old chair we had stored in the garage. I’ve set it up, and put a fleece pad on the seat for her to sleep on. We call it her ‘throne chair’.

Petal's Throne Chair

When I’m upstairs, Petal seems to enjoy hanging out in the kitchen and living room. She sleeps on the couch, even if it is with one eye open, and she enjoys walking on the kitchen island while I’m prepping food. She’s a very curious little cat – very interested in everything going on. She is also incredibly affectionate – she enjoys climbing up and riding on my shoulder, and will happily roll over to have her belly tickled.

Tula has three weeks to go, and she looks like a little moo cow more and more every day. Poor girl!

Tula's Pregnant Belly