This is not a dog blog.  which means, of course, this post is about dogs.

Recently i was having a conversation with a labradoodle owner.  And, not surprisingly, she said what i've heard many other dog owners say to me about their dogs.  It is always something like, "oh, my ______ is just sooo smart.  We thing its the labrador in her, but poodles are smart dogs as well."  Now i love the labradoodles--they are just plain cute and as a kid of allergies, its extremely hard to hate on hypoallergenic dogs--even designer ones. But i just don't know why a 'smart dog' is a thing.

So i laugh.  Cause I think its the most ridiculous thing ever.  

It's not that i don't understand what they're telling me.  I do.  I get what a 'smart dog' is.  They do tricks.  Maybe they even fetch your slippers if you wear slippers and if its a really smart dog.  I still don't care.  Because unless you are wheelchair bound or blind or otherwise impeded from retrieving your own slippers/shoes, all that is is a nifty way to move less.  It is a remote control for your shoes.

(*sidenote: service dogs who do all of these seemingly mundane tasks for their owners are, indeed, very smart and unbelievably amazing.  you should assume from here on out that service dogs are outside the realm of even poking fun at. cause they obviously rule.  in fact, i want to be a service dog when i grow up.  all this said, as i continue, i think you'll see that service animals fit into my sense of what makes a dog good, anyways. end sidenote*)

So your very smart dog knows what it's bed is and which toy is "bunny."  So smart.  Is he going to college?  Is she putting that intelligence to work getting scholarships? Are your pooches on the job market?  No.  Of course not.  Because, other than staying away from the road and remembering to eat, pee, and poop, dogs have very little need for intelligence.  In fact, i have it on some authority that a number of, what in the human world we would call "mentally challenged" dogs, live happy healthy amazing dog-lives with their families.   They run into walls and their family laughs and loves and life goes on. 

Because, for us humans, a dog's real job is to love us unconditionally.  To be a companion.  To show us the loyalty that fellow humans often falter at.  So if you tell me that your labradoodle is unendingly loyal to you.  Well now, that's tell me something.

I think an example of what im getting at may help illuminate my point.  let's take grover.  Grover, in general, sleeps in our bedroom at night.  He has a bed comprised of two comforters (one is so fluffy we call it "the marshmellow") laid on top of each other. Behind the comforters are two big file cabinets (the metal cabinets actually form the back boundary for the bed.  In front of his bed, is our bed.

To understand this story, you need to know that on school nights, mmf goes to bed a few hours before me.  She wakes up much earlier, so this makes sense.  Therefore, grover and i cruise into the bedroom in the low light of the hall lamp, and settle in.  On this night, as i am "tucking" grover into bed, my elbow hits the metal file cabinet drawer which makes a fairly loud noise (especially loud considering the hour and otherwise silent room).  Grover was solidly terrified and shot like a bullet up on the bed (where mmf was sleeping) and turned.

This is important.  This is relevant.  Was he scared?  Hell's yah!  But, in his fear of danger (the sky is falling!!!), he didn't bolt downstairs, he didn't go hide in his crate, he jumped in front of mmf and faced the threat.  I'm not saying that House of Pain was going to do anything (watch Swingers for the reference).  I mean, grover is not a fighter.  But he is loyal.  Deeply.  And he's wired to be at our side when shit goes down.  And that, i would argue, is more important than smarts or being able to jump through a tire.

Is grover a 'smart dog'?  Well . . . you tell me.




and yes, he did just pin his back paw down with his front paw to stabilize it for his face.

So this is one of those posts people.  One of the one's i warn you about ahead of time.  It's gross.  It is also a true story of something that happened to me a few days ago.  So if you are the type of person who stops following blogs because of reading hilarious tails of truly disgusting things happening to other people.  Skip this one.  It's not for you. (mom and dad, you already know this one, so you might as well keep going.)

We got home from a whirlwind vacation about a week ago.  And, as one does, we began taking stock of the state of our house upon return.  Well, after i took stock of my four things i sat down to watch some baseball.  Mmf kept taking stock.  As she moves to the kitchen i hunker down on the couch, reveling in the feeling of home.  And then i hear her scream. 

Now its not some horror movie shriek or anything, but mmf definitely full volume screams momentarily.  This is bad for two reasons. 

1.  Women from Vermont don't scream at a whole bunch of things.  Mmf grew up pretty much in the middle of the woods and sees most animals as neighbors more than potential threats or something to scream at.  its all, "Hello Mr. Bear, are you enjoying your midday stroll.  Nice seeing you. Say hi to the cubs for me."  So if she's screaming, its *not* good.

2.  The last scream-able situation had happened recently.  While staying with mmf's family out on the north shore of boston, a bat got into the house.  Actually, it got into mmf's parents room.  The first night.  We discussed said adventure at breakfast.  I believe my input went something like, "If i see that goddamn bat i'm gonna scream like a little girl."  Looking back, i realize that if you were watching a movie of my life--viewing this situation from your tv at home--this would be the moment everyone on the couch would groan with obvious foreshadowing.  But at the time, it seemed like the only thing to say. 

Of course, the next night, as i was bringing Grover in from a walk around 12:30 in the morning, batman resurfaced in the main room.  And that bat was friggin big.  Not the size of a car or anything crazy, but, with wings spread, probably the size of my forearm.  Grover (our pup for those of you who are new here) decided to sit all pretty-like and hope that the bat might be a new friend to play with.  He sat and followed the bat with his head as if he were watching a bizarre tennis match.  I was not as calm.  I may have blacked out.  but i did NOT scream.  take that me!  there was, however, a fair bit of panicking on my part.  Grover, on the other hand, realized that the bat was not going to play with him and went onto the couch to sleep (his bed was upstairs, however).  He wouldn't come, and after a trying day, i just had no more energy to be alone, afraid and wrestling with a dog while trying to prevent a bat from getting upstairs to where we were sleeping (turns out he did get back into the parents room . . . oops).  Anyways, long story medium length, i woke up mmf and she threw a towel over her head, marched directly out to grover, pulled him off the couch and upstairs.  She is my knight in shining armor.  

All this should accentuate how bad hearing her scream felt.  Beacaue, a la the bat--whatever it was that was causing her to scream, it was my turn . . .

Mmf: "There's a dead baby mouse in the tinfoil/saran wrap/sandwich bag drawer."
Me: "But there isn't even food in there."
Mmf: "i don't think i can do this one."
Me: "ok, i need to mentally prepare for this."  (to myself, chanting) "i'm about to see a rat baby [technically a mouse, but give me a break], im about to see  a rat baby. i'm about to see a rat baby."


I am two step to toward the kitchen when i hear it.  She gasps.  Full gasp.  Movie gasp. Horror gasp.  My baby is gasping.  This. Is. NOT. Good.   I can't even comprehend what it is making her gasp, but i already know i should have toughed it out with the bat. 

Me: "What is it hon"
Mmf:  "A nest.  In the sandwich box."

She says this while turned away from the drawer itself.  It's gross enough that she hasn't stopped to look at the details.  I did.  Here's what i saw:

1 mostly unused roll of tinfoil.
1 mostly used roll of saranwrap.
1 open box of sandwich bags with many bags still inside.
1 dead hairy mouse fetus, whole and on the drawer bottom
1 dead hairy mouse fetus, bled out across the drawer bottom
432 (ish?) dead hairy mouse baby fetuses, nested in said sandwich box--all snug as a bug in  . . . well, as a mouse baby in a sandwich box nest.

I'm going to be honest with you folks.  You can't un-see that.  And i still see it sometimes.  The rest of that day i saw friggin ghost dead mouse babies everywhere.  Every dust ball, every semi-hidden remote control--i was a very jumpy chap. 

Our first thought was to just pull out the drawer and dump it whole hog (whole dead mouse nest) into a garbage bag.  Turns out, the drawers in our kitchen are the one thing that doesn't come apart (unlike our dishwasher).  Had to go at it by hand.  Well, gloved hand and paper towels.  The one that had bled out was the grossest.  The brown lining (there is no sliver lining to this story) here was that i could dump the nest without having to pull all those individual suckers out.  All in all the experience left me running and gagging for the toilet.  Just dry heaves.  That's composure. 

While i was gloved i decided to wipe the whole drawer down a bit.  It is now 2 weeks later, and while we have bought new saran wrap, tinfoil, and sandwich bags, they are all still out on the counter. 

Cause i still can't open that drawer. 

Hey y'all.  (I have a southern accent when i'm embarrassed).  I'm been very busy .  Busy busy busy.  So here are a few excerpts from writings in 2003 when i was away in japan teaching english to elementary and middle school kids.  hope you enjoy.