A Likely Lass

probably nothing of consequence

Archive for the tag “dogs”

You should never look monsters in the eye

By now, probably almost everyone’s heard of Tucker Carlson’s comment that Michael Vick should be executed for murdering dogs. I have to say, this is probably the first time ever that I’ve partially agreed with Tucker. Ok, no, I don’t really think that Michael Vick should be executed – I think he should have been sentenced to life in prison, no parole. Solitary confinement if he could be so ordered.

I’ve gotten mad about this in the past (as I had about the local Mack Hudson case) and people have been quick to jump to Vick’s defense. I’ve heard it all – he has great talent, I’m being racist, I don’t understand how he grew up, I am ‘privileged’ and therefore my opinion is compromised, I’m obviously not an Eagles fan. However, I’d like to point out that it has nothing to do with Michael Vick’s race – I’d be as similarly inclined to such a punishment if Vick was female and white. I don’t think ‘talent’ defines a person’s humanity, and I do not care how he grew up – humanity and compassion aren’t exclusive to people who live in better areas or have more money. The point remains incontestible: Michael Vick routinely murdered dogs for his own enjoyment.

This isn’t hunting, where a fast and clean kill is generally appreciated by most huntsmen. It’s not a commercial abattoir where stock animals are killed for consumption and (generally) killed humanely. He personally killed dogs, apparently for his own enjoyment. He hung them from their necks until they suffocated. He drowned them. It’s difficult to account for all the atrocities committed – from the ‘rape stand’ to the fighting pit to the accounts of slamming a dog’s head into the ground until it died. For that degree of callousness and disregard of life, for being able to repeatedly torture animals without one twitch of remorse, Michael Vick proved he has no humanity.

Here’s a good example of the abuse he inflicted.

“As that dog lay on the ground, fighting for air, Quanis Phillips grabbed its front legs and Michael Vick grabbed its back legs. They swung the dog over their head like a jump rope then slammed it to the ground. The first impact didn’t kill it. So, Phillips and Vick slammed it again. The two men kept at it, alternating back and forth, pounding the creature against the ground until, at last, the little red dog was dead.”

I can’t even read half of that article without twitching.

Such a complete lack of compassion, as displayed by Michael Vick, doesn’t deserve to be applauded, even if Vick has ‘talent’. Such cruelty doesn’t deserve a “second chance”, no matter what President Obama thinks. There is no excuse for doing this – not your ‘background’ or racial makeup or your pants size or your income. To call it inhuman is to assign a word that cannot possibly convey the utter lack of humanity that Vick has.

On the heels of this, of course, is Michael Vick’s plaintive “but I want a dog again”. I ask you – do you let a convicted pedophile around children again? Probably not. Is it a good idea to allow a convicted drug addict to work at a pharmacy? Again, probably not. So why would anyone think that it would be a good idea for a convicted dog torturer to be allowed a dog?

Quite frankly, I don’t think Vick deserves anything. Sure, he’s a good football player – but devoid of that, what is he? Just another monster.


Saga of the Liver Treat

As you might be aware, I started the dogs on a home-made diet about a week ago. I’ve been talking about it forever, and decided it was time to put my money where my mouth was. I also skipped my normal Bil Jac liver treat run and instead made my own.

This is what the recipe has in it: chicken livers, flour, cornmeal, garlic powder (small sprinkle). Bake. It seemed simple enough.

But instead of sedately chopping the livers in a Martha-Stewart haze of perfect serenity, I had to puree them.

Yes. Pureed chicken livers.

This is how it went down. Please note that if you are eating and/or squeamish, this part is gross. Skip it.

Dogs: *circling*
Me: *stares at recipe, empties container of chicken livers into blender*
Dogs: *waiting expectantly*
Me: *presses pulse*
Chicken Livers: *bloody mess*
Me: *faint*

I really did not expect the chicken livers to… like… well, I didn’t expect them to become like a blood smoothie. Y’know all those books that are like “And the vampires drank lots of blood in pretty cups!” and “She nonchalantly poured a glass of blood”? I BET THERE WAS NO NONCHALANTNESS ABOUT IT. Just having this … this blender full of a bloody mass was actually kind of disturbing. And the fact that I’d left the little centre part out of the blender made ALL the difference, let me tell you, because I got pureed liver splattered on the cupboards.

Naturally, M chose that moment to come home.

This is what actually happened:
Me: *smiles reassuringly* Hi!
Dogs: *don’t move but wag tails*

This is what M saw:
Me: *holding a container of blood, with blood splattered all over the cupboards, grinning maniacally* HI HONEY I’M SO GLAD YOU’RE HOME
Dogs: *drooling menacingly*

M: What are you doing?
Me: Making liver treats for Bean’s class. Sorry about the mess, I forgot about the little thing in the center of the blender.
M: What… kind of liver are you using?
Me: Chicken liver, why?
M: OH. Just checking.

When I went to look in the mirror after finally popping the liver-biscuits in the oven, I realized that I also had bloody liver flecks all over my cheek. It was a sight for sore eyes, I am quite positive.

Super fantastic visit to the kitchen!

Having a pair of dogs is like having two hyperactive footstools that move around with the speed and precision of a couple of large, blind rabbits. Even when they’re not actively moving, they’re milling around like teenagers at a McDonalds, or conveniently sleeping somewhere directly in whatever path you may take. They’re not particularly messy, but Moving with the Herd is something that I still cannot always get used to.

This is what a trip to the kitchen is like, on a Saturday while making lunch:

Is she going to get up? AHA! She’s moving! I shall trundle along aside thee, O Joy of my Face, because you are going to the room with the food box! Dogs, I LOVE the food box! This is SO AWESOME I might PUKE! Oh wait, that was just a loud cough. But wait – what’s she doing? WATER? I LOVE WATER! THAT IS SO UTTERLY COMPLETELY MIND-BLOWING! Wait… what now? What’s that? SHE’S GOT A CRINKLY THING! OH MY GOD IT’S CRINKLING! But what is it. She’s putting it into a round thing… A BOWL! Is it FOR ME? Not for me, okay, okay… It’s… it’s CHIPS! CHIPS CHIPS CHIPS CHIPS CHIPS CHIPS CHIPS CHIPS CHIPS CHIPS CHIPS CHIPS CHIPS!!! *wild dancing and bowing* She’s giving it to the other human. Dammit. His Sourness never gives us any chips. But she’s traipsing back into the room with the food box! What’s that? OH MY GOD LUNCHMEATTTTTTTTTT!!!! I am going to die if you don’t give me any lunchmeat! I will surely perish, right here on this floor, see my ribs stick out, my hopeful glance, oh maiden of the meat, PLEASE GIVE ME THAT TURKEY! See, I will dance for you, I will *nom nom nom nom!*”

It’s a never-ending super-fantastic adventure with them. Except for when we go to the vet, naturally.

Sam and Bean


You have to hold the treat above the camera
so she’ll let you take a picture of her.

The new couch is met with approval:

Sam before Bean:

Sam after Bean:

Why her name is “Bean”

Bean has been confined to the bedroom at night, as I still don’t know how she does with the housetraining, and I didn’t want to take any chances. She sleeps very soundly sprawled out on the floor, and there have been no problems.

Until 6am rolls around.

At first, she’ll just nudge my foot. She’s not a large dog, so it’s a light nudge. Just once.

Then, if I don’t give any response, she’ll nudge again and whine. Nudge-nudge, whineeeee.

Nudge-nudge-nudge, whineeeeeee whineeeeeeee.


If I still don’t get up, she comes up to my face. She’ll try a whine there, too. If I still don’t move, she’ll go lie down on the floor with a big sigh. That lasts about five minutes, before she decides that it’s Time To GET UP. It’s something akin to being attacked by a black, furry, chirping cannonball with long, gangly legs and a tongue that seems to have a range of 360 degrees and that is faster than the speed of sound. It’s the same treatment I get when I walk through the door, except in the morning, I am usually sound asleep when it happens.

And even if I push her off, she comes back for MORE.

Until, of course, I get up, which is the signal to Run Up And Down The Stairs As Loudly And As Quickly As Possible, until the neighbor bangs on the wall and shouts, at which it is time to Stop In The Middle Of The Stairs And Bark At The Wall, until it becomes Time To Go Outside And Pee On Everything At Least Four Times.

I will say this: after about four mornings of this, you learn to get up and get the dogs outside very, very quickly, very possibly taking all the stairs in a single bound, finishing with a quick roll and simultaneously dislocating your shoulder to open the door, Jason-Bourne-Style.


In the snow:




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