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The Keller dogs’ story about their bad human and horrifying vet visit

23 Jan
The moment of panic when Macy and Charlotte realized their pet human was up to no good.

The moment of panic when Macy and Charlotte realized their pet human was up to no good.

 

Macy and Charlotte loved being human-owners. Their humans fed them yummy meals and played with them, and as a reward, Macy and Charlotte would let their pets sleep beside them at night.

All that ended yesterday thanks to the alpha female human.

The dogs knew she had taken those little pink and white pills, and the drugs make her do the unconscionable. When the female is under the influence of what she calls “allergy medicine,” she likes to load Macy and Charlotte into the giant wheeled box that has crushed crackers, stray Skittles and empty juice boxes on the floor. That in and of itself is actually quite delightful because it gives the two a gourmet buffet of snacking opportunities. However, the drugged female used the box to take them to a place of horrors. A place where dogs are subjected to the most unspeakable indignities. A place where cats are allowed to roam freely. A place where you think they are politely trying to sniff your butt only to discover they have inserted a cold plastic thermometer or a highly uncomfortable scooper.

As Macy and Charlotte sat in the waiting room, their human seemed at peace. She didn’t sneeze or wheeze when a – cat walked by. Macy, the older dog, tried to wiggle away.

“Ooh, do we get to chase the cat? Is it time to play?” the younger Charlotte excitedly asked. “Is it time to play? I really wanna play. Let’s play!”

“Noooo!” Macy whined as she pulled harder. “I’m trying to get away before they take us back to The Room. Don’t you remember The Room?”

“Nope, I don’t remember this place,” said Charlotte as she glanced out the window. “Ooh, squirrel!” The alpha female always said it was good that God made Charlotte pretty.

Alas, it was too late. Another human emerged from The Room and called for Macy and Charlotte. Macy took the time to show her displeasure by peeing on her human’s lap. Charlotte, who firmly believes no one should pee alone, did the same.

They were taken to The Room, and the other human began to say sweet things to Charlotte.

“Oh, I like her! I like her very much,” Charlotte said as the other human picked her up. She enthusiastically licked the other human’s face and tasted waffles. Very nice. However, the human began heading out a back door, and Charlotte became afraid. The pee came naturally this time. Macy grunted at her ward’s ignorance.

The male human they called “The Vet” entered the room for Macy. Alpha female placed Macy up on the examining table, and Macy felt his cold hands all over her body. He looked at her eyes and her teeth, stuck a cold cone into her ears, pulled at her hips and then felt him press on her internal organs. More pee.

Macy desperately tried to use the alpha female as a shield, but she could not escape. She whimpered her distress, but her female would not make eye contact with her. The other human walked back into the room with a visibly shaken Charlotte in one hand and the pointy cylinders of doom in another.

“RUN!” Charlotte cried out. “She’s going to put something in your rear end! She’s going to steal your poo! RUN!”

Too late again. The other human scooped Macy into her arms and took her out of the room. Charlotte put on her best brave face and tried to lick The Vet so he would let her go. No such luck. He examined her just as he had done with Macy, and then he grabbed a few of the pointy things and plunged them into Charlotte’s skin. Charlotte yelped and whimpered. The alpha female picked her up and held her close.

“What is wrong with you?” she asked her human. “Why did you let them do that to me?”

Macy re-emerged a few moments later with an obvious change in her walk. The Vet plunged the remaining pointy things into her skin and then left the room. In disgust, Macy rolled her eyes at both Charlotte and the alpha female.

The alpha female reattached Macy’s leash to her collar and placed Charlotte back in the kennel. Another human brought them dog treats, which were quickly gobbled up. The dogs liked her better than the other humans.  The people made small talk, passed a plastic card back and forth, and then the alpha female took Macy and Charlotte back to the wheeled box.

No one said a word on the way home, but Macy and Charlotte were secretly thinking about their revenge. As fate would have it, their opportunity came quickly. The plastic scooper and its lubricant apparently did much more than the silly humans expected, and both dogs freely allowed their bowels to explode inside the wheeled box. The alpha female shrieked in horror.

“Bwa ha ha,” Macy sinisterly laughed. “Bad human.”

No resolutions for 2014, just new experiences

30 Dec
What's your resolution for 2014? Mashable.com is hosting a resolution photo contest. (Click the photo for info.) I won't be entering.

Mashable.com is hosting a new year’s resolution photo contest. (Click the photo for info.)
I don’t qualify because I’ve sworn off resolutions in favor of new experiences.

I am not a big fan of New Year’s resolutions.  Yes, there are things about my life I’d like to change, but resolutions don’t work for me. My goals were always too high, and the guilt of non-attainment crushed me.

My thinking changed about 20 years ago. I discovered that new experiences, rather than New Year’s resolutions, were a better option. I’m a bit of an introvert and risk-avoider, and consequently, I’ve missed out on some great life experiences because of fear. Therefore, every year I set out to try something I’ve never tried before; nothing immoral or illegal, just stuff that personally terrifies me.

A few of my new experiences have addressed genuine life-and-death fears like water and falling; I conquered those with swimming lessons and a bungee jumping. However, most of my new experiences deal with my fear of failure. In addition to being an introvert and risk-avoider, I am also a recovering perfectionist.  I’m afraid to try new things simply because I’m terrified of failing in the attempt.

During the past few years, I put on my big girl panties and met a few of these fears head on. They include:

Dancing:
My mother’s family is Puerto Rican, and rhythm seems to be an intrinsic part of their DNA. My father’s family is Polish, and the white-guy shuffle is part of every chromosome. Genetics screwed me over; I can’t dance. Heck, I can’t even clap in time with the music.

So what did I do? I tried out for a musical, and I actually got a part. (The director had no choice. The show had an ice-skating scene, and I was the only actor who could skate.)  My acting and skating skills were pretty good, but my dancing was abysmal. During a hat and cane number, I whacked a fellow performer in the back of the head. I stepped on toes, I tripped over my own feet, and I forgot the choreography, but here’s the awesome part – I didn’t run offstage in tears. I toughed it out. In the end, I danced in front of roughly 6,000 people during the show’s run, and none of the critics blasted me for my choreography carnage.

Birds:
My children wanted to walk through the zoo’s aviary, but I refused to budge. Behind the screen door were dozens of birds flying freely through a rain forest exhibit. They chirped, squawked and defecated with reckless abandon. I told my kids I’d meet them at the exit, and I left the building. Not a good decision when your kids are seven and three.

I’ve been afraid of birds ever since I caught five seconds of crows attacking kids in Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds.”  It didn’t help when barn swallows built a nest in the eaves of my childhood home and dive-bombed me on my way to and from school. Things got much worse when a freaky mockingbird attacked my dog ten years later. I let her outside to do her business, and the bird decided to go kamikaze on her furry butt. I ended up swinging a broom at the bird and screaming to keep her away from my dog. This went on for weeks. My neighbors never talked to me again. It’s no wonder the poor dog was constipated for years.

So what did I do? I found lorikeets, the cutest birds on the planet. Years after my aviary abandonment, we saw the birds at a South Carolina zoo. People walked into the enclosure and fed them little cups of fruit nectar. The little birds gently flitted from person to person. We were about to walk past the exhibit, but I declared it was time to face my fear. I purchased my over-priced paper cup of nectar and walked into the enclosure with my family. A lorikeet was on my hand within seconds. I trembled a bit, but then I focused on the bird’s beauty. Soon more lorikeets perched on my hand. One landed on my head. I stopped shaking. The birds didn’t kill my children or gouge my eyes out. They were cute little freeloaders who just wanted some juice and a place to poop. I left the enclosure with a new sense of accomplishment and a streak of recycled nectar on my back.

The Ocean:
I firmly believe what Mufasa said about the Circle of Life, and I refuse to become a part of it. Sharks live in the ocean; therefore, the ocean is not a good place for me to hang out. I’d wade into ankle-deep water and then trudge back to shore to watch for dorsal fins while my husband and kids played in the waves.

My husband took me to Puerto Rico two years ago and booked a snorkeling trip for us. My plan was just to stay on the boat and read a book, but $75 a person seemed a bit much for reading time. I reluctantly agreed to get in the water. The captain gave me my snorkel, mask, fins and floatation belt. (Yes, I was the only adult with floaties. I can swim, but I don’t swim well.) I swam out with my husband, and the water was blessed with a new warm spot. Below me I saw beautiful coral and small fish darting in and out of the ocean plants. I had a death grip on my husband’s arm, but I splashed around for a few more minutes.  That’s when I saw it gliding through the water. I made another warm spot and contributed some chum for nearby fish. It wasn’t a shark, but rather one of those Steve Irwin-killing sting rays. I was out of the water within 15 seconds. My husband later told me the sting ray was roughly two feet long from tip to tail and hid itself in the sand after I darted. Failure? No way. Even though my time was limited, I actually joined the ocean ecosystem for a few awe-inspiring minutes.

2014:
I had to face a lot of unexpected fears in 2013 – my son’s cancer scare, my brain lesion, threats and hate from my blog and the Piers Morgan show. (Piers was by far the scariest.) I haven’t decided what fears I’ll tackle in 2014. I may try a sport that involves hand-eye coordination, or I may get over my “getting my butt kicked” fears with some Krav Maga self-defense lessons or tae kwon do classes. The only thing I know for certain is that I’ll end 2014 the same way I ended 2013 – with fewer fears, a little more self-confidence and a much richer life.

Lawsuit alleges Claus promotes hostile and unsafe work environment in shelf-elf program

17 Dec
Jerry Jingle, shown above, is now in protective custody after blowing the cover off Santa's degrading Elf on the Shelf program.

Jerry Jingle, shown above, is now in protective custody after blowing the cover off Santa’s degrading Elf on the Shelf program.

FOR RELEASE DECEMBER 17, 2013

DALLAS – The U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (EEOC) filed a lawsuit today against the Keller family and Santa Claus alleging they violated federal civil rights laws by permitting a hostile work environment filled with health and safety violations for Jerry Jingle, a student intern with Claus’s Elf on the Shelf ® program.

The Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) recently concluded its own investigation on the health and safety claims and levied a $1.2 million fine against the Kellers for violations.  Their investigation of Claus is pending because heavily-armed penguins and snowman snipers have refused to allow OSHA to enter to Claus’s North Pole headquarters.

According to the EEOC’s lawsuit, Claus promoted the program as “fun and playful off-site training” required for all elf underclassmen; however, the EEOC’s investigation indicated that the program was based on systematic and institutionalized humiliation directed toward Jingle and other interns. Claus’s training guide listed demeaning and unsafe elf activities such as making Christmas cookies, canoodling with Barbie dolls or other action figures, hiding in highly flammable Christmas trees, fishing in aquariums, and operating leaf blowers and snow plows.

Claus began the program in 2005, and more than 375,000 elves have participated in the training.

Jingle was assigned to the Keller children and was to report their behavior to Claus prior to the finalization of Christmas Eve sleigh packing. He arrived at the family’s home on Thanksgiving Day and began his elf activities that evening. That’s when things started to go horribly wrong. Jerry became trapped upside down in a cookie jar for more than 12 hours. The Keller children humiliated him by laughing at his buttocks and legs as they hung outside the jar. He developed a dangerous case of strep throat after using the Keller’s son toothbrush. He also attempted to read a book to One Direction dolls, but the singers hog-tied him.

The most horrifying incident Jingle experienced involved an encounter with Charlotte, the family’s dog. While scaling a kitchen cabinet, he slipped and fell to the floor. Charlotte, a nine pound Coton with razor-sharp teeth, assaulted him on the floor. “She ripped me a new one,” he tearfully explained.

The Kellers claim Jingle’s injuries were minimal, and Kim Keller says she personally restuffed and restitched his elf booty after the attack. Claus apologized to Jingle and sent him antibiotics and Valium so he could continue in the program. However, it wasn’t enough for this once jolly little elf.  He left the Keller’s home, sent his resignation letter to Claus, and made his way to the EEOC office in Dallas. The office, fearing retaliation from both Claus and the Kellers, arranged for Jingle to be placed into protective custody with the FBI.

“What happened to me should not happen to any other elf,” he said during this morning’s press conference. “Both Claus and the Kellers showed little regard for me as a magical creature with real feelings and real dreams. I will forever have emotional and physical scars because of this experience. Claus has done this to far too many naive elves, and it has to stop. Hopefully, this will send him a message.”

Bartimus Louse, the EEOC regional attorney in Dallas said, “It appears from our investigation — and we intend to prove it in court — that Claus and the Kellers not only knew about the degradation faced by Jingle, but they encouraged it and refused to take the steps necessary to ensure Jingle’s emotional and physical well-being. Employers who fail to take reasonable, simple measures to protect victims from hostile work environments do so at their peril.”

Claus is facing additional legal peril from the American Humanist Association (AHA). CNN reported the group is filing suit against Jingle’s former employer because the man in red is based on the Christian stories of St. Nicholas and the three kings. “It’s all religious propaganda that brainwashes Americans into thinking about other people,” said Martin Erronea, AHA’s spokesperson. The organization is also after the EEOC  for government endorsement of religion. “Claus is clearly a religious figure,” explained Erronea. “Everyone knows religious stuff has no place in American institutions, especially our court rooms. It’s a clear violation of the separation of church and state.”

People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) is getting involved as well. According to MSNBC, their lawyers are preparing an animal companion defamation lawsuit against Jingle. “Charlotte Keller is a companion with her own thoughts, desires and needs, and she is entitled to the same rights as any other being – human or animal,” explained attorney Shirley Furr Finley. “This includes protection of her good name. Mr. Jingle has defamed her good character by portraying her as a predator.”

Roadkill Goldfish will provide updates on this developing story.

The missing Joseph, armless snowmen and other beloved Christmas traditions

9 Dec

Guess who missed the family Christmas photo?

The Virgin Mary is a single mother in our nativity set.

She sits in adoration of the Christ child as the three kings and a young shepherd look on. I have no idea where Joseph is. He may have shattered during the great 2007 battle between the nativity icons and my son’s Star Wars figures. I never found Joseph’s remains, but Darth Vader had a suspicious white powder all over his helmet and one of the lambs was found shoved inside R2D2’s body.

I love my nativity set, and I refuse to get a new one. The set, along with all our Christmas decorations and traditions, tell the story of my family. Everything is imperfect, unique and wonderfully mismatched – just like us.

The kids' handmade ornaments are my favorites.

The kids’ handmade ornaments are my favorites.

There is no theme for our Christmas tree. We don’t have a color-coordinated set of artistic globes or fancy ribbons. Every item on that tree holds a memory. The lights are multi-colored because we couldn’t agree on a single hue for illumination. The limbs hold a collection of the kids’ sports medals, handmade photo ornaments, armless clay snowmen we made together (they had arms at one time), and silly mementos from the places we’ve lived. Elvis hangs in memory of the years we spent in Memphis, Mardi Gras beads drape a few limbs in celebration of my husband’s New Orleans roots, and a flying pig commemorates the smelly time we spent living down the road from a pork processing center in North Carolina. We also hide a glass pickle in the branches because someone told us German families had to do that. Legend says that the person who finds the pickle is supposed to have good fortune in the next year, and since I hid the silly thing, I have a major advantage in this contest. (Sadly, the pickle story is a just a clever marketing gimmick designed to sell pickle ornaments.)

Faith is a huge part of our Christmas observance. Both of my children accepted Christ at the age of six when they attended a candlelight Christmas Eve service. For those of you who aren’t familiar with evangelical jargon, the term simply means they realized what Jesus did for them and wanted Him to be a part of their lives forever. My husband grew up in a Baptist household, and I first embraced faith during college when I met an amazing campus priest who introduced me to a very real and loving God. The Baptist Christmas Eve services are beautiful, but I adore the true majesty of the King’s birthday through a Catholic Mass. The entire family went last year. It took a bit of coaching, but they did well with all the ups, downs and responses; however, the “greet one another with a holy kiss” section required some reassurance.

Although some Christian families may not include Santa Claus in their holiday, we embrace the example of Nicholas, a generous saint committed to charity and protection of children. It was his story that led to the legend of Santa Claus and the Rankin-Bass monopoly of holiday specials.  Christmas Eve is not complete until we check out the North American Aerospace Defense Command (NORAD) website that tracks Santa’s whereabouts.  My kids, now know-it-all young tweens, still run outside to see who can spot Rudolph’s nose when Santa enters the western hemisphere. Cookies and milk are left out for the big guy, and the reindeer get whatever fruit or vegetable is in the crisper. The kids also leave a thank you letter for the Man in Red because their obsessive-compulsive mother is a stickler for good manners.

Our Christmas will never appear in an edition of “Southern Living” magazine, but that’s okay. Christmas was never supposed to look like a scene staged by interior decorators; it was an ordinary manger complete with hay, animals and the sweet promise of new life.  It was never supposed to follow a script of carefully orchestrated parties and picture perfect photos; it was announced by a star that led both wealthy magi and humble shepherds to witness and share their memories about an event that would forever change human history.   Today’s Christmas is a reminder of the importance of the love and hope that first appeared more than 2,000 years ago.

It’s also a reminder that small children should never be given access to ceramic saints.

The Play Nice Comment Policy:
I welcome your feedback, but I will not tolerate personal attacks against me, my family or another commenter. It’s okay to disagree, but be respectful. Attack the issue, not the person.  Vulgarity, racism, religion bashing, slams about sexual orientation, name calling, advertisements and generally being a jerk to others will send your comment to the trash bin.

So play nice.

I’m tired of my youngest’s crappy attitude

2 Nov
Charlotte

Dog shaming didn’t work, she chewed the sign. It read, “My poop blends in with the rug. I am responsible for two carpet cleanings this week.”

This is my youngest, the one responsible for the recent Come to Jesus Meeting. I had hoped our little talk would have changed her behavior, but she just took crappy attitude to an entirely new level.

World, meet Charlotte. She is 11-months-old, and she is either an evil genius or lucky idiot.

She learned how to open cabinets by scratching the door edge with her paws and then slipping her nose into the opening. Her favorite cabinet, until yesterday, was the one that held the feminine hygiene products.  Her new skill yielded new maxi-pad chew toys for her, and it was rather difficult to pry an Always-With-Wings from her fur after she managed to tear off the tape strip.

Yesterday she  discovered a new favorite cabinet in our laundry room. It’s the one that holds the dog treats.

Yesterday was a very, very crappy day in my personal life. I had to deal with a lawyer who could have benefited from his own Come to Jesus Meeting  – or exorcism – or one of those “we gotta hold this one down a bit longer” kind of church baptisms. (Please, a human soul is at risk here!)

When it was over, I needed to lower my blood pressure, and research shows that stroking a pet can bring the heart rate and stress hormones back down to a normal level. I called Charlotte. No response. I looked in her bed. Not there. I then began to hear her whimper, and I hit panic mode as I followed the sound throughout the house. It led me to the laundry room, but Charlotte was nowhere to be seen. I called her again, and then I realized the sound was coming from behind the closed cabinet door. As I opened the door, I found her sitting in the dark cabinet with a very distended belly and Milkbone crumbs all over the  floor.

Her binge eating didn’t bother me at the time. I needed to cuddle with a furry baby or else I was going to explode. The puppy time worked, and I was soon able to take my son trick-or-treating. We returned home a few hours later and went straight to bed.

I got the kids to school in the morning and then returned home to grade student papers. I was greeted by an unbelievable stench that smelled like yesterday felt. It didn’t take long to find the source — Charlotte had exploded Milkbones all over my dining room floor. There were big piles and little piles and a thin brown trail that led to even more surprises in the hallway.

I grabbed a box of tissues and began to clean up the digestive carnage.  I know you shouldn’t discipline a dog for accidents unless you catch them doing it, so I growled under my breath. Charlotte followed me from pile to pile, her tail wagging the entire time. It was almost as if she was proud of her accomplishment. When I finished, she brought me her favorite toy, crawled up in my lap and licked my face.

I have got to do something about this crappy attitude.

My youngest’s Miley-like behavior leads to a “Come to Jesus Meeting”

28 Oct

I had a “come to Jesus meeting” with our youngest last weekend.

For those of you unfamiliar with Southern idioms, the phrase denotes a get-together between two or more people where a candid and somewhat harsh discussion will take place. The discussion usually centers on unacceptable behavior.

My behavior has been great, but Charlotte’s behavior and attitude have been rough for a few months now. She had always been a very sociable and happy girl, but she started acting out to get attention.  She’s been climbing up in boys’ laps and trying to kiss them.  She started walking around naked after her baths. She’s torn up the other kids’ toys and clothing. She’s ignored me when I’ve tried to discipline her.

As I looked into her brown eyes, I knew I had to be strong. Part of me wanted to scream and part of me wanted to cuddle with her. As a parent, it’s hard to discipline the youngest. Maybe it’s because we still see them as our innocent babies incapable of doing wrong or maybe we’re just worn out from the older kids’ chaos. Regardless of the reason, Charlotte needed to be set straight – for her own good and for the sanity of the rest of the family.

She blankly stared at me as I told her about her inappropriate actions. She didn’t understand why it was wrong to wiggle her butt in public or have her tongue hanging out all the time. (See related post on Miley Cyrus.) She found nothing wrong with climbing all over a cute boy. She didn’t care about the damage she’d inflicted on the other kids. Worst of all, she honestly believed rules apply to everyone BUT her.

The more I spoke, the less she listened. She whined and then walked away from me. I was angry, and I’m ashamed to say I committed a very heinous parental sin.

“You are acting like a complete and total bitch,” I said under my breath.

Charlotte heard my words and stopped in her tracks. Her face looked puzzled, but then she realized what she had done.

She slowly walked back to my chair, put her paws on my knees, licked my hands and then barked because she had to go outside after such a long conversation.

I was thankful I didn’t have to add pooping on the carpet to the discussion that night.

Hamsters: They’re like crack for schnauzers

23 Sep

Every kid deserves to have a hamster. Every schnauzer wants to eat a hamster. Image from MS Office Clipart

My daughter really wanted a hamster. Really, really wanted a hamster.

“I’ll keep my room clean, I’ll keep the cage clean, and I’ll love it every day,” my fifth-grade girl bargained.

No rats in the house. That was my husband’s first response.  It will stink. That was his second response. We already have a dog. That was his third response.

My daughter persisted, and I relented. She had straight A’s on her report card, and we went to the pet store. My decision was not based on her constant pleading or a desire to get back at my husband. It was a heart decision. I had hamsters when I was a girl, and I loved them. I loved watching them fill their cheeks to near explosion size. I loved holding them and feeling those little whiskers twitch against my skin. I loved that my hamster listened to me when no one else would. Every kid deserves to have a hamster at least once.

We bought a wire cage, bedding, food, exercise wheel and all the chew sticks a little hamster could desire.   My daughter selected her new friend, a small golden teddy bear hamster with whiskers that exceeded her body size. She named her Nugget –  as in “gold nugget” NOT “chicken nugget.”

My husband came home and met Nugget. Seeing the kids’ excitement, he melted and actually said sweet things to the little rodent as she turned her exercise wheel. Our dog, a schnauzer mix named Macy, also seemed to find Nugget sweet. She sniffed the cage and wagged her tail. My daughter brought Nugget up to her room and set the cage on her nightstand. All was well in the Roadkill Goldfish house.

All was well for about 18 hours. The kids left for school the next morning, and I got to work on a few client projects in my office. All of a sudden, I heard a tremendous CRASH in my daughter’s room. I dashed up the stairs to find the hamster cage thrown to the floor and my dog salivating and furiously pawing at the metal bars. Nugget was able to pull herself into a far corner, and her buckteeth were chattering like that creepy zombie from “World War Z.”  I managed to pull the dog off the cage and set Nugget’s home back on my daughter’s night stand. Nugget hissed. She sounded like a very ticked off cat. She hissed for hours. I honestly thought the fall may have caused brain damage or turned her psychotic. My daughter would never be able to hold her hamster again because the fluffball would go all Monty-Python-killer-rabbit on her face.

I called a vet who worked with pocket pets. She was sympathetic with my plight and told me there was probably nothing wrong with the hamster, but it would probably be a good idea not to handle her for a few days. She also said to keep the dog far away from the cage.

As I vacuumed up the bedding fuzz that covered my daughter’s floor, I realized a very important fact. Macy is part schnauzer. Schnauzers were bred to be vermin hunters. She was simply doing her innate doggy job, and the hamster was like crack cocaine to her DNA.  It was a true DUH moment on my part.

Nugget lived with us for two years until her last ride on the exercise wheel. She recovered from her psychological trauma without the use of therapy or antidepressants. She never nipped at us and would greet us by climbing on top of the wheel whenever we came in the room. She was the best hamster in the world.

During those two years, Macy would visit Nugget in my daughter’s room. We moved the hamster home to a higher table, and Macy would sit for hours in front of the cage.  She wouldn’t bark, growl, salivate or whimper. She sat. Motionless. Waiting for the day that Nugget tried to escape.  Waiting for the day she could indulge that insatiable craving for schnauzer crack.

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