Control

Just this past weekend I was so concerned for the doggie's welfare.  After the drumstick he ate never re-appeared, I was so worried that I left the Cincinnati Chocolate Festival early (I took my chocolates home, mwah hahaa).   So concerned that something might be inside him literally ripping him a new one, that, in a wacky role-reversal, I stuck to him like velcro Sunday night. 

Monday too, I kept my eye on him, even as he did nothing interesting.  He tore tufts of hair out of the raccoon toy that D just bought him, instead of chewing on it as intended (he's decided he's ignoring the squeaky/quacky noisemakers inside, he'd rather rip it to moist and gooey hairballs that he can scatter all over the house.  We have raccoon bits all over the house). 

Other than not coming when called, knocking my potted plants over, killing them one by one, chewing on the containers, and then running away with them when I try to retrieve them, nothing of note happened.  

He had the sad-eyes at me though, so I forgave him for being an asshole.  

"Sorry I'm an asshole, mommy"

By Tuesday things were back to normal, with him flagrantly disobeying me, but then being obedient when D gave him the exact same commands.  You know, making me look like a dick.  And there was some overly exuberant playing and more ignoring me, with me yelling at him and then giving up and having angry muttered dialogues to myself. 

"I'm not playing with him if he's going to be like that." 

"Fine, no.  Take the pot.  I don't care."

"Dogs that nip their owners get sent back to prison, prison dog."

So it really only took about two days for me to be completely over his close call.

Thursday night I took him for a run and he was super good.  Friday morning he failed to try escaping at crate time.  He trotted down the stairs and right into his crate and sat down, looking at me like the best little furboy in the world. 

He thinks he's clever.  He thinks that he can misbehave a few days and then rest my nerves for a few days and garner much attention for himself.  Yes, it appears that he's right.  But I'm only letting him think that he has bested me for now.  But I'm totally going to show him who's boss. 

Totally. 

Circleville Punkin Show and Some Unwanted Excitement

Friday night we packed up the dog and drove to Circleville for my first Pumpkin Show (not festival, people correct you immediately if you say festival).  D had been stunned that I'd never heard of it, as I am an Ohioan by birth.  Apparently I should have, the Wall Street Journal even covered it. 

Get your gourd on

The show is hugely attended every year, and on Saturday the weather was perfect for spending the day strolling outdoors.  This past weekend was apparently the peak for the autumn leaf-viewing season.  

 

In the main intersection, there's a crowd of people that stop to gawk (as we did) at the winning entry for a giant pumpkin award.  This year's winner was 1400lbs.  D's mom tells me that people form committees for the betterment of their entry gourds, they put up tents over them so their vines don't get scorched in the summer sun, and they feed them things like milk, apparently.  

By the giant pumpkins is a gigantic gourd market, where you can buy squashes or punkins or what have you.  The selection looked great.  (But I didn't want to carry a punkin around all day)

One of the last warm fall days

Schoolchildren decorate punkins

People along the parade route go all out

Punkins, punkins, punkins

 

 

 

Crispier than expected

There are all sorts of pumpkin foods.  Pumpkin burgers, which did not appeal to me.  Corndogs with pumpkin sauce, the thought of which grossed me out slightly.  Pumpkin fudge, pumpkin brittle, and all manner of things.  Here's what we tried:

We ate the legendary punkin donuts from Lindsay's (nom)

We ate a punkin waffle, which was not what I expected

D ate fried cheese on a stick.

I ate punkin cheesecake

and I drank lots of birch beer.  lots and lots. 

I started to notice people wandering around the show with these hats.  These Davy Crockett-gone-Cutesy animal hats. D tried patiently not to judge me when I insisted on buying one of my own.  And wearing it.  All day long.  

Then he bought one to match me.   tee hee.

(There are more photos, but blogger is being buggy.  Can't seem to upload them. )

Sunday we packed up the car and the dog, and then said our goodbyes to the family.  As we did so, Dog seized the opportunity to plunder the scraps from friday night's dinner, which we had forgotten in the car.  I saw him in the front seat and ran to the car.  He was sucking down chicken bones.  We pulled him out of the car, tackled him, and I shoved my fingers into his mouth and then down his throat, trying to pull out the chicken bones, but pretty much failed at that.  Then we just looked at the dog and looked at eachother and didn't have a clue what to do. 

One of D's childhood pets was killed by ingesting poultry.  The brittle bone had snapped into a sharp point,  and had caused too much internal damage for her to be saved.  Knowing this, there was a lot of anxiety felt, not the least of which was felt by the dog, I'm sure.  He surely had no idea why we'd tackled him and dragged things out of his throat.  We spent the first twenty minutes of the car ride constantly looking in the back seat at the dog, not saying anything.  I was riddled with anxiety, and D tried to find some advice on the web.  

Is he acting normally?  Well no, but we were in a moving car and Dog gets carsick.  Does he seem to be in pain?  Well no, but again, he gets carsick and lays down looking quite pitiful.  Was that a pained expression in those doggy eyes, or a nauseous one?  It did not help the aforementioned anxiety that most things mentioned, "just wait, and if he vomits blood then..."  Wait for vomiting blood.  Fantastic advice.  We'll just wait. 

I'm more of a proactive girl, myself.  And D saw that my head was exploding, so he took some internet advice from a pit bull forum involving bread.  We stopped at a walmart and bought bread.  We fed him a few slices to either get him to throw up or to hopefully make it easier for him to pass the drumstick that had not been recovered.  Less than five minutes later the dog hurls all over the backseat (our third doggy-jackpot of the kind).  There was... so much... D fought to keep his punkin donuts down as he cleaned the backseat out one paper-towel-handful at a time.  I fought to keep my own punkin donut in place, as I sifted through the mess to try to see if the drumstick bone was in there.  It wasn't.  We piled back into the car, with D giving the dog dirty looks, and we cracked the windows.  The smell was ... yeah. 

It's now Tuesday, and he seems fine.  I still haven't seen the drumstick bone.  

I have been incrementally less concerned as the days have ticked by.  Sunday I was still anxiously eyeing him wondering if he was going to be okay.  But