Search Results for wonderbutt
I think this whole situation has been the hardest on my husband. It’s not that he isn’t open-minded about such things. It’s just hard to have certain expectations and suddenly be faced with the fact that a member of your family has unusual interests that don’t line up with societal norms.
I remember vividly the day that Wonderbutt first came out of the closet. In the middle of the night, I heard something stirring outside the bedroom door. I opened it to find Wonderbutt, who usually sleeps in the living room. He immediately rushed into the bedroom, looking fearfully behind him. Either he’d had a nightmare that a giant Spot Bot was about to consume him, or his rear end was bothering him. Either way, I was too tired to shoo him back out of the room. So, I closed the door, whispered for him to go lay down on the floor, and went back to sleep.
My husband didn’t witness any of this. When he got up the next morning to go to work, I just folded a pillow over my head as usual and resumed sleeping.
Suddenly, “What the f—?!!!!”
I leapt up, just in time to see Wonderbutt making a beeline out of the closet as my husband tried to regain his balance after being rammed by the dog who had, unbeknownst to him, decided to nap behind the hanging clothes.
It appears that Wonderbutt enjoyed this unexpected reaction to his closet exodus – as he continues to repeat the performance on a regular basis. It’s gotten to the point where my husband and I both enter the closet with extreme caution, never certain if we will be able to complete the mundane task of grabbing a shirt off a hanger or forced to leap into the air to avoid a missile hurtling out from its hiding place under one of my lacy negligees.
I suppose we shouldn’t find Wonderbutt’s affinity for the closet to be all that startling, considering his nightly routine of draping himself with the dining room curtains every time we eat dinner. We also often find him half-buried underneath the dust ruffles of our beds – the less attractive end that earned him his nickname always sticking out.
We’ll always love Wonderbutt – no matter what unconventional activities he pursues.
It would be nice, though, to not have to worry about being confronted by a capricious canine every time we change our clothes.
What does it mean if you promise yourself to blog regularly to hone your writing skills, and then you skip the writing part of the process? It means Wonderbutt kindly presented some blurry photos right when your week hit its busy peak…
Then Dimples tried to put a Halloween headband on him, and that was the end of Wonderbutt pretending to be helpful.
I always wanted a Starbucks dog.
You know the type. The owner sits at sidewalk table sipping her coffee while the dog calmly snoozes on the ground behind her chair. His tail wags every once in awhile as other people approach and ask leave to pet him. The owner smiles and nods, and everyone comments on the laid-back canine’s sophistication and fine manners.
It was pretty clear nearly from the outset that Wonderbutt would not be a Starbucks dog.
An animal who Poops as He Walks (and farts to the beat of the Texas Two-Step when he is still) is generally not welcomed by patrons of eating establishments or coffee shops.
Nevertheless, after nearly 3 years of holding out hope that Wonderbutt would one day develop some social graces, I decided to stop waiting for
San Antonio Hell to freeze over and just take him to Starbucks anyway.
When I informed my husband (the long suffering Cap’n Firepants) of this plan, he gave me the why-don’t-you-just-check-yourself-into- a-mental-hospital-and-save-us-all-a-lot-of-trouble look that he has been giving me more and more often lately.
But he has learned that I must make my own mistakes because, like Wonderbutt, I will scratch my butt when I have an itch – even if it means that I am going to fall over backwards and bonk my head on the concrete floor.
I was grimly certain that this was going to turn into some kind of Marley and Me fiasco, with the not too remote chance of being banned from every Starbucks in the universe after an episode of Wonderbutt humping a few customers, wrapping his leash around a table, and dragging it into the adjacent Trader Joe’s parking lot.
But I figured, “At least I make sure he poops before we leave the house.”
I used my new trick of letting him into the part of the yard where he is never allowed to poop which, of course, makes it inevitable that he will indeed defecate right on the walking path. I sealed the deal by dramatically declaring, “Oh, no! Please don’t poop there!” And, of course, that is exactly what he did.
Then, we hopped in the car to take Dimples to swim practice, and continued on to Starbucks with my backpack full of plastic bags for the rest of the poop that I knew would follow as soon as Wonderbutt realized that his “movements” were restricted.
Cap’n Firepants met me at Starbucks, and sat outside with Wonderbutt as I picked up our order. Then, the three of us hung out under the shade – waiting.
I was waiting for Wonderbutt to invent a new way to embarrass me, but it seems that I was doomed to be disappointed. Although he was certainly not the laid-back Starbucks dog of my dreams, he was surprisingly well-behaved. There were two other groups of people on the patio – who completely ignored him. Other than approaching every new person that entered the area in the hope of licking them, Wonderbutt remained by us – alert, but somewhat disappointed by the lack of attention he was receiving. He didn’t seem to understand the point of this new activity, but was not completely adverse to sacrificing the boredom of the lonely kitchen for this exciting change of scenery.
Overall, to the surprise of all parties involved, the experiment was a success. Wonderbutt lasted two hours at Starbucks without getting us kicked out or threatened with a lawsuit. I guess, if I want blog fodder, I will have to become a bit more adventurous.
Stay tuned for the next installment: Wonderbutt Goes to Church and Burps During the Homily.
Don’t worry. I’ll still bring the plastic bags – just in case.
You’re not supposed to play tug-of-war with your dog. Don’t ask me why. I heard someone say it once – probably the Dog Whisperer. Or maybe it was a nun. They tend to give frequent mandates on avoiding any type of fun.
Other than snoring and farting, tug-of-war is the only thing Wonderbutt loves to do for an extended period of time. Since he needs to lose 1/3 of his body weight just to be considered “slightly rotund,” I feel like the least we can do is let him spend twenty minutes a day on his favorite form of exercise.
Lately, Wonderbutt has begun to confuse my exercise time with his exercise time. Now, as soon as I am five minutes into doing Tae Bo, Wonderbutt wakes up from a heavy snore, and races into the bedroom, completely ready to exercise too. His way of communicating that he is eager for action is to try to hump my leg as soon as I fling it out for a Tae Bo side-kick. When I finally shake him off, he looks momentarily confused, then leaps onto his rope toy and pitches it into my face just in case I have any doubts as to his intentions. (Which I kind of do, since he was just trying to hump me.)
Wonderbutt is not a fetch dog. He wants to be chased, and if you don’t feel like playing that game, then he wants nothing to do with you; he will forlornly drag his rope toy back to his bed, and put his head on his paws, sighing in disappointment at your laziness. Or, you can get down on the floor and start growling at him. Then he is more than happy to prance over to you with his toy, dangling it in your face, leaping backwards every time you reach for the rope, and growling viciously. So, by now, you’ve broken about 100 Dog Whisperer rules, including putting yourself on the same level as the dog, sticking your face in his, and encouraging him to growl at you.
But the dog is exercising.
For the most part.
The only part of Wonderbutt’s body that never gets fatigued is his jaw. After about three minutes of tug-of-war, the rest of his body gives out. Then, he clamps down on that rope for dear life while I drag him throughout the house, which is a bit rough on the carpeting, but works quite well on the concrete floors in the living room. (I am seriously considering attaching Swiffer Dusters to his sides.)
After being dragged for a couple of minutes, Wonderbutt gets his second wind (after releasing four or five of his own), and leaps back to his feet to resume play.
I started to complain about Wonderbutt regularly interrupting my Tae Bo – until I realized that I couldn’t catch my breath the last time I played tug-of-war with him.
I thought I was doing him a favor, but wouldn’t it be funny if he thinks he’s the one helping me out?
He is Not Satiated – And May Soon (Well, Maybe One Day) Be Emaciated – Meaning I Have Definitely Not Ingratiated Myself to Wonderbutt
Wonderbutt is not pleased with me right now. It’s quite possible our leather furniture, which has lasted over a year according to our countdown widget, may be in jeopardy.
We recently took him to the vet, and he weighed a whopping 77 pounds. Technically, he is supposed to be around 50 pounds. So, he is now on new food that is, ironically, called, “Satiety.” And he DOES. NOT. LIKE. IT.
My first clue was when I woke up this morning, and he was waiting forlornly in the hall for me. Cap’n Firepants gets up long before me on the weekends, and was already out and about. I went into the kitchen to get some breakfast, and Wonderbutt tagged along. He walked straight to his food dish, and nosed around it.
I heard food moving, and looked at the dish. If the Cap’n had already fed him, then the food should have been long gone. Wonderbutt never leaves food in his dish.
He looked up at me, as if to say, “Look what that idiot fed me this morning. Can you give me some real food now?”
I tried mixing some of his old food in with the new.
Nothing doing. Of course, there are other things I could add to the food to make it more palatable, but that would kind of defeat the calorie reduction purpose of this whole enterprise.
The Cap’n seems to think Wonderbutt can stand a couple of days without eating, and that he will eat the food when he gets hungry.
I am absolutely certain Wonderbutt will eat when he gets hungry. The problem is – I don’t think it will be the food.
It’s pretty bad when a dog who has no problem eating a carpet padding, books, hair barrettes, dead geckoes, and the foam of several sofa cushions refuses to eat his kibble.
I work at my daughter’s school. At least, I did until today. (Don’t worry. I still work there. It’s just not her school anymore, as she just finished 5th grade.)
One morning, a couple of days ago, we were walking into the school. To the delight of many other students who were on their way in, a chihuahua who had obviously not read the “No pets on campus” signs clearly posted everywhere, was dashing around the entrance of the school.
“I recognize that dog,” my daughter said. “It’s the one that lives across the street from Gabby’s house. That’s Rex!”
“Hmm,” I said, noting the huge pink color adorning the neck of the chihuahua. “Uh, are you sure its name is Rex?” And, yes, I am well aware that is sexist. And somewhat unimaginative. I mean, it could be, “R.E.X.” for “Resist Extraterrestrial X-Rays.” Or, maybe, it was spelled, “Wrecks” as in “She Wrecks Every Piece of Furniture We Own.” Perhaps that’s what we should have named our dog…
“Oh, yeah, that’s Rex,” my daughter confidently responded, nodding her head with assurance.
“Because uh, it’s got a pink collar,” I pointed out.
“It’s Rex!” she said, mildly perturbed that I would doubt her canine identification skills.
“O-kay!” I said, not willing to begin the day with a war over the moniker of an animal.
“Or Steve,” she conceded, as I opened the school door. “It could be Steve.”
Okay. So, first, go to the farmer’s market and buy yourself a 70 pound watermelon. Then, drive to Disney World (because I think you would have to pay for an extra plane ticket for the oversized fruit if you flew). Just tell the Disney people I sent you, and I’m sure they will have no problem with you entering with a rather odd looking baby in an umbrella stroller. Go straight to a gift shop and shell out a cool hundred bucks for a rain poncho. Stand in line at Space Mountain for two hours. Get in your little Space Mountain car, and buckle the watermelon into the seat beside you. After the ride starts, try to dress your watermelon in the rain poncho before the ride ends. Make sure you get every button snapped. Oh, and smile for the camera.
Now you know what it’s like trying to get our bulldog, Wonderbutt, into a life jacket.
Stubborn our bulldog is. Stubborn am I. This time (0ne of the few times in 2 years) I won. But just because I got him to wear it for 5 minutes on the back porch didn’t mean it wasn’t going to fly like a cowboy off a bucking bronco as soon as we got to the pond.
He seemed pretty keen on taking a walk in his
strait life jacket, which made me a bit optimistic as I followed down the road to the pond. As we neared the “tank” (as Texans like to call it), his pace quickened despite the heat.
Then we reached the water.
We all watched as the other dogs quickly strode in to the pond. Wonderbutt walked around the edge for a bit, a little hesitantly.
Then he went deeper.
And, suddenly, he was swimming.
He. Loved. It.
Long after the other dogs had moved on to literally greener pastures, Wonderbutt continued to swim. I finally made him stop because I was afraid he was just going to run out of gas in the middle of the pond, and I would have to go haul him out by the suitcase handle on his back.
We went back to the pond 3 more times that weekend. Every time, my fat, attention deficit dog leapt into the water and swam until I called it off. The last couple of trips, he even fetched a stick.
Wonderbutt never fetches. When you throw something, he runs to get it, then races with it out to his Poop Pen so you won’t take it away from him.
But not this weekend. This weekend, Wonderbutt was a stick-wrangling water dog.
By the end of our time on the ranch, Wonderbutt was a seat-hogging snoring dog. Life is good.
As our great nation celebrates another peaceful bestowal of power upon someone chosen by the people, I would like to describe to you what it is like to still live under tyranny – with the imperious King Wonderbutt as our leader.
Less discerning subjects may feel that the King has matured, as there are fewer incidences of pillaging to be reported. This is not due, however, to any mellowing on the part of Wonderbutt; instead, we are the ones who have submitted to his autocratic laws. We sometimes forget our servility, and Wonderbutt swiftly issues his own version of justice, as dictators are often wont to do. For example, Wonderbutt no longer chews on shoes. This is not because he has not developed any kind of shoe restraint; we just try not to leave shoes in his vicinity. Our daughter frequently places them on the front windowsill when she enters our home, so that anyone who climbs our porch is greeted by a parade of boots, tennis shoes, and flip flops staunchly standing guard. This will probably not increase our chances of having our home featured in Better Homes and Gardens, but it does decrease the chance of Wonderbutt redesigning her footwear or forcing us all to become Hobbits and grow our own leather soles on the bottoms of our feet.
The King no longer chews up our carpeting because we got concrete floors. And, he doesn’t eat our sofa cushions because we finally purchased leather sofas. It’s even been awhile since we’ve found book pages strewn around the living room because the entire family gave up reading.
Well, we didn’t stop reading. Just stopped reading in the living room. (I would like to point, however, that it is a common trait amongst tyrants to limit the available reading material of his subjects.)
If we foolishly leave a dish towel draped over the counter, Wonderbutt reminds us of our slovenliness by dragging it out to his Poop Pen (don’t worry, we throw it away once it’s reached that Point of No Return; we do not dry our dishes with poopy towels, I promise.)
So, rejoice, Americans, and all of you who live in democratic countries. You are fortunate to have some input in the laws that you must follow.
And to not have to do battle every evening in an attempt to dethrone the King.
Despite all of my Googling expertise, the pile of things that I just don’t understand keeps getting higher. I am pretty sure that I know less now than I did when I was 10. I mean, back then, I actually had to hold on to information for lengthy periods for pop quizzes and exams. Now, I discard any facts that are not vital to my present survival.
Today’s list of things I don’t understand:
- Why large things that protrude from your head are more appealing than small, unobtrusive things that can be covered by a fashionable hair style. Every time she sees my husband, Cap’n Firepants, our elderly friend, MILlie, complains to him that her stereo headphones will not work. He explains that the end needs to actually be plugged into something that makes sound – instead of dangling down her back. She says that she does not want to plug them into something; she just wants to walk around with them on, so they will help her hear better. (I tried to get her fitted for a hearing aid last year, but she refuses to wear one.)
- Why my husband insists on being loyal to a car-maker (let’s just call them “Frod”) who keeps selling him cars with transmission problems. After he got stranded, and they finally admitted there might be an issue (despite the fact that he brought it in 3 times before and there was “nothing wrong”), and then they proceeded to keep it for a week without offering him a rental car, I asked him if he still planned to go back there for his next car. “Well, they did fix it,” he stated.
- Why Google cannot help me find someone to help me fix my husband. Not that kind of fix. Just fix his blind allegiance to an automobile manufacturer who has not once returned the favor.
- Why I keep shoes in my closet that are agonizingly painful to wear, then forget the damage they did to my foot the last time I wore them, then stupidly choose to wear them to work one day, not realizing until I am at work that I have made yet another dumb wardrobe decision, make my way through an excruciating day with blinding pain, then come home, take off the shoes, and put them back in my closet without even a sticky note to label them as “Shoes That Cannot Be Worn for More Than 5 Minutes without Completely Hobbling You for the Next Week”.
- Why Dimples takes 90 minute showers, and she does not even shave her legs, yet.
- Why Twitter sent me an e-mail inviting me to use it more often (I never use it; I just signed up for it so I could get a Pinterest account) and then proceeded to suggest that two people I would probably like to follow are Tyra Banks and Snooki.
- How I can explain to Twitter, in 140 characters or less, all of the reasons that I will never follow Tyra or Snooki.
- Why one of my students gave me a very nice gift today, then ran to me after school and said, “Oh, don’t throw out the gift bag because my mom wants it back.”
Why Wonderbutt decided to grab, out of all of the sections of the newspapers spread across the kitchen table, the Obituaries. And dragged them, relatively intact, out to his Poop Pen.