Saving the Most Disturbed for Last

I am aware that I've blogged way too much about the pets. But we've more pets than people at The Palace and they provide much of our entertainment and aggrivation.

I've introduced you to Ruby, Chloe and Oliver. Meet Heidi.

Heidi is part boxer, part lab and part maniac. She, literally, walked into The King's business almost 4 years ago. We took her to the pound to see if anyone claimed her, and when they did not, we adopted her. She is a beautiful dog and The King couldn't understand why anyone would let this sweet girl loose.

It wasn't long until that mystery was solved.

Heidi has a small problem with separation anxiety. (That is a diagnosis from a vet, people. I am not crazy.)

When she moved in with us, we had a privacy fence. She ate through it.

When then built a chain link pen for her. She ate through it.

The King installed an electric fence. She dug the wires from the ground and ate through them while being shocked.

Eventually, we had to have an Invisible Fence professionally installed for a small fortune. She has only been shocked by it one time, and apparently, it was enough.

Let's back up a bit, though.

I had never had a big dog. I was pretty much a cat person. At the time of Heidi's arrival, we had had Chloe for 9 years. Pet life at The Palace was good.

The King felt that Heidi had been dropped from Heaven as a special gift for him. I was not necessarily for getting a dog. We established rules. The only way that I could fathom getting a dog was if The King took full responsibility for her.

Quit laughing. I was stupid and naive. And she did have big brown eyes.

The King assured me that Heidi would go to work with him every day.

Almost 4 years later and she's gone to work with him 3 times. For real.

"But she sheds in my truck."

Um, yes. Dogs do that. They did it when we got her and they'll do it until the end of time.

Besides the fencing, Heidi's separation anxiety has cost us 3 sets of patio furniture and 2 wooden tables.

It also forced us to get Ruby to "keep her company". And goodness, Ruby has her own set of issues.

Heidi's tail is a weapon that has broken numerous items in my home.

Her massive head has blackened the Queen Mother's eye.

She has accosted many guests...most recently when she bound into the lap of my 85 year old grandmother.

The vet has suggested that we place her on Prozac. Whatever.

She is happiest when she is crammed with Ruby inside her little crate. Something about the confinement makes her feel safe.

I sound harsh and cruel, and that is not my intent. I love her. I really do. She has brought such joy to The Princess. I just think back to the days before vet bills and boarding bills and having to rush home to let her in/out. Those were the days.

She only has eyes for The King. He is her person. She can see his desk from the backyard, and she will sit and stare at him for hours. She is oblivious to the fact that if it weren't for ME she would not eat, would have fleas and ticks and spend countless hours in sub-zero temperatures.

Fortunately, that is the last of The Palace Pet Introductions. I've enacted a law that says no more pets unless we have a farm.

But I also made that law about The King caring for Heidi, so...

**added later**

Now I feel even worse. I had finished writing this post and The King just informed me that Heidi is sick. Great. She hurled 3 times on my rug.

My guess is that it is a rare amoeba or something and we'll have to have her on an iv for the next 72 days. Probably with a home health dog nurse to come in daily to care for her. And she'll probably have to have a special prescription food. Forever. And probably Ruby will catch the amoeba.

If history holds true and all.

High Cotton

Tomorrow morning we are off to Dallas to cheer on the Razorbacks in the Cotton Bowl.

I've taken down the Christmas decorations.

I've thought about packing.

I've some concerns that Oliver might destroy the house in our absence.

This morning, The King was working at his desk when he noticed Oliver was perched on the very back of a chair. He felt as if Oliver looked back at him as if to say, "Watch this". And then Oliver soared to the mantle.

Above the fireplace.

The mantle.

The King then dove for the floor to catch the beautiful decorative plate that was plummeting toward the cold hard floor.

Which he caught. (Props to The King. He did mention something about knowing that the cost of replacing the beautiful decorative plate and its companion would probably lead to a new clock and who-knows-what-else and he figured the broken bones he might suffer would pale in comparison to the cost of one broken plate at The Palace. Whatever.)

I came into the kitchen yesterday morning to find that Oliver was squeezed on top of the microwave which is encased in the top cabinets in my kitchen.

Apparently Oliver has just discovered that he can jump.

That just does not bode well for The Palace.

So, while we are rooting for the Hogs and welcoming the New Year, I will pretty much constantly be uneasy about the destruction and ruin concurrently taking place at The Palace.

Your thoughts and prayers would be appreciated.

But For Now We'll Go On Living Separate Lives

It was asking too much.

After a round of hissing, a few left jabs and one serious right hook--this is where they've settled.

It was really just asking too much.

...And in other breaking cat news: At 3:27 a.m. as I slept on my side toward the edge of the bed with my face toward the wall, I was startled awake by 12 pounds of Oliver as he jumped up onto the bed and landed 100% on my head. You must understand that jumping up when you are 12 pounds and 8 months old is not easy. I am just singing hallelujah that he has no front claws or I would look like one of those slasher movie people. It was the scariest thing I've been through in a while. Now back to your regularly scheduled blog...

All of you fun internet friends gave me so much to think about in your analysis of what might have transpired yesterday with the cats.

Do they do this when we leave?

Do they know it is Christmas?

Were they plotting against us? The dogs?

Stay tuned. I am afraid this is far from over.

Shhh. I Don't Think They've Noticed...

This must stay very, very quiet.


I think Chloe and Oliver are (gulp) tolerating each other. I have just come in from running errands and look what I've found...

I believe we have just witnessed a Christmas miracle.

A Tale of Two Kitties

I know that many of you will immediately stop reading when you see this is about cats. I know that cat lovers are in the minority. I won't pretend that I don't understand why. I get it. I totally get it.


Thirteen years ago my very new and naive husband, The King, brought home two Himalayan kittens, Murphy and Chloe. Murphy was beautiful and Chloe was a freak of nature.

As a small kitten, Chloe fell in her water bowl and apparently spent a substantial amount of time there. The result of this time spent in the water was a serious inner ear infection that has left her with one bad case of vertigo. Her head is crooked. (She thinks she's right side up...bless her.) When she jumps, her body does an entire flip. Sadly, since she is now a senior citizen cat she makes it all the way over about 78% of the time. The other 22%? Not so pretty.

One time, she licked a pile of Cheer detergent and barfed blue bubbles. We had to rush her to cat emergency.

Another time, she had a reaction to her vaccination and almost kicked it. Some big vet hospital in Colorado did a study on her weirdness.

Murphy only lived to be about six. He had some kind of disease that I have already forgotten because I am a bad cat owner. Chloe, on the other hand, is 13. That is, like, 94 in cat years. She is as healthy as can be. In spite of her freakness.

The bad news about Chloe is that she is the most unfriendly creature ever put on this earth. She hates everyone. Except The King when he is on the throne. I mean literally, the throne. That is their special time. He is the only person she acknowledges.

This summer we decided that Chloe needed to work on her social skills. Well, really we decided that we better get an insurance policy cat so that when Chloe breathes her last, The Princess will have reason to go on...have I mentioned that The Princess is really dramatic?

Enter Oliver. We got a boy cat because that was all they had. However, we kind of tell people that we got a boy so Chloe wouldn't feel threatened. We didn't, but our vet told us that getting a boy was a really smart thing for us to have done. We try to look smart whenever we can.

Oliver was 3 months old when he came to our home. He is now 6 1/2 months old. Chloe weighs 5 pounds. Oliver weighs, um, 8 pounds.

Chloe has hissed at Oliver from day one. She hates him. HATES HIM. Growls. Hisses. Spits. ALL THE DAY LONG.

In the beginning, Oliver was falling for Chloe's bravado. He left her the heck alone. Now?

Bring it on.

Oliver is growing at a rate of about 1/2 pound a day. He is probably going to be at mountain lion size by spring break. His brain is catching his girth, and he realizes that Chloe is a wuss.

He hides behind furniture to scare her. He chases her. He stands outside the litterbox when she's inside so that she can't get out. He is such a boy.

We are not really sure that it was a good move to bring Oliver to The Palace. Chloe is old and cranky and is never going to like him. He knocks things over a lot. He has broken a vase and a picture frame. I am buying 4 times the amount of cat food as before. But, come on.

Look at that face.

Even you dog people have to admit he's pretty cute.

Buyers Remorse

It is probably never a good idea to, you know,

purchase a pet

because you like the name of the breed. However, for some reason that no one in the palace seems to recall, we did.

The valiant breed of the Schnoodle.

We ordered Ruby from a website. There are two major problems with that: ordered Ruby and website.

Should a loving family ever be ordering living creatures from the world wide web? Sight unseen? No clue as to how this Schnoodle was raised? Not really sure of what makes up a Schnoodle? You be the judge.

After emailing a lady two times I felt the time was right to commit to the Schnoodle. So, I sent her a ridiculous amount of money via Paypal. I then sent my parents on a four hour drive to, ahem, a Western Sizzlin' parking lot. The Queen Mother was a little disturbed that Ms. Schnoodle Raiser was circling the parking lot really slowly and looking more than a little shady. When they finally approached her, Ms. Schnoodle Raiser chunks the five -week -old -three -pound dog at them, says the papers are in the mail and burns rubber out of the Western Sizzlin'.

We now sense that there are breeds that shouldn't be, well, bred. Take for instance a weenie dog and a dalmatian. It just probably shouldn't happen. Such is the tale of the poodle and the schnauzer. Each taken on their own merit make wonderful pets...surely. However, when combined... it is not pretty.

We are quite sure that most of the responsibility rests with Ms. Schnoodle Raiser (who never sent those papers, by the way). She bears no blame, however, for the black skin with white hair. She cannot be held accountable for this coarse white hair that exists in all places. All places but the mohawk of soft beige curls down her back, that is.

We can hold her responsible for the fleas that came along for the ride. And for the fact that Ruby was apparently never let out of her crate to go to the bathroom. Let your imaginations run with that one.

Ruby is a special dog.

Perhaps God knew that here at the palace, we root for the underdog. We like to meet a challenge head on. For all her faults...and there are many, many faults...we love this Schnoodle.