The Dog’s Version Of “You Might Be a Dick If”

american eskimo dog, kira

“Kat couldn’t write shit if I wasn’t down here to supervise.”

As my sis Michelle says, my eye is still manky. In keeping with the our Brit slang, it’s total bollocks.

The good news is that I only have one eye half dilated now, so I can half see, but the bad news is that, having one eye nearly clear and the other unfocused is giving me mad vertigo. Normally this would mean that I would have to hold off a little longer to do a new post, but luckily I have a writing partner: my Eskimo, Kira.

Every morning, as soon as I take my seat to begin writing, Kira assumes her writing partner position under my table. When I told her that my eyes weren’t up to doing a new entry, Kira graciously decided to take over for today. I mentioned to her that readers were requesting another edition of “You Might Be a Dick If” and Kira said that she was on it.

Now presenting: “You Might Be a Dick If… According to Kira”.

According to Kira:

  • If you are eating a meal and don’t share it–that is, giving three quarters of it to your dog–then you might be a dick.
  • If you take your dog to the park and don’t let them leap into the lake for the third time which is right before it’s time to leave so they can be filthy wet and soak everything in the car on the way home, then you might be a dick.
  • If you put your dog into the bath tub and insist that they are being ridiculous for being pissed off that you put them in there since you assert that it’s exactly the same thing as being in the lake they could not stay out of, then you might be a dick.
  • sharing a bed with a dogIf you try to claim more than two inches of your own bed to sleep in at night, then you might be a dick.
  • If you disturb you dog while they are napping during the day, when you know that the dog had a very long night of sleeping and that they need their rest since they have to do again that night, then you might be a dick.
  •  If you insist to your dog that “there is nothing out there” when your dog is barking its brains out to let you know that there is too something out there–“it’s a fucking squirrel and that asshole is in my bloody yard!”–then you might be a dick.
  • If you come home smelling like another dog (or cat or any other animal), then you might be a dick.

As in the previous version of “You Might Be a Dick If” Kira admits that she, too, was being a little snarky here, and that there is no “might” about it; if you do any of these things–especially the last one!–then you sir (or madam) are, in fact, a dick.  However, unlike the previous edition of “You Might Be a Dick”, Kira would like to finish by stating that even though you are a dick, your dog thinks you are the best dick in the world and loves your face off. ♥

Non-Related Identical Twins

I recently discovered that my American Eskimo dog, Kira, has a twin sister to whom she is not biologically related.  Her name is Yoki, and interestingly enough Yoki is owed by Bryan from A Beer For The Shower, who himself is not biologically related to his twin and co-author, Brandon.  The coincidences don’t stop there though because both Kira and Yoki have parents who drink too much.  This past Sunday Kira and Yoki got together to discuss their human parents.

american eskimo dogs

**The story behind Yoki’s (thankfully temporary) paralysis is here.

Kira Yoki 2 Kira Yoki 3Kira Yoki 4 Kira Yoki 5 Kira Yoki 6

(This was made on the fly and as a joke so I apologize for the poor picture quality.)

((Massive thanks to Bryan and Brandon and Yoki without whom work would have managed to screw me out of doing two posts this week.  *scratches behind all your ears*))

Hammered, Head & Obnoxious Dogs: Moving ala Kat

I’ve discovered why people lose things during a move.

It’s because that while you start out packing things all nice and organized–Wonder Woman collection in one box, nunchucks and other weapons in another box, handcuffs, vibrators and flavoured body paint in a third–you eventually get to the point where you don’t give a fuck where things are packed as long as they are in a box and the hell away from you.

It’s particularly unwise to be disorganized while packing when your mother is offering to help you unpack.

(“Kat, I was unpacking your towels and came across a box labeled “Sir Thumps-alot” that was mixed in with them.  There’s a buzzing sound coming from it.”)

Despite my mother’s help, I’m still settling in so I’m way behind on my blog roll and on returning the comment love.  I’ll catch up soon though.  I usually wouldn’t do another post before I’ve caught up, but writing helps me maintain what semblance of sanity I have so I’ve decided to tell you about the moving day madness.

Moving day was as I imagine childbirth is like in that during it I was sweating, cursing and the male members of my family were terrified that I was going to flip out and scream and cry at them, and that by the end of the day I was exhausted and bleeding.

I awoke at around 4:30am on moving day.  And when I say “awoke” I mean that I just decided to pull my zombie ass out the bed since I hadn’t actually slept in over a week.  I had a few things to finish packing before my brother and BFF arrived to help with the move, so I got out my pile of newspaper to begin wrapping.  Kira, however, decided that I wasn’t under enough stress so she decided to play “Let’s Be As Obnoxious As Possible”.

This game begins with your dog blasting into your pile of newspaper like a fucking maniac and scattering them all over the place.

scattered papers

Thanks, Kira.

Then she grabs your Domo stuffed animal which you are trying to pack along with the other Halloween things and takes off with it.

(Seriously, Kira does not play even play with her own stuffed toys so this was completely just her being a brat.)

((I don’t have a picture of this because I was too busy chasing Kira down to get the damn animal back.  I eventually decided that I didn’t care and let her shake the shit out of it.))

Finally, when your BFF brings you doughnut for breakfast (because pink doughnuts are the breakfast of champions, ya’all), your dog proceeds to smack around the bag containing the doughnut with a fury that would be the envy of any pimp.

american eskimo dog, pink doughnut, dunkin' donuts

Kira wants this doughnut. Oh yes she does.

After playing this charming game with my dog, I then heard tales of my mother trying to take apart and move an old entertainment center from the spare bedroom where I would sleeping.  Apparently the screwdriver wasn’t working so she just took a hammer and smashed the bastard apart.

smashed furniture

The remains of the battle left by Mumma’s Hammer

I was unaware until that day that, not only had I received my love of slutty boots from my mother, but also my destructive nature.  To prove that the psychotic apple doesn’t fall far from the insane tree, I too employed a hammer about an hour later when I was trying to take apart an inversion table.  The only difference is that I called my hammer Mjolnir and declared myself to be Thor while doing it.

We were in the final process of carefully moving haphazardly throwing the furniture into my mother’s house when I nearly split my forehead open.  BFF was holding my iron coffee table frame with the legs facing out and I decided to headbutt the bottom of one leg.  This was not BFF’s fault at all, I’m seriously just a major klutz who walks into shit like this.  And what made the situation even worse was that while my mother and BFF searched in panic for a bag of ice to stop the swelling I could not stop laughing.  Again this is about par for me to be laughing my face off while blood trickles down from a huge goose egg erupting on my forehead.

Once the swelling subsided, and the final pieces of furniture were moved, we went to do what I do best–drink Tequila–because when you have a possible concussion it’s a good idea to suck down two margaritas as quickly as you can.

margarita

I held it against my forehead to keep the swelling down so this was for medicinal purposes.

I might not have drank my ‘ritas as quickly except that our waiter was totally vibing on BFF and kept bringing us booze.  And I drank it because that’s the kind of friend I am to sacrifice my liver to get my bestie some nookie.  Unfortunately BFF was not drinking so the efforts of our enamored waiter did not impress him at all.

Don’t worry, I still drank enough for two people.

Thus concluded Major Moving Day.

Mini Moving Day Mini Post tomorrow.

Christmas With The Kat Sidhes

christmas insanityChristmas this year was marked by slutty shoes, squid, my dog and a bunch of hoes.  And this is tame by my family’s standards.

I was still recovering from a hellacious battle with food poisoning, my grandmother was sick, my brother was late, and mother was sick and late and upset for unhilarious reasons, so Christmas Eve was rather subdued.  It was kinda like going into a mental asylum right after the patients’ doping drugs had kicked in.

My aunt, BFF, and Kira, however, were bouncing off the fucking walls and provided the majority of material for this sequel to A Very Katsidhe Christmas.  Like that post, this one looks long, but it’s all conversation so it goes quickly.

I’d already shared the first trauma of the evening in Sixty Squid A-Screaming because finding a box full of intact squid was enough to warrant a post of its own, so I’ll just jump right ahead to where BFF arrived and helped me clean the squid.

***

The mail slot on my front door opened, followed by kissy noises made through it and Kira’s subsequent furious barking heralding the arrival of BFF.

“The squid were whole!” I immediately screamed as he walked in the door, “I’m talking eyes, tentacles, sand!

The poor man barely had time to get his coat off before I was yanking him into the kitchen, pissing Kira off in the process since I was robbing her of her requisite greeting rubs.

My grandmother, aunt and cousin, M., arrived about half an hour later.

“The squid were whole!” I again screamed by way of a greeting, and then filled them in on the gory details.

“You did good cleaning up the puke stain from the carpet, Kat,” my aunt remarked eyeing the scheme of the crime, “I cleaned it as best I could and then just dumped Mop N’ Glow on the area so it wouldn’t smell.”

“I know, that was a good idea.  I felt horrible that you had cleaned up as much as you did though,” I told her.

“It was really thick, too,” my aunt continued, “I just closed my eyes and held my breath.”

“Uh…huh, yeah I think it’s time to open the wine now,” I told BFF and M.

After a glass of wine and giving the savages the first course–Crab and Asparagus Soup–everything was pretty calm.  Except for Kira.

When Kira was a puppy, she barked at my aunt and my smartass aunt barked back at her.  Kira has never forgiven her for this and as such she barks and growls whenever my aunt moves an inch.  Since I was in the kitchen, and Kira knew I was too busy to execute any threats, my shouts of “Kira hush!” were completely ignored and she continued to growl and glare daggers at my aunt until my mother showed up and distracted her.

“The squid were whole!” I screamed at my mother when she walked in the door.

I had just finished frying said squid and put them on the table along with the spaghetti and marinara sauce.  My aunt got her spaghetti at which point Kira suddenly forgot her grudge and wanted to be besties with her.  In other words, Kira wanted my aunt’s spaghetti.

Kira knows a number of tricks including sit, shake, high-five, and down, but one of her most impressive is her ability to speak.  If you ask Kira to speak, she doesn’t bark but will usually say either “hello” or “hearf” which I take to mean “here” as in “put some food here”.  Lately though Kira has been making a new sound that sounds suspiciously like “hoe”.

As Kira pawed at my aunt and wagged her tail my cousin suddenly asked, “Kira, what is your aunt?”*

“Hoe,” Kira responded.

(Yes, my dog has incredible timing which you know if you’ve read this entry.)

The thing is though, that Kira gets so much attention–and usually food–for saying this that once she starts she will keep saying “hoe” all night, thus Kira continued to smack my aunt with her paw and call her a hoe.

I ignored the debacle and told BFF that the next dish was almost ready.

“I’m not eating anything called a snot-knocker!” my grandmother suddenly announced.

“What?  What the hell is a snot-knocker?” I boggled at her.

“You just said that the snot-knockers were almost ready to come out of the oven.”

“The croissants!  I said that the croissants are almost ready to come out of the oven!”

“Hoe,” said Kira as she nudged at my aunt.

My aunt ignored Kira and instead asked my mother how she could stand wearing the hooker-heeled shoes she had worn that night. (I get my love of slutty boots from nowhere strange.)

“Because she’s a real woman,” BFF answered for my mother.

“Haha! And what am I?” my aunt responded.

“Hoe,” Kira reminded her.

(My dog is a fucking genius, I swear.)

My brother finally arrived, but at that point I was getting tired and cranky, so instead of greeting him with a scream about the squid, I snapped at him that it was nice of him to finally show up.

“You’re lucky I came at all!  You still owe me restitution!” he told me.

“Restitution for what?” my mother asked.

“Last week we saw that girl that Kat was going to hook me up with, and the girl told us that she had just had a three-way with her new boyfriend!  If Kat hadn’t waited to hook us up that could have been me, but noooo she had to wait.”

“That’s sick!” my mother gasped.

“Hoe,” Kira agreed.

(I say again, a fucking genius.)

“Kat owes me restitution!” my brother pointed an accusing finger at me, and I was about to say something really snarky when my mother interrupted.

“Gator, is that the kind of girl that you really want?  To do that sort of thing!  And she’s not even married!”

At which point we all nearly choked from laughing so hard.

“You’re right, Mom, you should definitely wait until you’re married to have a threesome!” I howled through my laughter.

“That’s not what I meant!” my mother turned red.

I returned to the kitchen to finish the last dish when BFF turned and told me, “You know, Kat if you were a real woman you would be wearing heels while you were in here cooking, too.”

“Yeah, well, we know I’m not one of those,” I told him as I grabbed a piece of Cod with my bare hand and gobbled it down whole and finished cooking.

***

I’ve been asked by readers how I remember exactly what people have said when I’m regaling ya’all with conversations I’ve had with, say, my family for example.

I can answer this questions by citing a quote from “Psychology  and Aging”:

Posttraumatic stress disorder is a severe anxiety disorder that can develop after exposure to any event that results in psychological trauma.”

So there you have it.

*We were actually able to video this but it features family members who don’t want to be publisized so I’m going to try and edit it and then post it.