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Archive for the ‘Dogs’ Category

Dear Painfully-Idiotic Coworker,

I would really like to know exactly how people like you are born. So I could put a nationwide ban on the procedure. Honestly, we’re going to be seniors in high school now, you’d think you could have absorbed a tad more knowledge than you actually have. Does it ever seem like a good idea to throw rocks at dogs? Does it? Because really it’s just going to make them pissed off and (hopefully) claw your eyes out and bite your arm off.

We work at a dog kennel, where there is ALWAYS work to be done. So while I slave away cleaning kennels does it seem the best idea to chat on your cell phone for a half an hour? Really, the more pressing question is: do you like getting bleach sprayed in your face?

And bossing me around when I’ve worked here a year longer than you and happen to have an IQ double yours is probably not a good plan, sweetheart. I didn’t get a 34 on the ACT to have you try and tell me how to give a dog a bath (which, by the way, you do poorly – I didn’t even think that was possible).

And another thing… I don’t think it’s a coincidence that half the dogs here growl at you as you walk past. Just saying, I don’t think it’s the dog that’s the problem and yelling at them to stop is definitely going to help. Oh definitely. Let me bow down to your amazing and ingenious tactics.

I’m Sorry St. Francis,
Laura

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Dear Rent-A-Deputy,

I know that you think your store-bought badge makes you something special. I have to agree. It certainly qualifies you for Special Education classes based on your Inbred Mental Status. The sheriff’s department really caught an awesome guy when they finally threw out those anti-obesity rules.

You must feel incredibly brave protecting your Weight Watchers eschewing wife and your biting, barking, tree humping (also inbred) German shepherd from my elderly golden retriever mix. I know Shiloh can be terrifying when he’s trying to play. Especially when he flops down on the ground so you can rub his tummy. Fearsome. I bet you had to hold your hand steady when you nailed him with a snout full of pepper spray.

Next time you feel the need to protect Tubby and Humpy with pepper spray, I have some simple instructions for you.

1) Waddle to my front door and knock. When I answer, ask: “Ally, Shiloh’s in my yard. Could you please come get him?” I will gladly retrieve my arthritic, heart-diseased retriever.

2) Enjoy your calorie loaded breakfast with Tubby and go about your day without participating in animal cruelty.

If, in the event you choose to ignore instructions 1 and 2, bypass to instructions 3 and 4.
3) Retrieve your pepper spray. Point nozzle directly at your eyes to make certain it isn’t clogged.

4) Activate spray nozzle, maintaining eye contact with it at all times.

Following these instructions will prevent you from pissing me off.

Thanks so much,

Ally

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Interesting. Now Jess is here to have it out with a woman who commented on her previous rant: An Open Missive to Mia the Omnivore.

To the Self Righteous Tw@t, Chrissy:

I invite you to come and meet my dog. Really. Actually take her for a week… no a day… and then come talk to me. You’ll be singing a different tune, I assure you. She’s a crated dog. She manages to do these things when I’m, say, washing the dishes or tossing in a load of laundry. I assure you she doesn’t troll around the apartment unwatched. On no no – quite to the contrary she is watched like a hawk. In fact, she keeps her harness and leash on in the house so when she makes a break for it behind the couch with something in her mouth I can simply stomp down on her dangling leash and stop her in her tracks.

No, it isn’t a lack of vigilance that allows my dog to do what she does so horrendously well. It would be the total lack of effort from her last 3 owners and her veterinary-diagnosed ADHD. Yeah, that is correct, my dog needs to take Ritalin in canine form. So before you preach you seemingly holier than thou morals allow me to kick that soap box right out from under your “perfect” little feet. I am not an irresponsible pet owner, you wicked little bi$ch.

In fact, I am far from it. I hold more responsibility, kindness, and compassion in my big toe than you could possibly wish to know in your life. Not only did we RESCUE Mia from being put to sleep, we took her to obedience classes (which she was promptly expelled from for an unruly and untamable personality). We take her for all her vaccinations and check ups on time, keep her groomed and nails clipped, feed her the special diet that the vet prescribed for her, pay hundreds upon hundreds of dollars to keep up on all the medicine she requires for her allergies, arthritis, ADHD, frequent urinary tract infections, and acid reflux.

So, tell me… how in the WORLD is that irresponsible? The fact that I don’t saddle my dog up and ride her around the house to make sure she doesn’t eat some random thing on a table some where does not classify me as irresponsible. It classifies me as sane. Take your self-righteous theories and shove them up your snooty little ass.

Kisses,
Jess a.k.a. Mia’s Mommy

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I found this note stabbed into my dog Hagrid’s crate this morning. Apparently my cat Ellacution likes the jumbo butcher knife.

Hagrid — you’re a louse ridden slimebag. You’re a shithead. You come tromping in the house, bouncing around, flinging that monstrosity you call a tail everywhere. Tail whore.

It isn’t enough you have to knock things over, stick your nose in my sandbox (filthy pervert) and eat your own vomit. No. Today, you had to eat my favorite catnip toy.

Yes, I’m happy the Food Buyer got it back from you, but you SOILED Mouse. CONTAMINATED him. SULLIED his little toy existence. I couldn’t pick my little honey up in my mouth because you had slobbered all over him. I hate you. No amount of Food-Buyer’s washing will bring back Mouse’s nose or little felt ear.

Rear-sniffing retard! I hope you die. Touch Mouse again and I’ll rip through this crate and cut you.

Ellacution
Goddess of this House
Mistress of your Craptastic Existence

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BoggyWoggy, don’t mess with our doggies

We have 3 large dogs. We live outside city limits in a neighborhood of 1/3 acre-plus sized lots.

One night, while out dining on our deck with guests, our next-door neighbor showed up with some contraption he’d purchased on the Internet. In front of our guests, he explained that our barking dogs were bothering him so much that he wanted to share a “solution.”

I said, “I didn’t know our dogs were barking.”

He said, “They bark when you aren’t home. It’s gotten to the point of insanity, ’cause they bark at me while I’m trying to mow my lawn and it’s really bugging me.”

I said, “I didn’t know they were barking when we weren’t home. I guess since we’re not home when it happens, we had no idea there was a problem.”

He said, “It’s been going on for years.”

Anyway, he’d purchased an anti-barking machine. He wanted to hang it on our fence. I said, “What does it do?”

He said, “When a dog barks, it lets out a horrible, high-pitched noise. This stops the barking.” He then demonstrated the noise. We all cringed and held our hands over our ears.

I said, “But, we have 3 dogs!”

He said, “Yeah, I know. So what?”

I said, “Well, idiot, if one dog barks, the machine will emit the horrid sound. If the others dogs are, say, chewing on their butts at the time, they’ll begin to believe that chewing on their butts makes the machine blast, so then they’ll stop chewing on their butts and be miserable, with itchy butts they cannot scratch!”

Freakin’ neighbor looks at me and says, “Huh?”

Then I said, “It’s basic psychology, Mr. ___! Don’t you EVEN hang that machine on our fence!” He walked away, scratching his head.

That night, I went on the Internet and purchased a machine that makes a horrid sound whenever any assholes approach our house.

Rantasaurus Says: – emits unbearably loud, high-pitched sound –

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Catherinette Singleton, TWO TIME RANTSPLOSION WINNER! Stop it, you minx!

I live in a nice little house, in a nice little neighborhood, next door to a family that belongs in a van down by the river. At first, I thought them merely a little off, now, I want to beat them with hammers whenever I see or hear them. And it seems to me that I hear them more often than I see them. It’s gotten so bad that I can’t stand being outside when they’re around. If I’m in my backyard and see any of them come outside, I immediately run back inside under the pretense of having to go do something really important – like stick my head in the oven or throw myself down the stairs. Let me introduce you to these upstanding members of the community:

The Single Mother (who we shall call Ms. Travesty): is a recovering alcoholic, recovering drug addict, and full-time nurse. Ms. Travesty enjoys wearing light colored blue jeans and stained white shirts. She’s in her mid 50’s and has an 8 year old daughter – she met the father in AA meetings (he’s on methadone). When she’s not picking up single bachelors from her AA meetings, she’s calling the cops to have them dragged out of the house, and/or trying to tell me stories about how she’s gained weight.

My favorite story about Ms. Travesty happened last summer: she had met this real winner and had been dating him for about 6 weeks. Mr. Winner had no job, no driver’s license and had pretty much moved into her house. Suddenly, they start fighting like cats and dogs. On a Tuesday afternoon, I was sitting in my den watching TV, when I noticed that there were 3 cop cars parked outside my house. I immediately called my friends and family to share the drama that was unfolding. 20 minutes later, out comes Mr. Winner in a pair of handcuffs, his cut off jean shorts, and the dirty white wife beater. It was just like being on an episode of Cops! The officers put him in the back of the cop car, and then he started yelling all sorts of crazy stuff. Since then, I have tried my best to avoid Ms. Travesty at all costs. It’s gotten to the point that when I see her standing in her driveway, I whip out my cell phone and pretend to be on a very important phone call. This ploy seems to work pretty well, I highly recommend it to you.

The Daughter (who we shall call Little Tragedy): at one point I thought she was cute, now she makes me want to kick her when I see her. She and all her little friends love playing in the neighborhood. That’s all well and good, but why must they do it on my front lawn? Don’t they hear my dog going nuts in the house? Seriously, I’m surprised that my dog hasn’t jumped out the window and eaten her and her little friends. My dog, a St. Bernard, loathes and despises her. I know this because he decided to biter her one day, twice. It was not a pretty scene, though it was an extremely effective way to ensure Little Tragedy never came into my house again.

She used to drop by my house all the time, when she was hungry and her mother had left her alone with her grandfather – who would pass out on the couch and not even realize that she had left the house. As Little Tragedy has grown up, I’ve noticed her imminent progression into soon-to-be-school-hussy. What 8 year old do you know that wears cropped tops and glitter eye shadow? It’s sad to Little Tragedy her go down this road, but I know she’ll end up pleasing the boys in the men’s’ room sometime really soon.

The Dogs (lovingly referred to as the Hounds of Hell): I hate them with a passion that burns to my very core. I wouldn’t hate them so much, but Ms. Travesty thinks it’s a good idea to let them out at 4:00 in the morning. Fine, release the Hounds of Hell, but please let them back in when they start barking. Oh no, not Ms. Travesty. Instead, the Hounds of Hell bark, and bark, and bark, and bark, and bark, and bark, for 2 hours straight, directly underneath my bedroom window. What’s really super is that sometimes she lets the Hounds of Hell out right when I’m attempting to go to sleep. There seems to be no limit to her disregard for her neighbors.

I hate you Ms. Travesty, I really do.

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To My Dearest Dog, Mia,

Darling, please stop eating things that do not belong in your tummy. Mommy is tired of cleaning up piles of vomit that are larger than her head, and she just had to take out veterinary insurance on you. We cannot afford your growing medical bills!

I know that you don’t like staying in your crate while Mommy’s at work. You get bored, I understand. However that, by no means, gives you the express right to crap in your crate and eat it. You are in your crate to keep you FROM eating things. I do not, contrary to popular belief, enjoy having my face licked by a shit-scented tongue.

While we are on the topic of eating things, darling, let’s just go ahead and get a list of the top eleven rules out of the way.

  1. You drink water. Not motor oil.
  2. Stay out of my whiskey.
  3. Do not eat the hair from the shower drain. It is not nearly as much fun coming out as it was going down.
  4. Used tampons stay in the garbage.
  5. Seran wrap is NOT digestible. In fact, it will wrap around your intestines and requires veterinary attention. (You should have learned this by your third incident.)
  6. We do not gnaw on our table’s corners, legs, and/or tops.
  7. You were returned to the SPCA for eating your previous owner’s Parrot. Stay away from the guinea pigs.
  8. Stop eating poop. This includes all of the neighbor’s dogs, cats, and birds feces. And especially stop eating poop out of the toilet when Daddy forgets to flush.
  9. You are allergic to beef. And grass. Let’s try to remember these things when we’re outside for a bar-b-q.
  10. While I’m sure the texture amazes you, stop eating used tissues. (ditto goes for toilet paper; see latter part of #8)
  11. Whilst you are on doggie downers for your, shall we say, “explosive” personality, this does not mean you should take them all. At once. They are hidden for a reason; do not search them out. The stomach pumping is expensive.

Thank you, darling, and I love you.

Mommy

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