Dennis must have seen my earlier post lamenting my lack of things to write about, because he had a field day destroying things today, including:
- Several small pumpkins. Halloween is over, dammit! Make pies or throw them away!
- Another pair of my wife’s slippers. She says, “Yes, I left them out, but they were dirty and they smelled and I didn’t like them anyway.” But of course we can’t throw them away — we have to let the dog turn them into pink confetti. (We also can’t throw away leftovers until they start to develop their own civilizations.)
- Another orchid. Paging Nero Wolfe.
- The wooden handles of the skewers in our fondue set. Because fondue is just SO 70s.
- The cord going to the fish tank heater, because Dennis likes to see fish shiver.
By the way, that door to the left in the picture is the door to Dennis’s plastic crate. My wife has been coaxing him into it with treats and has even climbed in there herself to get him to go in. He’s taken to sleeping in it with the door open. One of these days, he’ll wake up and the door will be closed. Heh heh heh.
“I didn’t do it.”
Tucker, i don’t sleep in bed because my fur is too thick and i would be hot. besides, beds are for HUMANS. you’re not a human, are you? (don’t try to deny you’re a dog. i’ve seen you eating poop.) you’d better stop trying to teach Dennis bad manners or i’ll roll you on your back and pin you for an hour or two. not that you would learn anything from it, but it would be fun.
hello readers, this is Tucker the “other” vizsla. don’t be fooled by anything Dennis might tell you. he’s just some weird foster dog from the sticks. he can’t even spell or use punctuation. i’ve been trying to annoy him by licking him incessantly in hopes he’ll go away but he seems to like it. what a freak. anyway i am not spoiled, i deserve everything i ask for.
Trixie is just jealous because i sleep in bed and she sleeps on the floor. don’t listen to her either.
hello nice reederz its dennis the vizsla dog again i wuz wundering abowt my brudder Tucker the other vizsla dog hes always wining and carrying on like wen mama is getting owr brekfast reddy he wines and paces and wont be kwiet until dada throws him owt of the office he duz this evry day even thow evry day he gets thrown owt so i wuz wundering whuts rong with him i think he mite be crazy and posibly danjerus but my sister Trixie the chowchow mix sez no hes just spoild rotten is she rite?
So it’s been like three days and Dennis hasn’t destroyed anything. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Well, he tore up one issue of Newsweek, but it was the “1968” issue so what can you expect? Dennis doesn’t like hippies and 1968 was crawling with them. Or so I’m told. I wasn’t actually around then. (My brother was, though. He’s older than me. Tee-hee.)
Anyway, what else can I write about if Dennis isn’t wrecking stuff? Maybe I can write about my cats throwing up or something … not that a cat throwing up is particularly noteworthy. A cat not throwing up, now that would be something to write about.
Maybe I can find out where my wife keeps the passion flower and secretly replace it with Red Bull … then there would be lots of wrecked stuff to write about, I bet! The house … the yard … the cats … our marriage …
weve herd peepl tawk abowt eeting stufing on tanksgiving, but frankly we tink its overrated
So on Sunday, we took Dennis, Tucker, and Trixie to Fiesta Island, a large off-lead park in San Diego, to meet some other people from the local vizsla rescue group, including his sister, who was also rescued from the canyon in Lake Elsinore. (His brothers were not in attendance.) We went into the park, met his sister and the others, and headed for the beach. We thought Dennis wanted to play with his sister, so we let him off-lead, and he immediately took off running — past his sister, past everyone else, down to the beach, through the gap between the fence and the water, and back up to the road. Well obviously that isn’t what we were expecting.
Continue reading “Dennis Goes To Fiesta Island, Suffers Flashback”
hello nice reederz its dennis daddy left hisself loged in agin so i am heer to tel yoo i did not tare up the chaze lounj i was jus minding my own bizness when sudnly the chaze lounj came to life an starded chasing me an tucker an trixie around the hous an tryin to skwash us well it turns out the kitties had turnd the chaze into a rowbot chare to skwash us dogz but then it got overloded and bloo up skattering fluff evrywher it had just enuf enerjy to go bak to the living room wher mama fownd it anywun hoo sez it was me hoo tore it up is a dirty liar ok see yoo cant trust kitties just ask these guys.
So it seems that we didn’t pay Dennis his “protection money” (AKA “pig ears”) when we left for work yesterday, and my wife thinks that’s why he turned the living room into a chaise lounge abattoir. I don’t know if that’s the case, or if he’s just built up a tolerance for passion flower, or if Tucker did it knowing we would blame it on Dennis. (Trixie already got a “why didn’t you stop him?” so evidently it’s partially HER fault.)
Little does my wife know, I did it, so we could get a new, smaller couch. Heh heh heh heh heh.
Oh, crap, I just confessed. Well, fortunately nobody ever reads this blog, so the secret is safe.
No, that was a leather chaise lounge, otherwise known as “the most expensive piece of furniture in the house”. The big white blob is the pillow that once formed the backrest of the lounge. However it was also way too big for the room, so we’re not as upset as you might think. We did buy a new plastic airplane-style crate for Dennis the Menace, so there’s an excellent chance I’ll be posting pictures of the shattered remains of a plastic crate before too long. It is too late for the chaise, but it died so that other furniture might live.
My wife is planning to make a new backrest for the chaise, perhaps out of faux-suede pillows. Then we’ll sell it and buy ourselves a nice little couch from IKEA.