After a few weeks of trying to crate, baby-gate, and otherwise contain the beast, my Partner in Crime and I were just trying anything we could think of to keep our house intact. We thought the bathroom would be a sufficient means of, well, containment. He couldn’t knock down or open the door. He couldn’t break it apart. And if he had potty accidents, the tile would be a lot easier to clean than the area rugs or the 100 year old hardwoods. (I mean, in Mac’s defense, a tree is a tree, right? No matter its form, it’s all meant for Mac to pee on.)

Man alive, y’all, I am in so much trouble when I have kids for all of the “brilliant ideas.” I have. I think I am such a thinker. I’m just in trouble, that’s for sure.

Per usual, he did great for the first day or two. He seemed to be pleased that Carly wasn’t roaming free while he suffered inside. And hey! No accidents!

Day three brought us this:

A gentle reminder: he has no teeth.

And y’all, he is one smart cookie. He licks the wood until it’s soft, then scratches it all up.

Our solution? Kick plates!

These little beaut’s come in 3-packs. So we turned one vertically to cover El Caballo’s little work of art. He was not a fan.

So he moved over to the right side of the door and made another little demonstration of his love. So we put up another kick plate.

He thought perhaps it was the right side we disliked. Let’s try the left side again! Another hole? Another kick plate!

Uh oh. We’re out of kick plates.

Well, by now it’s been 3 months. Three months. Of crossing my fingers every day. Of cleaning my bathroom every day. Of dreading going home every day. Because, you see, it’s not just the hole in the door. He was still having potty accidents. Almost every day. Sometimes he would step in it. Sometimes he’d smear it on his sister. So we’re talking about bathing them weekly, sometimes twice weekly. And for a week or two, my P.I.C. was out of town, so I was handling this mess on my own.

I’ll tell you what: I’d rather change every diaper of every child at work for an entire week than ever have to bathe Mac at 10:00 at night ever again.

In the meantime, his manic episodes had broken the gasket seal between our toilet and the floor, so we had a tiny little leak in the basement. Like Home Depot needed one more reason to label us "Customers of the Month."

Now we are not quitters. We’ve been watching The Dog Whisperer for months. We’ve bought several books. We’ve considered bringing in an exorcist. Because when we adopt, this boy and I, we say “Forever and ever, Amen.”

Right around the time we saw episode 5 in season 6 of The Dog Whisperer, in which a dog nearly injures herself by ripping the molding off the walls when her owners left, we came home to find Mac… out.

And that’s when we knew it just. Had. To. Stop.

Visit to the Vet

The dogs had a very exciting visit to the vet yesterday. They both needed vaccines and physicals, so we leashed up and headed off on the 1.3 mile walk, hoping the exercise in the heat would tire them into behaving themselves.

Per usual, I severely underestimated my dogs.

Well, my dog. Just one of them. The other... well, let's get back to the story.

So we have to bring in a stool sample each time we go to the vet to test for all sorts of disgusting ailments. This is easy enough, considering how long the walk is. Carly quickly and happily obliged on a nice, clean patch of sidewalk. Mac, however, waited until we were nearly a block away, then chose a lovely pile of wood chips upon which to make his deposit. We had to explain to the vet tech that no, he did not ingest the wood chips, he just really enjoys pooping on a variety of textures. He's that kind of dog.

Now, I am a pedestrian and am pretty good at estimating how long it will take me to walk any distance. I figured it would take about 30 minutes, so we left the house 35 minutes before we needed to be at the vet's. I like to be early. What I failed to take into account was my walking speed at 8 AM and my Partner in Crime's walking speed at 8 AM. Or 12 PM. Or 9 PM, really, it's all the same. Carly and I moved along at our brisk pace of about 4 steps per second, while Mac and my P.I.C. moved at their "brisk" pace of about 4 steps per minute. So yeah, we were a little late to the vet.

Then there's the medical records: we don't have any for Mac. Surprising, right? A dog with 9 years of abuse and neglect wouldn't have medical records? In other positive news, Mac has gained almost 10 pounds in the past 5 months, and Carly has lost 6 pounds in the past year. Typical, right?

And the best part of the visit: the needles. Carly has had bad reactions to vaccines in the past, so they gave her two pre-vaccine meds to keep her from getting hives and swelling again. She happily hopped up on the table, assuming that the vet, like all humans on this planet, was there to love and adore her. His version of "love," using needles, was not exactly her cup of tea. Leave it to my only dog who has teeth to bite the vet. Three times. "Occupational hazard," he said with a smile. I still felt awful.

So Carly took a break to let the meds kick in while the vet took a peek at Mac. To say he was surprised to look into Mac's mouth and see nubs is not accurate. He was saddened, to be sure, but not surprised, unfortunately. He told us stories from his previous practice in Missouri that would make your blood boil and your stomach turn. Suffice it to say that Mac was just another in a long line of statistics to him. But he politely sat while he was poked, squeezed and otherwise examined. The vet brought in a tech to help with the vaccines and blood withdrawal, assuming that the 55-pound beast with an abusive past might struggle.

I'm pretty sure Mac had no idea he was being poked with a needle.

Much like his sister, Mac is under the impression that all humans have one purpose: to love and to scratch him. So while the vet was busy stealing blood from his leg, Mac was busy bathing the face of the vet tech. She must have been salty; he only licks salty faces. The vet explained that when Mac's teeth were filed down, they certainly hit nerves there, so he had some nerve damage. Which is why he feels nothing when he pries the bars off of crates, for example, or chews holes in doors. Considering how much physical pain he was submitted to in his early life, it's highly possible that his pain receptors just stopped firing. They were on overdrive, so they packed up and quit on him.

Big surprise.

Carly's turn. Mac? That sweet boy who licked the vet while his blood was drawn? He's a good boy. His sister? She needed 3 people to restrain her.

That's my girl.

Return of the Mac

Let’s cut to the chase. El Caballo has some separation anxiety. We were not properly warned.

I recall reading on Petfinder.com about a sweet boy with a sad past who loves his foster sibling dogs, is fully house trained and does just fine in a crate when his humans need to leave the house. I don’t know who that sweet, sad boy was, but he is not. Not. Not my Little Mac.

When we first got the beast, we put Mac in the kitchen and baby-gated him in just in case he and the Blonde Bombshell decided to have a few words while we were at work.

What was I thinking?

He treated that baby gate like a croquet hoop.

And he treated the rest of our house like a Port-O-Potty. More specifically, a row of Port-O-Potties. Let’s just say the boy had a bone to pick with the Play Station. (Amen, brother.) And he seemed to be disappointed with our décor. He felt it needed a bit more… garbage. I mean, just straight up garbage. Everywhere. Who knew used coffee grounds tasted so delicious to the canine palette?

So let’s try a crate! He loved his crate at his foster home! Like a day at a spa!

I must have accidentally adopted Houdini, y’all, because we got home and that boy was out and his crate was still in one piece. And we were only gone an hour. So we zip-tied the corners of his crate so he couldn’t pop the ends off, which was the only way we could figure he’d gotten himself out. The next day, we got home to bars pried apart and one toothless, bloody mouth. And did I mention how far he can pee? When he gets that leg up, I honestly contemplate entering him in the Olympics or something. Then I cry myself to sleep.

So maybe the crate was too small? We weren’t too sure. So we went back to our friendly neighborhood Pet Smart and bought another new crate. “Sturdy,” it said. “Reinforced Steel,” it claimed. “Tested by the Hulk, he never knew what hit him,” read the box.

Move over, Hulk.

This crate seemed to really upset Mac. He popped off the ends; we zip-tied the corners. He pried apart the bars. With no teeth, mind you. We came home and found drops of bloody drool in weird places. Like the ceiling. All I can figure is that he did one of his patented face shakes where his jowls look like a flamenco dancer and he showers everyone within a 3 miles radius. It’s a real treat.

One day, during Crate #2, I came home to find Houdini out and about, looking very proud of himself for solving the puzzle that we made increasingly harder every day. Carly, in the meantime, met me every day with this very knowing look on her face, like, “Mama, I tried to stop him. I said, ‘Stop that, stupid,’ but he wouldn’t listen. I told him to leave the trashcan alone, but he just ignored me. You keep that in mind when you start yelling. I’ll just sit over here and watch.” He seemed to have pried the door away from the rest of the crate. He pried it to an oval shape with a diameter of about 4 inches. And got out of that space. Y'all, his head it almost 7 inches across. Thus the new nickname: Houdini.

I don’t know, I still like El Caballo better. But he is a Wizard. Fo’ sho’.

Then, the last straw: He pried the bars straight off the rest of the crate. Again, with no teeth. I don’t know if he just hates being confined or hates being away from us or he just thinks, “Well, that blonde punk is out, so they must want me to figure out how to get out too…” We got home, he was out, and the crate was in pieces.

And the house was redecorated. Obviously.

The next night, we tried the bathroom. And boy, that was an adventure.

Pardon My Absence

I know, I know... who starts a blog, writes 2 posts then peaces out?

I do.

Let me explain...

First of all, my last semester of grad school just kicked my butt. Plain and simple. The thought of writing anything at all, even a blog about my two most favorite furry creatures in the world, after work and school and life, was just too much for me. (Let me point out here that if this phenomenal woman has time to write multiple blogs daily while raising 3 beautiful children and supporting her church-planting husband, I really have no excuse, but humor me.)

Then there’s the whole point of this blog: advocacy for adopting adult dogs. I wanted to share with the world all the hilarity and joy that comes from the creatures most commonly passed-over in shelters and adoption organizations around the country. I was tired of hearing the excuses. “My dog doesn’t like other dogs; he’s a shelter dog.” “I’m sorry, she has separation anxiety and will never ever stop barking; she’s a shelter dog.” “No, it’s totally normal for my dog to eat sheet metal for every meal; he’s a shelter dog.”

(Just kidding on that last one. Sort of.)

So in short, I wanted to encourage others to see how possible it is to overcome the challenges that certainly exist when adopting adult dogs.

Y’all, I cannot, in good faith, encourage

anyone

to go through what we’ve been through the last couple of months.

It seems we’ve got the situation under control now. To be more specific, my Partner in Crime has the situation under control. I’m still learnin’. But we’re working on it. I think the trauma is behind us. We can stop spending ¾ of our paychecks at Home Depot. And I’m ready to resume advocacy. So, as I was saying…

Everyone wants a puppy. Everyone wants a pure-bred. Everyone wants perfect. Y’all, perfect does not exist here on Earth. But wonderful does. And my babies are wonderful.

But I do have a whole slew of stories and photos to scare the be-Jesus out of anyone considering adoption. Just so you know what exactly you’ll need to overcome.

The Lamp Shade

I need to talk about the Lamp Shade.

I know some of y’all were hoping for an introduction to how Mac Attack joined our little family…

(Yes, I am writing as though I already have hundreds, nay, thousands of readers :) )

…but y’all are gonna have to hold your horses.

Quick back story (introduction to follow soon): Mac still had his cojones when we got him. The rescue organization requires him to be neutered, but when they got him he was too emaciated (super sad story) to be anaesthetized, so we had to beef him up first.

He’s sufficiently beefed.

Being the niece of a remarkable advocate for animal rights, I was raised to value the role of spaying and neutering, so I wanted the cojones gone. (Also I’ve heard it tones down the ‘tude a little bit.)

My Partner In Crime took the beast to a local animal hospital and the snipping commenced. When I returned home, my PIC notified me that this bad boy:

was here to stay. For 7 to 10 days.

Now I think I’m a fairly patient person. I mean, I commune with toddlers on a daily basis. That’s the definition of patience, right? So I’m thinking I can handle this.

About half an hour later, I was ready to let him lick those stitches to his little heart’s content.

He was drugged out of his gourd when he first got home, so most of his time was spent snoring. The second day he was still a little disoriented and need some assistance finding an appropriate place to pee. Let’s be honest, he needed me to tell him to pee. By the second day, the drugs had worn off and he was whizzing through the house with his usual vigor. And his new necklace.

He had the Lamp Shade all dinged up within 48 hours.

(See all those dents?)

He also had the walls, furniture, and his sister dinged up pretty badly. I already knew he followed me around the house a lot. I had no idea how often he did so until he started crashing into me every 32 seconds or so. I now have many little arc-shaped bruises on the backs of my thighs, thank you very much.

Poor baby can’t sleep.

He’s having some difficulty finding his food bowl.

The Blonde Bombshell is terrified of the Lamp Shade.

And he stinks to high Heaven. (Seriously, I think the Lamp Shade is just trapping the “aroma” of his jowls and it can’t find it’s way out…)

I’m starting to think we should have let him keep his balls.

(Just kidding, Aunt Kay. I promise I’m still committed to reducing America’s unwanted pet population.)

Warning! Lewd photograph coming up!

Did I mention they left his empty cojones-basket just hanging there?

In the beginning

It all started when I was 22 and I knew everything. Well, I thought I knew everything. Until I turned 23; then I knew everything. Well, until I turned 24… Wait, this is about the beasts.

So at 22, I knew I was totally prepared for my first dog. When I found a picture of a Jack Russell Chihuahua mix on Petfinder.com, I thought she was the perfect dog for me.

I’d had Jack Russells my whole life, so I knew I could handle her. I knew.

I should pause here to explain something about my first two Jack Russells. When I was in third grade, we got a Jack puppy and named her Tippy. She was a delightful little mess that turned into a cranky old lady (due in no small part to the delightful little mess I was in the third grade) and we had high hopes of responsibly breeding her. She had high hopes of responsibly breeding herself. Two broken windows, several cardboard boxes and 6 litters of puppies later, we had ourselves a very spayed, very docile “Jack Russell.” I’m pretty sure the Jack Russell community would consider her a foreign dignitary.

My second Jack was a unique character. Okay, fine, she was neurotic. Katie had this thing about her butt. She didn’t really care if you were petting or scratching her ever. All she really wanted was to have her butt against you. Sometimes if I needed to scoot away for a quick second and didn’t want to disturb her, I’d just sneak something heavy against her butt, Indiana Jones style, and she’d never know the difference. She fell for stuff like that.

She also fell for four-wheelers.

I have the sneaking suspicion, however, that her spirit sort of passed from her body into a newly born puppy 1,000 miles away, a puppy I wouldn’t meet for five years…

So yeah, I thought I had a handle on that whole “Jack Russell” thing. Boy was I wrong.

Let me be clear: no amount of experience could have prepared me for life with Princess Puppy Butt. She is nothing like anything you’ll ever read in a book about Jack Russells or Chihuahuas or JackChis or ChiRussels or literally any other topic under the sun. She is her own brand of crazy.

And I love her.

(Although I'm not entirely convinced she was prepared for me either...)