Find this newly published post at Spot Check’s new address.
Find this newly published post at Spot Check’s new address.
Please visit Spot Check at its new address to read a post on How to Choose a Dog Trainer.
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Spot Check is moving. Please take note of our forwarding address. You’ll find all of Spot Check’s original content, plus upcoming posts on punishing out warning signals (does it really happen?), the humane hierarchy, and much, much more.
Best of all, I won’t ask you to lend me your van or carry a couch up three flights of stairs. All you have to do is click on the below link, and at the very most, maybe subscribe or update your own blog roll. Seriously, it could be so much worse.
See you at the new Spot Check. The door’s open.
Can anyone name the popular designer breed represented below? This boy came in for a training consultation earlier this evening, looking Not One Bit like what I expected.
What breed am I?
a blurry profile
I chose this year to cook my first Christmas goose. Didn’t realize I’d need a trussing needle. Live and learn.
Happily, my husband has a small machine shop in the rear of our loft space, and I remembered an unopened packet of barbecue skewers in a low drawer. In the time it took me to finish chopping the sage and mixing the stuffing, my better half had successfully machined one into a proper needle.
I am a lucky woman. And my goose was duly trussed.
By the way, I highly recommend the method of boiling the unstuffed goose for one minute and then drying it completely, prior to roasting. The recipe suggested 24 to 48 hours in the refrigerator, but a hair dryer works, too. We stuffed it with a simple dressing made of bread, onions, celery, apple, thyme, sage, and an obscene amount of butter. Then we seasoned the skin with salt and pepper and dry roasted it.
In other Christmas news, we witnessed some remarkably heinous behavior on the part of a motorist, as we exited church following midnight mass around 2:30 AM. Apparently incensed by the temerity of these churchgoing pedestrians using the crosswalk at such an hour, the pickup truck driver deliberately charged the stream of people filing across Chicago Avenue, then paused in the middle of the intersection to fling open his door and shout obscenities at them, and not garden-variety obscenities, either. I guess I should be glad this particular lunatic didn’t have a gun.
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the kennel
Not a creature was stirring, save one wiggy spaniel.
The leashes were hung in the office with care,
Waiting for owners to return from afar.
The dogs were sacked out after a day full of play,
Stretched out in their runs and dreaming away.
My Lab and my pit bull following my lead,
We headed upstairs for some much deserved sleep.
When out on the curb there arose a commotion,
The kennel erupted– a bark-fueled explosion.
Down the stairwell I flew, and tried to begin
The impossible job of quieting the din.
Then unlocking the door and peering outside,
I struggled to take in a startling sight.
What to my eyes did appear through the storm,
But a sled and eight dogs parked in our loading zone.
Said I to the musher, “Please pardon me, sir,
You can’t leave that rig here, it’s creating a stir!
Besides, there’s two inches of snow on the ground.
Your sled will get towed, your dogs sent to the pound!”
He shook his head sadly and spat with a frown,
“Each damn year it gets harder to park in this town.
I’m beginning to think your Mayor makes laws
For no other reason than to fuck with Old Claus!”
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