Impulse control and interpretation

I am not mature enough to be a parent. Apologies in advance, SharkBean.

Evidence A:

When I go to the pet store to restock on dog food, I always check for new and enriching toys for the dogs. Chances are good that a couple of toys usually make their way into my cart, and since the dogs have gotten a little less destructive in the last couple of years, let's just say they have a good selection of toys.

Nylabone has recently come out with DINOSAUR SHAPED DENTAL TOYS. Part of me imagines that the creative minds over at Nylabone sit around plotting about how to get *me* to buy more dog toys, and boy, did they get my number. I am powerless against cool dog toys.

These are especially fun if you growl while you chew on them. Or so I'm told.

There were three different dino-chew toys at Pet Food Express, and with AMAZING restraint, I managed to only buy two: a T-Rex and a stegosaurus. I have tried to use the chew toys as a learning tool, telling the dogs about the dinosaurs, but they remain unimpressed.

Niki has been monopolizing the (now headless) T-rex, and as I write, Elphie is grunting and gnawing away on the stegosaurus. It's really, really funny to watch. (I would record it, but she would notice and stop as soon as the camera/phone comes out.)

"Cute" has a lot of value in our house, evidently.

Evidence B:

Andrew and I went for an appointment for SharkBean (a regular checkup) a couple of weeks ago. On the wall of the room, there is a "helpful" poster with weekly developmental milestones, and some of them had pictures of what the developing baby looks like.

15 weeks (where I am right now) looks like Golum. I am a terrible person for saying it, but that is exactly what the depiction looks like. The eyes on the poster, though closed, also seemed to follow me around the room. It was pretty creepy.

"Hello, Mother."

(That's the closest I could find online that wasn't icky.)

I pointed it out to Andrew, who responded that at 15 weeks, we'll just have to call SharkBean "My preciousssssss".

Bonus protein- apple edition

I may have mentioned in a previous post that our yard is positively rich with fruit trees- we have more than a dozen various trees/bushes, all of which produce fruit. Considering the tiny plot of land we have, it's pretty excellent.

Among the trees, we have two varieties of apples growing, which are starting to ripen now. On Tuesday, all I wanted was an apple. I wanted an apple in that crazy, obsessive way that I have always craved *specific* foods. So, I ventured out into my yard in the heat, and picked two apples. One for me, one for Mom (who was making lunch).

We don't use pesticides in our yard, and other than some homemade compost to supplement the dirt, we don't use any fertilizer. (By "we", I am assuming the royal "we". I don't do any work in the yard, other than the occasional fruit-picking task.) You could consider our fruit organic, I suppose.

Being that we don't use pesticides, our fruit is occasionally does not  have the most pristine appearance. It sometimes has been taste tested by a bird, a squirrel, or a worm. For quality control, of course. The trees produce a LOT of fruit, and I am not petty enough to begrudge the local fauna a nibble here and there.

(Don't get Andrew started on the battle with the squirrels for the loquats. Last year, I caught him in the yard hurriedly eating loquats off of the tree, and laughing in triumph at the squirrels whom he had finally bested after two years of not getting a single loquat off of our tree. I don't judge.)

I brought the apples in, washed them in the sink, and took a paring knife to the "pre-tasted" section of each apple, and carved out the tunneling. Nobody poked their head out, so I took my apple to the couch where I fired up The Secret Life of the American Teenager on the TiVo (because there is something deeply, deeply wrong with me), and cheerfully munch away on my apple.

Towards the end of the apple, as I went to take a big bite, I saw movement. As I glanced down, I saw the former occupant of my apple frantically protesting his eviction. In a very wormy way, of course.

I shrieked in a way that is normally reserved for horror movies- when the monster (predictably) jumps out and grabs a character, that shriek. Niki, ever my diligent protector, climbed onto my lap to try to figure out what I had shrieked about.  (Fun fact: If I watch a movie that makes me shriek, he'll growl at the TV until I tell him everything is okay. He's a good dog.)

Someone who is more woman than I am would have simply tossed the Very Hungry Ex-Occupant of the apple into the compost and soldiered on, but alas, I am only a weak woman. I can't hunt my own food, and frankly, while I can cope with an ex-creepy crawly on my apple, I don't want food that has been walked all over in front of me. It's a real shortcoming of character on my part, I know.

After assuring Niki that I wasn't in any imminent danger from my apple, I walked it over to the compost bin, worm-and-all, and dropped it in. Since I normally eat everything on the apple (but the stem), I got a strange look from Mom when I tossed what appeared to be a perfectly good couple of bites in the compost bucket.

"There was ... unexpected protein in my apple," I explained. "Still kicking. Eat yours carefully."

Niki, the snuggle-mutt

When we adopted Niki, he didn't know how to snuggle. I found this incredibly disappointing, since I had this idea of snuggling with our new dog on the couch, like EVERYBODY else does with their dogs.

I'm a problem-solver, so I taught Niki how to snuggle. I kept dog cookies in my pocket, and would get him up on the couch, snuggle him, and periodically give him a treat. After a month or so, Niki would snuggle without need of treat. Smart, right?

Ever since, he's been a snuggling machine- especially if I'm not feeling well. The last two days, I've been on a migraine bender. Thursday night, I laid down on the couch (ice pack on my face, heating pad on my neck), and chilled out.

Niki hops up next to me, and starts walking over me- without stepping on me. I'm objecting loudly (because you don't step on the alpha in your pack EVER), and he curls up on my stomach. To snuggle me. Like a cat. A 45-pound cat.

(I wasn't at risk for any sort of compression asphyxia, he was mostly resting on my hip bones and my stomach. His very decorative tail was on my chest.)

Andrew pointed out that the dogs always stick to me when I'm sick- if I'm in bed, they're on the bed with me (or in the bedroom, keeping an eye).

Maybe I'm not the worst dog-mother in the whole world, after all.

Here is Niki, sunning in the planter: