Lassie Asshole: The Lhasa Apso Who Had To Find His Girl

You see me. I know you see me. How could you not see me? You see me. You definitely see me. Hi! Hi!

This is Lassie Asshole (his name might have been changed as a result of this story, but just go with it) and once upon a time he met a girl, and he LOVED his girl.

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This is his girl. We'll call her Peanut. You know Peanut. 

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Peanut also has some friends. We'll call them Sassafrass and Sisterfrass. Collectively, they are the Frasses. We like the Frasses. 

The Frasses and Peanut spend a lot of time going back and forth between the Frass house and our house. It's easy because we live within walking/biking distance from each other—just under a mile or so. Sometimes the Frasses or Peanut will behave as though Mama Frass and I are one person and think that because they've told one of us where they are that we both know where they are and this doesn't always translate into reality quite how they planned, but that's not what this story is about.

The Frasses also have a canine. Her name is Olive the Other Reindeer. Actually, it's probably just Olive, but that's not going to work for this story. Lassie Asshole can't be hanging out with Just Olive. Lassie Asshole goes on long walks in the open space with Olive the Other Reindeer. Just look at this picture if you aren't convinced Olive the Other Reindeer is her Actual Factual Name:

OlivetheOtherReindeer

Image credit: Sisterfrass

(I might've stolen this from Sisterfrass's FB, but I did give her credit, so ya know, it's all good and could lead to fame and fortune for her and Olive the Other Reindeer.)

Olive the Other Reindeer and Lassie Asshole take walks together. On occasion. The Frasses and Peanut supervise these outings. Sometimes other dogs join them, since Sisterfrass has a bit of a dog walking biz going. Sometimes the dogs hang out in our courtyard for a little playdate while the Frasses and Peanut cool off in the pool on a hot day or the dogs play a rousing game of fetch under the shade of the ash tree with the many tennis balls acquired from our generous neighbor boys and their need to throw balls over fences.

Then Lassie Asshole stays here at Casa Best Together in his sweet digs with the insulated roof and custom window that looks in upon his people while the rest of the canines head back to their respective homes. Peanut assists in this process, and if it's a weekend she's likely going to spend the night with the Frasses. Because teens cannot be parted. We know this. It's THE LAW. 

Sweet digs, Carlito.

It also turns out that Lassie Asshole: the dog who does not bark; the dog who does not leave the unfenced portion of our yard unless on his leash and being asked to leave; the dog who only comes inside when invited—Lassie Asshole is under the impression that he, too, is required to remain with His Girl Peanut. Always. 

The first time we discovered this was a day when the little people were playing in the courtyard and coming and going through the gate to go out to their horse swing in the big tree in the outer yard. No big deal. Lassie Asshole never leaves the yard. An open gate isn't a dog issue. The pool gate remains closed for safety, but the courtyard gate can be opened as long as we know who's where with regard to little people. People. Not dog. People.

Peanut had departed on her bike. A 'Frass of one flavor or the other was with her. 

A brief period of time passed.

I decide to do phone. Not really decide. I receive a phone call. It gets interrupted by crazy, frantic Peanut who arrived home tear-soaked, inconsolable, because LASSIE ASSHOLE TRIED TO FOLLOW HER AND NEARLY GOT RUN OVER. He'd noticed her departing, made his way out the gate, and headed down our very busy street as fast as his squat little legs could carry him to find HIS GIRL. What he failed to account for were the cars. Holy crap, the cars. 

Somehow, he lived. Unscathed. And we vowed to be ever-vigilant about THE GATE. 

We were thankful. Incredibly thankful. They'd only gone maybe a quarter-mile or less. Still, it was a long haul for such a short dog. He was a determined little dude. This Lhasa Apso clearly thought he was Lassie. 

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This would probably be a good time to introduce the Frasses' dad, Father Frass. He's tallish. I mean, like even for my family. For example, at the last birthday party we hosted, I suggested the kids climb him rather than the tree. 

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So you can understand why Peanut and the Frasses woke Father Frass when they heard a scratching sound at the Frass's front door at 3am during their next sleepover. You expect to find some scary shit on the other side of a door emitting scratching sounds at that hour. And you want a giant-sized person to handle that. 

There was extensive debate about what they'd find behind the door. At 3am. Scratching.

Based on the text I awoke to later that morning I can tell you exactly what was found .7 miles away on that porch, at the door, at 3am. And I still have no idea how, under the cloak of night, using his best ninja skills, Lassie Asshole made it all the way to their house.

This muppet-head is excited about the pool's official opening almost as much as the critters who get to swim in it.

But he did.

He knew exactly where to go to find His Girl. 

He walked his squat butt up to that door and scratched until they let him in. Nearly a mile from his home, which he won't leave unless he is on a leash, or he has to find HIS GIRL.

Fucker.

 

Boys And Girls: An Experiment In Conditioning

The little boys who live next door are forever throwing their balls over into our yard, and our girls are forever throwing them back over the fence. The boys decided this is a fun game, and started intentionally hitting tennis balls over the fence with a racquet, some of which have cleared the house, but most have collected in our courtyard. 

Balls

At first, our dog thought mana was falling from the sky. He'd run around the yard, his little Lhasa jaw unhinged, carrying each ball back to his dog house, but then it got to be overwhelming. Even a dog has his limits, and though he's never seen Hoarders, he could sense this was going to lead to An Issue if he didn't draw the line.

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The boys, however, have no such boundary. The balls keep coming. 

The girls stopped throwing them back long ago.

And so our courtyard has taken on the appearance of Wimbledon sans ball boy.

Once in a while, one of the girls will throw a ball for the dog, and he'll jog off the grab it, sit down, and stare back at the child. She'll pick up another and throw that one. The cycle repeats. Ad infinitum. Truly. AD INFINITUM. ALL OF THE TENNIS BALLS. We have them. Also, one very confused dog.

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Butt Hut Door Installation Badge Unlocked: AKA I Like Power Tools

So, my cat's shit stinks. If you have a cat, his/her shit probably stinks, too. Most shit does. 

Anyway, since she's an indoor shitter, her litter box resides in one of our bathrooms in an unused closet. But, herein lies the problem. The closet has a door. Sometimes that door gets inadvertently closed. And then Toonces is left wandering about with her legs crossed trying to get our attention. Also, litter boxes, no matter how frequently you clean them, don't smell nice, and I've yet to see one that's cute.

Toonces says Happy Caturday.

Solution?

A kitten-sized door in the closet door. 

You know what that meant?

POWER TOOL TIME!

First, I ordered a cat door from Amazon, because, well I have free Prime shipping, and I like to use that option to order things, have them arrive in two days, and then let them sit for two months. Don't judge. I got this one:

 

It did not come with that cat. It did, however, come with a handy dandy template I used to trace the area of the door I needed to cut away, complete with a bit of sticky tape at the top to hold the template in place while I ran around looking for a pen that would show up on the dark oak wood (a Sharpie ended up being the right pen for the job).

After a couple of 1-inch holes drilled to get the jigsaw in place for easier cutting, the wood was out of the way for installing the flap. I did have a hard time believing they really wanted me to drill such big holes for the screws (3/16"), but the screws aren't meant to grab the wood of the door you're going through, just the cat flap itself. Essentially, you're sandwiching the wood between the pet door halves, so you want holes big enough for the screws to slide right through and then grab the opposing side of the flap. Once that was done, I popped the screw covers on, and shoved Toonces through the flap to show her where she needed to enter to access her butt hut. Since her litter box already has a similar flap style, I don't think we'll encounter any issues with flap phobia.

Butt hut door installation badge unlocked.

Round 2: He Drives Home

Friday was the second cycle of Hubs' chemo regimen. Again, he came through it like a champ. I'm starting to think he weathers chemo better than I do. Pathetic, really. I ended up with a raging migraine and a cold, which means I'm now wearing a stunning surgical mask and sleeping on the couch. Sexy.

Hubs is giving major credit to a wonder-drug that's only been around since 2003, Emend. It prevents acute and delayed chemo-induced vomiting. How awesome is that? It also costs a small fortune, or so we've heard. Fortunately, we've got insurance that's covering it. Unfortunately, not everyone is so lucky. What a crock of crap. Obama needs to get on that. I am not a fan of puking under the best of circumstances. Puking after chemo should not be dependent on whether or not your insurance company feels like paying for your meds.

While Hubs was kicking ass at chemo, our 20 lb cat was out kicking some ass of his own, evidently. Either that or he fell of a fence. He's technically an indoor cat who occasionally sneaks out through the doggy door to catch some rays.

When we got home Friday night, he slunk in with a swollen chin and wouldn't eat. When a 20 lb. cat won't eat, something is seriously wrong. After a visit to the vet in the morning, $450, and a minor surgery, he was back home, locked in the bathroom where I get to tend to him twice daily irrigating the drain in his head and dosing him with antibiotics. He looks like Franken-kitty. Awesome.

The way things are rolling, I figure the washing machine ought to crap out by Tuesday.

Just to be clear, I don't really care about the crappy little stuff. Hubs is doing so well, the little shit just doesn't matter. It's all small. It'll all work itself out. Worst case, I can put myself in a giant Ziploc bag to keep Hubs germ-free, take the cat back to the vet, and call the Sears repair person to get out here and fix the washer if it breaks.

Until then, better living through pharmaceuticals!


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