Bad to the Bone

Sometimes I wonder if Molly isn't all there. Okay, I always wonder that. I mean this dog has some very strange habits. For example, in the morning, she will often jump up on the bed, and just roll around like an idiot, tongue hanging out of her mouth, and a look of madness in her eyes. There's no rhyme or reason to it, and I do not see the benefit of this exercise (unless she enjoys covering our bedspread in fur), but nonetheless, Molly does it almost every morning, without fail.

I've always assumed that if Molly were an actual child (some would question whether I have accepted the fact that she is not), she would be one of those kids with a really active imagination. I'm sure these days, they would diagnose it as something, when really it means she would just know how to function without an electronic device (weird, eh?). Tonight, she proved my theory to be true. The other day, I bought her a tartar bone at Global Pet Foods. Molly always used to have one of these on hand, and for whatever reason, we just stopped buying them. Maybe we like the fact that she chews up our clothes for lack of anything else to chew on? I don't know why we discontinued her tartar bone collection, but we did- until Saturday. I was at the store, picking up some cranberry concoction for our oldest fur-baby, Lucky (tabby cat/Molly's biggest hater), and saw the tartar bones. Thinking lovingly of my pooch, I grabbed one, and headed home. I've never seen Molly act the way she did when we gave her the bone. She started gnawing on it furiously, and I imagined between bites, she was saying "Thank you, thank you, thank you! My teeth are FULL of tartar- you are the best! I love you so, so, so much. Best. Day. Ever." I noticed, however, that if I even walked by Molly as she chewed on what looked like this deformed chicken ball caked with too much batter, she would growl. I bent down, placed my hand over (not on) her head, and she sneered her lips and snarled at me like I was the biggest jerk on the planet. What the deuce, Molly???? I gave you that gift, and I can take it back if I want to! Not that I was thinking about it, but once the challenge was presented...well, I wasn't backing down. Plus, we wanted to get out for a walk, and the dog would not move. If we tried to put her leash on- growl. Flash teeth. Furrow brows. You know how it is. Molly was not so pretty anymore.

Finally, I got sick of it. I went behind Molly, and picked her up. I held her in an almost upside down fashion, and boy did she get mad. She barked and growled, but guess what? The bone fell out of her mouth, and onto her bed, where Ashley swooped down, picked it up, and put it in the freezer for a later date. I put Molly down, and there she was- my sweet, loving beagle with her you'll-do-anything-for-me brown eyes, and her enthusiasm for the world. No more anger (God, where did that come from?), no more ferocity, just a happy little pup once more, eager to go for her walk. Man, she is like hot and cold sometimes. I only wish I could forget upsetting events like she can.

So, that is all leading up to the hilarity that ensued tonight. Back to Molly's imagination...

I decided since Molly has been so good the last few days that I would give her back the bone tonight. I assumed it would keep her amused for a little while, and add to her already present exhaustion from the heat and her walk earlier in the evening. I took it from the freezer, and her tail wagged instantly- and don't think I didn't notice the flying fur that comes with her wagging tail- ugh (sidenote: I did order a dog brush today called the Furminator. Kind of excited!). I chucked the bone onto her bed, where I figured she would lay and chew it. Apparently, she wasn't ready. But she couldn't just leave the bone on the bed- what if someone stole it? That Tucker is always looking to get at her goods. And Lucky might have peed on it- so what is a dog to do? She picked it up, and carried it around in her mouth for a while. Crying, of course, while doing this. I can only imagine the torment she was feeling- "This is my bone, but I don't want it right now. I can't leave it out in the open, so what ever will I do?" After the agony of watching her pace back and forth, whimpering about her latest situation, she finally took the bone to her bed. Here she goes, I thought.

I was wrong.

Molly had a bright idea- she was going to bury her bone in her bed, of course! Brilliant! All she would need to do was dig a hole, place the bone in it, and then cover it with the dirt she dug out of the hole. Fail proof. Except, oh wait- her bed isn't made of dirt. Nor can she dig through it. But Molly didn't let that stop her. She started digging like it was nobody's business, bone securely in jaw, completely focused, and using all her upper body strength. She dug and dug and dug until finally (in Molly's head), the hole was good enough for her precious possession. I watched her as she placed it down, exactly where she had been digging, and then pushed it in with her nose- just in case, you know. It was then that I thought to take a video (I'm sorry I did not capture the magical digging, because it truly was admirable how much dedication she showed). Here is what Molly proceeded to do next:

That's right...she is "covering" the bone with the "dirt" she dug up previously to make the hole. Then, when she was finished, she pranced away like "Ha! Nobody will ever know my bone is there, and I can come back for it when I feel like it." Good grief. Twenty minutes later, here is the scene:

Blurry, but she was so excited I couldn't get her to be still for one second.

I love this dog.

~Picture Blog~ A Dog of Many Faces

So, maybe you think it's lame to do a picture blog so early in the game, but I feel that it's important that you not only know, but see, the multiple sides of Molly Charlton. She is no regular dog, as you may or may not have heard already. If you've ever had a conversation with me, I am sure I have told you a story- or seven- about my BCF (best canine friend), and you've probably concluded that you're glad you're not me (if you like sleep). This post will give you what I think might be the closest look inside the head of the most fascinating little creature I've ever met. She is a girl with many expressions.

"Insane"

 

 

 

"Embarrassed"

"Happy"

"Mouth-breathing exhausted"

"Jazzed"

"Ashamed"

"What are you lookin' at?"

"Scared"

 

 

"Where we going?"

"Intrigued"

"Suspicious"

"Depressed"

"Shy"

Molly is more emotional than me watching Steel Magnolias- which is saying a lot. But that's one of the things that makes her special. She's dramatic, and is always ready to put on a show. I've seen this dog cry and whimper, only to turn around and bound through the house, as joyful as can be. Good thing she has so many expressions- gives us an idea of what's going on in that thick skull of hers. Only an idea- we will never truly know what happens inside her head, but we're having fun trying to figure it out!

The Dog Days of 2010

From the very first day that I met my husband, Clinton, we discussed our love for dogs, and how it was in both of our future plans to have one. We exchanged stories about our childhood fur-friends (my Standard Schnauzer, Mulligan; Clinton's Beagle, Jody), and even came up with a plan to have a dog together- a Golden Retriever named Mozart. In the years to come, we would often refer to this "Mozart", and daydream about when we had him, what he would be like, things we would do with him, how would our cat react, etc. Clinton even bought me a stuffed dog as a gift once (which looked nothing like a Golden Retriever, but that is beside the point), and named him "Mini Mozart".

As time passed, it was decided that there were other breeds we were interested in, besides the beautiful Golden. Clinton pushed for a Beagle, being slightly biased having grown up with one. All his stories about Jody were sweet, and she sounded like an amazing pet and friend. Aside from thinking that Beagles were absolutely the cutest things going, and having liked all the ones I'd encountered in my life, I didn't know anything about them. I pushed for a Puggle (a Pug/Beagle hybrid) for a while, but Clinton wouldn't budge- forget Mozart, forget Puggles, all he wanted was Oliver the Beagle (a name we decided on when I said I would like to name a son Oliver- Clinton said no, but it would be nice for our dog). All of this was only talk, of course- we lived in an apartment, and I was a student. A dog was something we knew we both wanted- eventually- but we never made any concrete plans to have one.

Then, in August 2010, along came Molly...

As I am sure you know by simply looking at this blog, Molly is a Beagle. If I were to rate how cute she was when we got her on a scale of 1-10, I would give her an eleven. She was perfect- big brown eyes, floppy ears, floppy paws, and a nose splattered with freckles. She loved everyone- the first time I held her, she licked my face furiously, like she was destined to be mine. I soon found out she did this to anyone that gave her an ounce of attention, and would let her get close enough to do so, but was still convinced we had a special bond.

All taken Molly's very first day

 I knew getting a dog was a very big responsibility, but I felt I was ready. Cue the "however"...

However, Molly was nothing like we'd imagined. Every bit of cuteness was matched with an equal amount of crazy. You might think "Oh, puppies are puppies- they're all crazy!", but we knew Molly was in a league of her own. We wanted her to sleep in a crate- she was having none of it. "Let her cry", people would tell us. "She'll get used to it, but you can't give in every time she whines to be let out, or she'll run the show." So we let her cry...and cry...and cry....and cry...and cry. Until it was four hours later, and none of us had slept, including our all-too-nice neighbours downstairs, I am sure. She was relentless- banging against the metal door of the crate, screaming bloody murder for hours on end. That dog didn't need sleep- she needed to be cuddled and held, and by God, that's what she was going to make happen. I remember laying there, thinking "She has to stop eventually." Every hour or so, I would be met with 2-3 minutes of silence, and I would think "Yes! This is it...she's asleep." I was wrong every single time. Not to mention I was too afraid to breathe when she did stop, so either way, I was not sleeping. Eventually, I caved and let her out of her crate. Upon exiting, she squatted, peed on the floor, and then settled in on the couch and fell asleep. Molly and I slept on the couch that night, her snuggled into my neck, and me getting up with her every forty minutes to pee. The couch was Molly's turf- she had some false sense of entitlement to it, and that is where she preferred to be.

Molly, perched on the couch like she owns it

 This continued for a few months, until one day Clinton said "This is ridiculous- you're my wife, and you've slept on the couch almost every night since we returned from our honeymoon. Molly is going in her crate." As if she understood, we all had our first full night's sleep with Molly in her crate. It was...blissful. Not to mention, Molly's new crate was a hand me down from her Greyhound cousin, so it was more like her own condo. That dog does not settle for less than she feels she deserves, that's for sure.

Molly's new pad

Aside from sleep issues, Molly was cursed with having an overage of energy. She got two 45-minute walks a day, and yet she was still always looking for more activity. She chased the cats- Lucky would run scared every time, to Molly's delight. The other, Tucker, would swat at her face with his claws, which gave her an equal amount of pleasure. One time, he drew blood from her nose, and she marched around, proudly displaying her wound, as if it was some sort of prize. As it was with people, Molly would take attention in any form she could get it from Tucker. To this day, you can tell she still idolizes him.



She had more toys than I think I ever had as a child, and yet she preferred to destroy Ashley's stuffed animals...

Molly and her dog, Stuffed Mike

...while leaving her's perfectly in tact. I started closing Ashley's door to avoid all of her things getting ruined by the small beast, but then Molly would scratch at the door, leaving marks all down the last foot of it. As renters, this was a nightmare, and not an occurrence we could continue to let happen. We didn't want to make Ashley put away all the stuffed animals she proudly displayed on her bed, either. The solution- never let Molly out of your sight. Easier said than done.




Not only did she love to eat stuffing and fur, she also loved to eat from the litter box. There was nothing worse than turning the corner into the mudroom and seeing Molly's bum sticking out of the feline washroom, knowing what she was doing. Immediately, I would say "No!", in my loudest, firmest voice, but she didn't care. She'd keep right on going, wouldn't even look at me, until I physically moved her away from it. This was (and occasionally still is) her most disgusting habit. If we didn't catch her in the litter box, we definitely figured out when she had been in there, based on the pieces of litter stuck to her nose, and a smell resembling the zoo resonating from her mouth. Sometimes I think she preferred litter-coated cat poop to her own food.

Molly was excited constantly- from the moment she woke up to the moment she fell asleep, she was ready to go, eager for what the day was going to bring. She needed to be stimulated all of the time, or she would get herself in trouble. This was easier in the early days, when I could take her to my mom's or the beach, and let her run off-leash. Her nose didn't seem to pick up any scents when she was really young, so she basically ran aimlessly, unless we were playing fetch. Exercising her was a breeze, and I never worried about her running off, even though she was fast and mostly a blur.

"I love this sti- oooh, another stick! I love that one too!"

As she got older, and her senses kicked in (i.e. she stopped chasing the ball and started chasing birds...that were flying...in the sky), I realized we could not do this forever. Molly had to become a leash dog, and because of her breed and their tendency to follow scents for days, she will always remain this way. Exercise became walking on a leash at least twice a day, and games of fetch in the house. We tried it outside, but being tied up made it difficult for Molly. I feared she would choke herself. She wouldn't know any better. I'm serious.

Around Christmas of that year, our perfect dog started shedding. Not shedding like "Oh, there's some hair scattered about". Shedding like she left a rug everywhere she went. If you so much as looked at her, your clothes were covered in fur. She has the kind of fur that will show up on anything- it's black, brown, and white. You wear black, the white hairs pop out like they're glowing. You wear white, and all those black hairs are visible. And for everything else, there's the brown hair, making it's way in when black and white fail to be seen. I swept, vacuumed, mopped, lint brushed, did everything I could to make the hair less of a problem. It seemed the more I got rid of, the more appeared in its place. The more I brushed Molly, the faster the replacement hair grew in, and fell out. On the floor, the furniture, and our clothes was the constant presence of Molly.

So, as you might be able to gather, our first months with Molly were hectic, trying, and definitely crazy for our household. It still amazes me what an impact an eight pound animal had (and continues to have) on our lives. Molly's first months with us were filled with frustration, happiness, anxiety, snuggles, tears, and triumphs. She grew out of her puppy looks, but never her puppy personality, and for that I will always be resentful/grateful.

Thank you for checking this out, and please continue to come back to read about more Molly shenanigans. We will never run out of "tails" to tell!