Blog by Buffy

	Flip That Chow
	Obey Buffy

Buffy World

January 4, 2007

NIMH needs to look into dogs. Epidemic of mental illness. Take Jack. He visited last weekend. Goes swimming in the pool. In January. After a rather unimaginative George W Bush squeaky toy. Over and over and over. This OCD stuff is one thing but he also shatters to pieces on light buffing, and gets semi-suicidal if he's not in on car rides. He doesn't know the meaning of neglect.

Then there's Nutmeg, who, after, oh, six weeks of repetition, is still finding the opening of the door to the kitchen so scarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry. Daily does the cornered animal thing when chased down for horrific procedures like being leashed, given a chicken strip or having her ridiculous little outfits changed. And oh yay, to think that this kookoo thing reproduced. Definitely need to up production of semi-feral, egg-beater rear legged Chows. Now there's speculation that she's sight-impaired. This dog gets better and better. Such a shame she's sterilized. How will we ever meet the demand.

Don't get me started on Ruby and Henry.

January 9, 2007

I defend the house, the entire SPCA, do 25 000 000 repetitions of that superbly original chestnut "be a bear," sit, down and refrain from buffing dogs for days and I get the occasional piece of chicken the size of a pencil eraser. Buttercream makes one wee-wee in the sand outside and it's the flippin' fourth of July. They were ready to have her run for office. Yeah, I get lowering the bar and all that for cretins but this thing has made babies. She's a tad old for wee-wee parties, no? I reckon at a conservative estimate of five wee-wees per day, every day for five years, I'm closing in on 9200 consecutive wee-wees in the designated location. No parties. No cold cuts. No thanks. Nothing. I shudder to think that the spectacularly irritating make-out sessions ("Boofyboofyboofyboofy") are supposed to pass for gratitude or regard or something. Eons late by the way, which is incidental to the fact that I loathe the whole ordeal. I try for a cunning exit when I see the molestation urge come over her but usually to no avail. Nice job "reinforcer sampling."

I know she yearns to make out with Butternut, to whom I repeatedly suggest that if it ever happens and she does not love love love it the way *I* do, or feels even a liiiiiiiittle bit nervous, she should bite her REALLY hard, on the face, which will get her to stop kissing right away AND get her to give lots and lots of nummy turkey pieces, which is known as "euthanasia." I tell her this daily to be sure it goes in, and I watch, and wait.

January 10, 2007

Most excellent lemon scones in car this morning. The Obey Buffy mantra not having full effect, however as walkies still rather thin. There's a substantial element of fraud to spending so much time every day saaaaaaaaaaaaaving the dogs when my most basic needs (me being, of course, a DOG) go constantly unmet. I muse on this as she whisks by attending to Butterscotch, setting up hair salons for dogs she's never met, agonizing over the proper education of dog trainers who will train unimportant dogs she's never even going to meet, sending my crunchies money to unknown rescuers of likely hideous chows. Stifling irony. I do all the requisite imploring looks and butt placement on floor but only get frenched against my will. Repeatedly. Often with full traction. What the hell is that about anyway? Is my distaste amusing, unseen or simply irrelevant?

Oh, so we're getting out of the car this morning and Scotch-n-soda runs into her dreamboat, John, and starts veritably skipping around. Heartwarming conversation ensues. I capitolize on the diversion and buff Juno ever so slightly. As a test. Fabulous. No bathroom, no Ruby's crate, just feckless disapproval ("Mummy HATEs Buffy" - blah blah blah). Clearly the key is buffing out of range of encarceration technology.

January 22, 2007

He's gone again. I'm so depressed. But my state pales in comparison to the abyss that lies in wait for Butterfingers when she finds out John is also gone. I'll wait until she's grasped the full import before I start telling her he's neeeeeeeeeeeever coming back and that he left because of something sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeee did. My prediction is she drowns herself in the pool by Thursday. This would be spectacularly convenient as getting her whacked has proven more difficult than I thought.

Got away with two miniscule and one mid-range buffing yesterday. She's off her game.

February 4, 2007

Saw Gilda yesterday. Love Gilda. Very nice to me since I was a little Buffy. Mushy without making out. And no cortisol-laced white chows in her house. I don't think she'd adopt me. Bichons might break under light buffing. Sometimes I think they both might pop an aneurysm or stroke out during visitor greeting but so far no luck. Scurry scurry scurry whine whine whine...still there. Word is we're going to the veterinarian on - so typical - my birthday. Jack will no doubt be getting a beef bourgignon cake with mashed potato and sour cream icing, a trip to the beach and a small animal to kill while I'm darted and given a colonoscopy or something. Mind you it'll be entertaining to watch Cupcake blow anal glands and claw for the door when approached with a stethoscope. I see some serious Klonopin in her crystal ball. At least sixty days until we're rid of her. Whenever I'm encarcerated with her in good fluorescent light I try to watch her hair grow, apparently one of the limiting factors in launching her. I do it until my eyes sting but nothing. With my luck we'll have her until summer and they'll kill the A/C so she doesn't catch a chill. And just my usual luck that she's learned how to get out of the pool.

February 7, 2007

Walkies a faded memory and I'm reduced to performing tricks for students to get anything on top of my crunchies ration. Short game of kill Canada Goose toy this morning, which was not bad. We're long overdue for nails. Exacerbates my ulcers.

There are rumblings of interest in Buttercream, which lends slight hope that I may not be stuck with her until April. Veterinarian next week could be a fly in that ointment however. If it turns out her eyesight is defective and that this will compromise her chances of being removed, I will be forced to act. Have mulled a gift of French onion soup din-din with dark chocolate dessert, a push out the car window on the freeway and a quick, clean bite to an artery. Too obvious. Best recourse is continued indoctrination re: biting them. She's so ripe to just nail one of them. Tonight a bedtime story. She is approooooaching. She reeeeeeeeaches for your collar. If she gets hold, it will not just be a leeeeeeeash attached and humdrum walkies to the car this time, she's planning to skkkkkkkkkkkiiiiiiiiiin you. Aliiiiiiiiiive. Don't let her! Don't let her! The LAST foster that allowed a collar grab the second week of February is over there - a dog carpet. And those "jerky" strips she gave you yesterday? Dried dog. You'll be dead dead dead if you don't BITE her. Bite bite bite. And if you don't bite hard - really hard, bone-crunching hard - she not only skins you aliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive but plunges her hand through your chest, removes your beating heart and throws it to the Bichons next door. Initially they bark at it but then they eeeeeeeeeat it, while you watch, the final flicker of life ebbing from you. Biting is the oooooooonly waaaaaaaaay. All the chows who bite get fabulous farms full of sluggish chickens, cats chained to blocks of cement and, of course, "plenty of room to run." HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

February 8, 2007

The students feed Butterball endless treats, which she greedily accepts, often without examination. I partake somewhat but am more discerning and have greater foresight. Last night, a dream:

Grunties Mayhem

They awaken before dawn and stumble down the stairs. Puddingcup lies dehydrdated in a corner. Her "fur" is brown, crusty in places, gleaming damp in others. After the final stair, she starts slipping and sliding, like a cartoon character, in the carnage. Grunties, liquid - bits of semi-solid - are everywhere. (Remarkably, however, none has gotten on any of *my* stuff.) She lands hard in a particularly nasty pile, nearly breaking a hip. Her pyjamas stick gruesomely to the floor and bits fly into her hair and face. As the reality creeps over her, like in a car accident in slow motion, she marvels at the splatter pattern on the walls. She screams. "NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!" Then he hits the floor. She watches weeping as he skids, picking up speed, and crashes, horribly, into the console table. The metal sea turtle knocks him out and he lands - face down - in mucosal soup.

Fast forward. We pick up Cummerbund's ashes and head back to the thrice fumigated house. She looks deeply into my eyes, a tear welling. She vows to never, ever, ever again bring home a foster dog. Fade to black as I leap like Baryshnikov out the window and dispatch the orange cat down the street.

February 8, 2007 Addendum

Nearly dream come true! Butterscotch lets fly in the car on the way in and then panics when she tries to do an initial cleaning, spreading the wealth onto leashes, accessories and what-not. Much swearing. I shrewdly make it to the front seat without a drop hitting me. This could be it. Dead dead dead. Gone gone gone. Everything back exaaaaactly the way it should be. I'm so excited I could scream.

February 9, 2007

Grunties catastrophe apparently not a capital offense. I'm disappointed but not defeated. Caught sight of a Family Pack of Sunmaid raisins in the pantry this morning. Full of goodness. I'll pull them out onto the floor while they're at the movies and watch White Fang party on them.

February 11, 2007

Endless rain has curtailed walkies and I nap patiently waiting for them to leave for the movies. Buttercream is oblivious to her fate.

February 16, 2007

Colossal headache. Soul-crushing hangover. I hate her. I'm brought back to the veterinarian yesterday and left there to be tortured. This is completely unprecedented. I see where people get fodder for alien abduction stories. After minutes of sadistic poking with sharp objects, it all goes black. I awaken in - get ready - a fucking STAINLESS STEEL CAGE. It's like a scene in a splatter movie. I yell. The pain hits me. My lip has been ripped open and then sewn shut. My joints and muscles are vaguely stretched. I have clearly been on the rack. And I feel violated.

Finally she comes and I stagger to the car, go home and am offered crunchies, which I can't bear to look at. Then pills. And then the realization: Cream Puff is still here. My life is hell.

February 18, 2007

Regaining the will to live after The Betrayal. Yesterday I thought I had full-blown PTSD when I had no urge whatsoever to buff Juicecup when she finally came in from the yard after re-living her feral days for a good ten hours.

Seagull orgy this morning in the field. Appetite back. There'll be some serious buffing if opportunity knocks.

February 21, 2007

So there's often this cat in this office at work with a glass wall, papered over save for a few-inch gap at the bottom. I get trotted by in the hallway with Cummerbund every morning and many days the thing is snoozing or day-dreaming near the glass. Minimal buffing usually yields fabulous reaction. This morning I thought he was going to blow a blood vessel. Spectacular. Even better than the fence-frenzied moussie brown Aussie thing that always goes berzerk on weekend walkies at the sight of that most provocative of "stimuli," me walking casually by. I can pretty much phone that one in.

Word has it we're dropping by a prospective adopter for Butterball tonight on the way home. Even if it doesn't pan out, I happen to know it meant a bath and blow-out for her this a.m., which may have produced some definite, though transitory, suffering. It'll make fantasy fodder for me even if she stays a little longer. She's a little less on the ceiling all the time since the happy pills. I suspect they're hoping she'll be a party girl in a couple of weeks. Ha!

Have consulted my attorneys re the felony-level abuse last week and we're as yet undecided about pursuing action.

February 23, 2007

The world, or at least the state of California, is getting more and more about dogs. Yesterday on the way in to work the local NPR station devoted an entire hour to crunchies. Frowny discussions of European crunchies, the different cultural (!) character of various crunchies, even something or other about oil-producing crunchies. Given the fish-oil gel caps down the throat every morning, mine are clearly not in this category.

It's about time. Her abuse days are numbered.

March 2, 2007

Unbelievably exciting groundhog expedition on walkies this morning. Maintained shrewd multiple hole monitoring while excavating. Nearly cashed in the little sucker but grew faint from multi-tasking and broke for a beverage. Wham-o! She leashes me. Let's see - "dog allows collar grab and groundhog orgy terminated." That would be PUNISHMENT. Nice training job.

So Butterscotch's adopter fell through but no matter - she's dead to me, basically furniture. Not worth buffing. I'm saving myself for Juno, who has it written all over her argumentative little bully breed face. And when she goes for the mail this afternoon I might attempt a prison break and head back to the ridge, finish what I started. God, I love spring.

March 6, 2007

Bran Muffin does a brief lie-down in standard chow frog position at work and she gets all misty about it, like it undoes three months of feral animal and the ruining of my life. I do likewise for five years, am notably unferal and am trampled upon on their way to go shopping for Buffy-unfriendly groceries and the like. Is this justice?

March 7, 2007

A.m. walkies for four - no wait, five, I've lost count - consecutive days in a row, which either means guilt flare-up or else she's conditioning Buttersquash for possible marketing push. In any case, good for yours truly.

Lots of commotion in here today but luckily without endless tedious patting. Oh, speaking of patting, her latest is "MOOMY MOOMY MOOMY LOVES BOOFY BOOFY BOOFY" kisskisskisskisskiss combined with the usual being stretched right off the floor by my armpits. Nauseating. What the hell kind of humane society does she work for anyway? They may want to consider cleaning up the act in-house but apparently too busy in meetings about what color of adorable little fleecies to buy. I could very helpfully clear the cats off the deck to free up resources for greater policing of staff but they express no interest. Maybe I'll shake them out of their stupor with a tidy little sexual harassment complaint next time she does it.

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