The dog’s got my bat…er, back

Wow, how ‘bout this weather?! It sure is unseasonably warm!

Warm enough to turn off the furnace last night.
Warm enough to sleep nekkid.
Warm enough to wake up a hibernating flying mammal, in fact!

How can I be so sure? Because one of the fuckers was flying crazy-ass loops, as bats are wont to do, around my bedroom at midnight.

It was one of those rare instances that I had an eensy, teensy amount of regret for kicking out the Man of the House.

As I lay in my bed, under the covers, screaming like a little girl, my new hero sprang into action:

Yes, that is a look of proud victory on the Monster's face. In this picture, he has just made use of his hunting-dog genes to help me tag team the bat. While I was locked in the bathroom shrieking and getting dressed (because the only thing less dignified than running from a bat screaming is running from a bat screaming and nekkid), he was keeping an eye on the bat.

When I emerged, fishing net in hand, he helpfully led me to the intruder, which was being all freaky and shit hanging upside down from the top of the window. When I knocked it out of the air, again and again, he pounced on it, and kept nipping at it till it rose no more.

Me, I can't kill anything bigger than a mosquito. But it's OK if the dog does. That's just nature taking its course. Like the freaking Discovery Channel, right there in my hallway. Hey, that's why I keep their rabies vaccinations current, right?

Oh--and where was Big Head Dog, the vee-cious 10-headed beast, while his master and cohort were bravely doing battle with the 5-ounce dragon? Cowering in the corner. Then he went to hang out in the bathtub for a while. I'm sure, though, if it were, you know, a person attacking me, he would be all over it. He just doesn't do bats, I guess.

Next on my hit list

Things have been blissfully quiet lately, which means I've been spending more time in the 'hood.

Which means I'm bound to be pissed off about something.

I'm happy to report that Bad Influence Grandma has officially been cited by the city for the junk cars in her back yard. No doubt using her "but I'm just a sweet little old lady" wiles, she got an extension to get rid of them. She's due for reinspection Dec. 1. The cars haven't moved. She's running scared, I can tell.

So I'm turning my attention to the other house down the street that periodically has been the bane of my existence. Among other violations of common decency/criminal code, this house has been through more dogs in the past six years than I've been through men. So when I walked Big Head Dog and the Monster past this house, I wasn't particularly surprised to hear the scampering of doggy feet.

The front chain-link-fence gate was open, of course. Two pit bull puppies ran up to the fence. One ran out and jumped my dogs. No "hi, how ya doin'" butt-sniffing, no "wanna play?" tail-wagging, just flat out jumped 'em and went for the jugular.

The puppy went for the Monster, who's without a doubt the bigger pussy of the two dogs, and rolled 'im. Big Head Dog moved in and in no uncertain terms showed the puppy who's boss, and it ran off with its tail between its legs. The Monster cried like the girl he isn't, but was unhurt.

During this melee, I'm yelling, dogs are snarling. A chained-up dog in the back yard is raising ten kinds of hell. The lights are on in the house, yet no one is sufficiently curious to come out to investigate.

I considered dialing 911 to report a vee-cious dog attack. Then it became clear what I must do. Amass evidence. Photos, specifics, incidents. Then I will report them to the city's dog-fighting task force. I don't know for certain the thugs are into dog-fighting, but I like the last line of that press release: "all tips are investigated."

I like to think the investigators will arrive in SWAT team fashion, but that's probably too much to ask for.

Thanksgiving without a bang

Keeping with the munitions theme...

Upon my arrival Wednesday night in southern Indiana, I called my sister, who reminded me that it's deer hunting season.

Crap.

In the 5 years I've had Big Head Dog, I seem to always forget to buy one of those safety-orange vests for my deer-colored dog. In case you've never seen one, a whitetail deer looks something like this (minus the shirt) running through the woods (or, I suppose, through my living room):

Big as he is, Big Head Dog is not deer sized. He also does not have antlers. Only a complete idiot or drunkard would do something so stupid as to mistake a 75-pound dog for a 10-point buck while holding a gun.

Ahem.

So, I searched the farmhouse for something sorta dog-sized and orange-like. And I hit the jackpot--a bag full of my clothes from the mid-80s. Florals, fuschias, oranges, day-glo....oh, the horror of it all was spectacular.

And so Big Head Dog ran the woods with his t-shirt proclaiming him a participant in the 1985 Lanesville Heritage Weekend 8-mile race.

Even though the Monster is not deer-colored, he looked so....naked. And unstylish. And he is a monster, so he deserves something heinous every chance I get. Behold, the hot-pink muscle sweatshirt:

Are they waiting at the door to go outside, or to run away from their cruel master once and for all? Who knows.

all by myself

One of these days I'm gonna have to figure out how to do all this fancy Internets stuff so I can pimp my blog.

Today, for instance, I'd hunt down an audio clip of that godawful song in the title.

You see, my house is empty today. The ex called while I was working my weekend gig Friday night to see if he could have Big Head Dog and the Monster for a few days. It took every ounce of self-restraint I have (which is about 4 ounces anyway) to not say, would it have killed you to ask me that a couple of weeks ago when the Greek refused to come to my house because my "vee-cious 10-headed beast" (that would be Big Head Dog) would've tried to attack him when he got within 10 feet of my bedroom?

And he's not even the guy who Big Head Dog bit in the ass.

Anyhoo, I kept my mouth shut, packed the boys' suitcase (actually an empty Trader Joe's bag) and took them to their dad's for a long weekend yesterday. And the roommate's gone for the weekend, too.

I'm shocked to find I'm completely discombobulated by all this. I don't know what to do with myself. There are no furry creatures interrupting me every 5 minutes for their favorite game, Inside Vs. Outside, and there's no one sitting on my sofa watching television and distracting me with valuable insights into the latest episode of America's Next Top Model. It's going to drive me to do something completely wacky, like clean.

I planned to get an early start on the day, but of course I didn't come straight home after work last night, like I'd planned to. I stopped by the friendly neighborhood tavern (it is, after all, on the way home), and it's a good thing I did. Otherwise, I would have missed the first meeting of the Crabby Club.

I also would have missed important discourse on topics such as programming home thermostats and whether or not the theme song to Baywatch had words, and if so, did David Hasselhoff sing them?

I also would have missed the Marines birthday party, where a bunch of ex-Marines, average age 68.2, drank a lot and periodically broke into increasingly distressed versions of "Halls of Montezuma." You couldn't miss 'em--they were the big group with the big red USMC flag duct-taped to the wall (Crabby Club--do we need a flag?). I actually got saluted on my way to pee.

Best damn lookin' porch in Southern Indiana!

I can hear you asking, "what color did you paint the trim at the farmhouse, B.I.G.?"

No? That wasn't you? Oh. Sorry, must be the damn neighbors acting up again.

Anyhoo, here's what color I wanted to paint it:

Can't really tell there? How about here:

Yes, it is a lovely bluish-gray, thank you! Unfortunately, very little of it is covering the god-awful green, because Big Head Dog wound his chain around the entire gallon of paint, which my sister left open and unattended on the porch, knocking it over. When I returned to the scene, Big Head Dog was so happy to see me, he wound the paint-covered chain around my leg.

The resulting conversation went something like this:

Me: aaaarrrrrgghhh! You big stupid, you left the paint open!

Sister: Your big stupid dog knocked it over!

Me: You're the big stupid!

Sister: Nuh uh! You're the big stupid!

Me: Fuck it, let's have another beer.

Sister: Good idea.

Since the entire gallon of paint was then on the porch, we really had little option but to spread it out. So now the top-of-the-line exterior paint I bought (charged to my ex's account, whatever) is covering a concrete slab porch. I can't wait till the first time somebody tries to walk on the damn thing when it's wet--it's gonna be slicker than snot on a glass doorknob.