I'm a model, you know what I mean...

Willoughby and I spent the day in Orange County yesterday, shooting a photo for our friend Adam to promote his way awesome product, Bark 4 Beer. It's a dog collar. With a bottle opener attached. Another one of those "Why didn't I think of that?" moments! He's putting together a calendar of hot girls and their pups to promote the collars. I don't dare to call myself hot, but I was able to position the dog in front of areas I felt were not bikini ready and smiled like Barbie. Willoughby got a special bath, but otherwise he was already bikini-ready. We'll see the results this week when the pictures are up, so until then I just have to trust my mom's assurance that we were adorable. I think she might be biased...

Check it out, buy a collar for your pup!

Terrifying times!

Sorry for the hiatus. Willoughby and I had a crisis moment this weekend. My poor rescue pup, somewhere in the ballpark of two years old, had a seizure at 1:30 Saturday morning. Reader, it was hand-down the worst way to wake up, ever. It only lasted a minute, but I have never been more terrified. Thankfully our awesome vet was able to squeeze him in and get some bloodwork done, so I'm waiting for more results, but it sounds like the problem is somewhere in his digestive system. Why do I have a feeling that Willougby is about to be eating better than his mom?...

Meanwhile, you'd think nothing had even happened to the pup. An hour after the seizure he jumped up and ran to his food bowl like, Hey! That took a lot out of me! Feed me, woman! Apparently his brain just needed to reset, and no other symptoms have popped up.

I'd like to leave you with a couple of tips I learned from the vet and some research I did this weekend on canine seizures. If your dog is ever unfortunate enough to have a seizure:

1. Don't panic. The dog is scared enough. Your panic isn't going to help.

2. Look at your watch/clock/phone. The seizure is going to feel like an eternity when in all likelyhood it's only about a minute long. The length of a seizure is important for your vet's diagnosis, so try to get a ballpark.

3. Pet your dog and reassure him/her that it's okay. Do not try to grab his tongue or anything since he'll probably bite you, accidently. When they come around they'll be panting and totally unclear on what just happened, so reassure your dog that all is well and you're there for him.

4. Call the vet. It's not an emergency unless the dog continues to have consecutive seizures. But if all seems well after the episode, a visit to your vet isn't necessary until they open for regular business hours.

5. Do some research on the internet, but not too much research. This is a personal tip as I freaked myself out with all the "what ifs" and "could bes" on the many pages dedicated to doggie seizures. With words like "epilepsy," "head trauma," and "brain tumor" flashing in front of my eyes, I was a crying mess, convinced that I was going to have to put down a dog I've had for 5 months. Once I got a little more sleep I came to my senses and realized that the odds were not in favor of those options, and so the crying stopped and I handled the vet visit and consequent tests. Your vet is the expert, not the internet. Listen to him.

We are considering the following:

Thoughts?

What the hell is this stuff, mom???

That was Willoughby's question as we headed out into the rain storms pounding San Diego County last night. He gave me this look like, "Seriously? Turn it off. Turn it off now." This morning he figured out that if you stick close to the buildings and do your business outside of the neighboring shops, the awnings will protect you from the torrent of wetness. I apologize to the Cheese Shop in my building for using your doorstep as a restroom, but I did clean it up...

Speaking of cleaning it up, I had another crazy pet owner moment this morning. Since we live in a concrete jungle we pet owners obviously have to pick up after our dogs, and the city of San Diego is kind enough to offer plenty of poop bags and trash cans for our convenience. Outside my door, poop bag dispenser is 20 feet to the left, trash can is 20 feet to the right. Normally I take Willoughby all the way around the block starting to the left to pick up a bag and then drop it in the trash when we come around. Because of the rain, however, Willoughby developed a 'run to the left, do my business, perform a quick 180 degree turn and head right back to the door" system. So I found myself outside the door to our building holding a bag of poop in one hand and a dog leash in the other, with a dog on the end of that leash staring at me with eyes that said "No way in hell am I going back out there." Did I force the dog to accompany me to the trash can to throw away his refuse, as it should be? Nope. In an alltime high of spoiling, I let him stay outside the door, under the awning, while I trudged back into the rain to throw the baggie in the trash.

That whole "master over dog" thing is going really well, don't you think?...

The Dog Trainer Cometh

Willoughby and I had our first private training lesson today. Willoughby is exhausted. I'm a little pooped myself. I found a wonderful trainer through my dog groomer- they've partnered to offer a group training class at the dog salon. I called to get Willoughby into the class but when I described his past and his little quirks, she was hesitant to throw him into group class and risk him running howling from the room. So, I signed on for a private "evaluation and training" session, forked over a day's worth of pay, and braced myself for chastisement. After all, I let my dog jump on the couch, sleep on the bed, and turn my gym headband into his newest chew toy. Thankfully, I learned that these things are okay! They just need to be MY idea. Well, the headband wasn't my idea, but I'll chock that up to being stupid enough to leave my headband on the floor- The "freezone," as it's now termed. So we worked on sit, stay, no, and good boy! (You have to say it like a teenage girl squeeking on speed- good boy!!) And praise the lord, he's been accepted to group class. Great news for me since five group classes costs less than two private classes. Plus, I don't feel like my kid is being left behind the rest of the class. So, group lessons begin on January 31st, and until then we shall sit, stay, no, and good boy ourselves into perfection!!!

So maybe it's longer than 30 seconds...

Common Bonds

I love shoes. Willoughby loves shoes, too. He likes to swing them around his head and hurl them on the floor. Thankfully he has learned the difference between my beat up running shoes and my precious Manolo Blahniks, and amazingly enough, he prefers the running shoes. Plus, I keep the Blahniks under lock and key, so that helps. As soon as I pull those sneakers off my feet he darts in with a stealth move, grabs the shoestring, and with a mighty growl drags it across the floor before swinging it over his head a few times and banging it into the hardwood. After a few more darts, growls, and hurls he settles down to rearrange the balance of right lace versus left lace, pulling from the toe end and working his way up. The moves never fail to make me chuckle, and whenever a new acquaintance inquires about my living situation and I apologize for my single status by explaining that I'm not alone, I have this wonderful dog I rescued, I'm quick to log onto my facebook page and show them the thirty second clip of him darting around with my shoe while JT rocks out from the stereo in the background. "Cute!" they say after 10 seconds. "But wait, wait, this is the best part!" I reply. I demand all thirty seconds of attention on that video, until the dog tosses the shoe aside and jumps onto my lap. Anything less than thirty seconds of attention and I know this person and I are not friends. My baby deserves complete attention, he can hurl a shoe around his head like a slingshot, for goodness sakes! What other dog do you know that can do that, huh? HUH???

I digress- Obsessiveness again, I'm sorry. But I have to say, I love that we both love shoes. Enough to play with them, show off what they can do, and not chew them into pieces.

That's what the tupperware is for.

Welcome to Willougby's world

I live in it every day. I'm Annie, Willougby's owner. Or, mom. Or, rescuer. Or, roommate. Willoughby is my dog, and he has turned me into a crazy pet owner.

He's a funny, funny pup, this Willoughby, and he has every right to own the big personality he has. I adopted Willoughby almost five months ago through a second party rescue service. They had rescued him from a high-kill shelter in L.A. where he doubtless would have been "put to sleep"- such a horrible expression- sometime soon. He had the luck of being adopted once, and then the horrible misfortune to have his tail cut off by his "adopters" before being unceremoniously dumped back at the shelter with a bleeding behind. Understandably, it took me two months before I could go anywhere near that tail, despite the one purple plastic stitch still clinging to the stump, begging to be removed. So the poor pup has earned his quirks, his quick snaps at my hands when I catch him by surprise, the surprise attack on the phantom pain on his rear end, and his right to stare every person on the street right in the face until he determines whether they are a good witch or a bad witch. These quirks make me love him more, and I find myself not just apologizing for his bad behavior, but explaining his neurosis to people on the street. "He's a rescue dog, he had his tail cut off, sometimes he drags his butt across the road while twirling in circles but he's okay, there's just something stuck and we'll be out of the street as soon as I can get close enough to pull that piece of poop off his hair without him biting my hand off..." Even the homeless dude around the corner has started to laugh at my dog-induced insanity.

But what has surprised me the most about having a dog in a big, luxury prone city is my lack of surprise at the services catering to pups and my acceptance of these big-ticket items as cost of living expenses for my pup. I actually found myself debating the merits of adding a Blueberry facial to my dog's grooming service last month (I declined and opted for the organic herbal flea treatment instead. Compromise...). Last week I dragged myself away from purchasing a $135 dog bed because it was plush, it matched my couch, and it was the BEST for my pup! When I went on Overstock.com to look for something similar, I scoffed at $40 dogbeds as being cheap, unworthy, and a bad investment. Ludicrous, right? I'm just clearing expenses for my own keep and I believe a $135 dog bed is a good deal??? What the heck is wrong with me?

I hope this blog becomes a place where you, lovely reader, will laugh at Willoughby's stories and perhaps bring me back down to earth a bit before this whole luxury dog thing goes to my head. Or maybe you'll let it go to my head, just to see what happens. Somehow I don't think Willoughby is going to object...