Tag Archives: Wendell

So I think my mom’s dog is a serial killer*

*Please note I said “my mom’s dog” and not “my” dog. Even though we no longer live together, I still consider Chauncey to be “my” dog when he’s cute or does something cool like show off how he knows the names of all 4,396 toys he has. But when he does something like fall over when peeing because he lifted his leg too high or exhibits characteristics of a serial killer, he becomes my mom’s dog.

This is the text my mom sent me the other night:

Chauncey just flung Bumble and his little arm flew off.  Bumble’s arm, not Chauncey’s. He still has all his arms and legs.

bumble2

Apparently Chauncey got a wee bit wild with Bumble and with a vicious shake of his head, sent Bumble one way and his little arm across the room in the opposite direction.

Bumble was immediately prepped for surgery, and I’m happy to report that he pulled through like a champ. Despite the fact that his right appendage is now a little bit shorter than his left, he’s back to business as usual.

But if you will recall, this is not the first time that a certain member of the toy family has lost a limb at the jaws of this 13-pound beast.

Monka was once a thriving member of pet toy society with rope arms and legs for casual play. Unfortunately, Monka became “Bob-a-Monka” when ALL FOUR OF HIS LIMBS were ripped off his body and unable to be reattached, due to the fact they were ropes and not solid limbs.

Because of patient privacy issues I didn’t take pictures of the other victims—Hippo, Stinkin’ Squirrel, Tiger—but my mom does have a cupboard in which she keeps the animals who are currently awaiting their transplants.

Where did we go wrong?

Perhaps he learned this behavior from Wendell, the one-toothed wonder cat with a crooked crotch (may she RIP,) as she used to bat flies around on the window sill and then leave them there, bored when they gave up the fight. 

Or maybe these rages are being fueled in an effort compensate for the fact that certain parts of his own manhood have been ripped off, if you know what I mean.

But despite the disturbing rate at which his toy’s limbs are falling off, I suppose I won’t worry until he starts cutting out letters from old magazines and sending ransom notes. Considering he also finds delight in eating rabbit poop and can be distracted by the jingle of his leash, I think we’re pretty safe.

And if you feel so compelled, feel free to send Bumble’s get well cards and cash donations directly to me.

I’ll make sure that he gets them, of course.

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A Good Nine Lives

Wendell, my Fuzzy Little Soul Sister, reached the end of all nine of her lives this week.

She was 16,  but I’m still sad.

However, this isn’t a sad post—I promise. When it comes to death, I think a little bit differently than most people. I can usually frame it in a “circle of life” type of way. It’s inevitable, and instead of fight it or fear it, I tend to accept it.

But I’m still sad.

Anyway, Wendell the One-Toothed Wonder Cat’s situation just called to mind memories of pets gone by and some interesting circumstances surrounding their departure.

Keep in mind the fact that my mom is Dr. Doolittle and it’s normal for us to spend two hours coaxing a chipmunk out of a drainage pipe in 90 degree heat (he made it out safe, if not a bit dazed and confused), chasing a loose goat through briar patches (I made it out safe, if not a bit dazed and confused) or picking up stray dogs on the way to job interviews (I got nothing for this one—so much for symmetry).

We’ve had tons of animals throughout the years, but these are just a few examples.

I will keep the stories short and sweet, unlike that disclaimer.

  • First there was Mitten, aka “Bun,” my rabbit when I was in preschool. The creativity for his name was inspired by the fact that he was a bunny with a white mittened foot. “Bun” met an untimely death at the hands of a homicidal cage cleaner—aka “dad”— that “accidently” used harmful chemicals to clean. I was at a friend’s house and by the time I got home, the body was already stiff. Determined to bury him in our backyard pet cemetery, holes were cut in a shoebox so his legs could stick out. I think we get points for creativity there.
  • In kindergarten, I received the best dog in the world and named him Cromwell (obviously more sophisticated than Mitten.) I don’t have a picture of him because I have no scanner, but he was a peak-a-poo and the cutest, most loving thing ever. There was an incident and he had a little crooked nose, but he was awesome. He lived to be about 3,000 in dog years, and when he passed away we had him cremated. He came back in something the size of a business card. I’ve seen more ashes on a sidewalk outside Starbucks.
  • Gonzo, a beautiful cockatiel, joined the family a couple of years later and lived to be about 3,000 in bird years. As I’ve mentioned, the little feathered bastard choose to pass away while I was on my first business trip ever (New York) a few years ago. My mom had to keep him in the freezer until I could come home and we could have a proper burial. It was very traumatic for all three of us (especially Gonzo.)
  • Speaking of the freezer, I also had to freeze a dead fish for some people I was housesitting for. That was awkward.

There are many more stories I could share—a cat getting it’s head caught in the rails of our dining room chair and me having to butter it to get it out (not unlike my mom buttering my own head when I was little and got my head caught in the rails of the stairway) or an accidental archeological find while planting flowers in the pet garden, for example—but I’ll leave you with just one more.

  • I would often dog sit for some people down the street. (Don’t worry—there is no freezer involved in this story.) They have a big dog and a little mutt that is about 3,000 years old in dog years—Burrie. When I was first introduced to the dogs, I was told that Burrie squatted when he peed instead of lifting his leg. That’s not that weird in and of itself, but the reason he squats is because he doesn’t have a penis. Apparently he was hit by a car when he was little and it was ripped off, never to be seen again. He was taken to the shelter and was going to be put down, but this family paid for his surgery and adopted him. I was told by the husband that if his penis ever gets ripped off, he just wants to be put down.

At any rate, Wendell will be missed.

She was buried in the garden cemetery among the many animal companions we’ve loved and lost throughout the years.  We’re all sad, but I can’t wait for the flowers in that garden to bloom—especially the catnip.

Plus, it helps to remember that things could always be worse…

(But I’m still sad.)

Assuming their heads aren’t falling off, do you have a pet story to share? Mishaps? Cool tricks? Great name?