Every day I become the human personification of Einstein’s definition of insanity by trying to play the game of fetch with Oliver. It goes something like this:

• I throw the ball and excitedly call out Get it, Ollie! Go get it!
• Oliver chases after the ball.
• Oliver retrieves the ball.
• Oliver runs back to me with the ball in his mouth.
• I declare enthusiastically Good boy, Ollie! Give me the ball!
• Oliver collapses onto his stomach and shimmies to the couch with the ball in his mouth.
• I firmly demand  Ollie, give me the ball! Give me the ball!
• Oliver plays dead.
• I plead Drop the ball, Ollie! Drop it! C’mon! Drop it!
• Oliver plays dead.
• I yell FINE! I’M NOT PLAYING!
• Oliver plays dead.
• I stomp off.
• Oliver spits out the ball and contemplates it.
• I begin to praise him with Good boy, Ollie! Now, give me …
• Oliver immediately pushes the ball under the couch with his nose.
• I yell BRILLIANT, GENIUS! NOW WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO FOR THE REST OF THE DAY?
• For the rest of the day, Oliver follows me all around the house, whining and whining and whining some more because his ball is under the couch.
• Lather, rinse, repeat.

I leave you with the post I wrote last year when Oliver was a four-pound, pliable ball of fur who could squish under couches and retrieve all wayward balls. Unlike today, when Oliver is a seven pound, less-pliable ball of stubbornness and ball retrieval is now performed by a none-of-your-business pound, rigid, misshapen rhombus of middle-aged, frustrated estrogen.

Happy Sunday, everyone!

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The name’s Chamberlain. Oliver Chamberlain.

(originally published April 2010)

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Chew (choo):  a verb meaning …

… to use one’s teeth to grind something, such as your owner’s favorite toy and reason for living. That would be the favorite toy and reason for living that is located on the couch and that controls the TV, not the one that is located in the vicinity of his groin and that controls every other aspect of his life. Because using teeth on that particular favorite toy and reason for living is a deal breaker. For anyone.

… to chomp.

(PS: Our house is where pens come to die.)

… to gnaw.

(PPS: Our house is where writing utensils of all shapes and sizes and colors come to die.)

… to bite repeatedly, with no regard for potential electrocution or mommy’s sudden onset of agoraphobia stemming from her inability to leave the house without a fully charged cell phone lest some bizarre misfortune befall her, such as a pack of crazed, suicidal alpacas breaking free of their herd and smashing into her car at full trot, leaving her with no means by which to call her husband and shriek incoherently that she needs help immediately as she is being attacked by ugly, short camels. The fact that for the prior forty years she functioned just fine without any kind of cell phone or alpaca incident whatsoever, notwithstanding.

… to munch on, with no regard for mommy’s sudden weight gain due to her inability to run down the driveway, let alone for three miles, without a fully charged iPod because a fully charged iPod helps her forget the blood, sweat and tears that is her daily run, whereas strapping Lady GaGa, Rhianna, Ke$ha and Usher onto her back only serves to remind her of how much a hernia sucks.

… to nibble ferociously, until the point of amputation.

(PPPS:  It’s like 127 Hours boiled down to two minutes except the scenery sucks and James Franco is pudgy, bald and seasick.)

… to gum.

… to masticate.

(PinfinityS: Which, sometimes? Is a good thing. Like when your owner is prone to buying up the entire world over the Internet when his wife isn’t looking.)

… to feast upon, especially when you are not let out of your crate for a full ten seconds after your owners walk in the door.

… to consider, deliberate, reflect, dwell upon, ruminate or otherwise ponder.

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We brought Oliver home to live with us when he was eight weeks old which was almost exactly one year ago today. Our lives have never been the same. Nor have our carpets.

I did not know how much I could adore an animal until we got Ollie. I had never considered myself a dog person and even today, dog slobber still makes my skin crawl right off my body and hide under the sink. I thought I’d simply be tolerating a dog for the kids’ sake but holy flippin’ jeebers, I love this little guy. It’s just the two of us together five days out of seven and he spends his time sleeping on my lap or on my feet or following me all around the house, so much so that I have to be careful not to stop in mid-stride lest he bonk his nose on my ankle.

Unfortunately, he has developed a Pavlovian response to couches in that, when he sees one, he automatically poops behind it. Just yesterday, while on one of my routine couch checks, I was all SHIT SHIT SHIT! Somebody get me some tiger blood, Adonis DNA and the drug called Charlie Sheen. YOU’RE GOING TO KICK THIS HABIT, OLIVER, AND BE A WINNER. No ifs, ands or buts about it. Everything after “but” is dial tone anyway.

And Oliver was all Would you mind sitting down while you’re having a psychotic break? I need a lap. I’m exhausted.

I leave you with the post I wrote soon after we brought Ollie home, about my first impressions on raising a puppy.

Happy Sunday, everyone!

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First impressions on raising a puppy

(originally published March 9, 2010)

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What in God’s name was I smoking when I agreed to this?

Whatever it was? I’d like some more, please.

Having a puppy is almost like having a newborn baby, except that my boobs are not engorged and I can’t shoot my uterus across the room by sneezing.

A newborn baby is easier than a puppy because newborn babies come with diapers.

Puppy diapers are truly an excellent idea. Someone go invent them. Thank you.

I’m worried people are going to think I shrunk a real dog in the dryer.

You can turn a tiny, happy puppy into a furious, demented hyena simply by placing him in a crate.

If you’d prefer a screeching, rabid, pissed-off, psychotic hyena instead, one who acts as if his testicles are being french braided and then pureed in a Cuisinart, place that tiny, happy puppy in a crate and then walk out of the room.

I will never take another shower in peace and quiet.

I don’t remember what peace and quiet sounds like.

Puppies keep your feet warmer than fleece slippers.

There is something to be said for unconditional love that doesn’t come equipped with an I HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR! WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO DO LAUNDRY? OH MY GOD, I CAN’T WEAR THIS! MY LIFE SUCKS gene.

Puppy breath smells like ass. With infected hemorrhoids.

Dog food and treats don’t smell much better.

I thought I’d never meet another mammal who could produce ten times its weight in pee within a 24 hour period without benefit of a raging bladder infection.

Puppies are mammals, right?

Puppies are softer than clouds.

Puppy poop looks like milk chocolate covered pretzels.

Puppy poop on cream carpet looks like dark chocolate covered pretzels.

My carpet is scared.

I am scared.

I now know what it feels like to have my own personal stalker.

I did not think it was possible to love any living thing like I do my own kids.

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