Last night, we were sitting on the couch watching Modern Family, because Modern Family is the funniest show ever and totally deserves couch time, when Sir Calzador of the Muddy Paws started systematically destroying his large stuffed alligator. It was malicious stuffed toy brutality and I almost couldn't watch because I'm a delicate peony who wilts at the first hint of violence. He may have been demonstrating his extreme displeasure at his situation in life - not eating cheese, not sitting in my lap - or he may have just decided it was high time the alligator went to a better place. Either way, it was disturbing. But if he has to be passive aggressive about his feelings because he's a dog and doesn't speak English, better his stuffed alligator than my favorite sweater. Don't worry, Calzador. Your body language is more than adequate for conveying your discontent. Pausing in your destruction of an alligator leg to glare at me balefully is particularly effective.
In other Calzador news, he's a big dog. Not an enormous dog, but big enough that his nickname is Pony and if he leans against my legs he'll knock all my 137 pounds forward if I'm not properly braced.
Calzador, posing for a crappy iPhone shot and wondering when it might be time for more cheese. You may also notice that the colors of my bedroom are the exact colors of my new blog. This was creepily unintentional.
Not a pony. But not small. Yet he still gets spooked by tiny yapping dogs that would easily fit in his mouth if he opened up wide and thought of England. The little dogs jump and make a lot of noise and this is how Napoleon won France, I guess.
Anyway, when we pass a miniature yapper, even an enclosed miniature yapper, Calzador picks up his pace and doesn't slow down until the yaps recede in the distance. We were walking around the neighborhood yesterday, Calzador was sniffing things and I was pondering things, when he darted out of someone's driveway like a rogue squirrel had set his tail on fire. I assumed there was a little dog on the loose, so I peered around the hedge. There was no small dog, just a cheerful Halloween display.
Yes, the dog - who we can assume is not under the influence of any horror movie/Halloween cultural conditioning - was terrified by a fake ghost in broad daylight. How is that even possible? OH, YOU SWEET ADORABLE PANSY HOUND.
So we go home and I dump half a package of shredded cheese in his food bowl so he can partake of that other American holiday tradition - over-eating to calm the soul.