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His name is Stan. He's named after Stan Lee of the Dickies. I may change his name to Satan. He is a 10-month-old border collie, and came from the Denver Municipal Animal Shelter. That place sucks.
This is the story of Stan's 1st four days with us. He came home Tuesday after getting "fixed" (little did we realize how broken he was). Since he just got fixed, he has to wear a satelite dish on his head. He runs into everything with the sharp edges of his dish, including the other two dogs. My other two dogs hate him. Posey (our 7-year-old border collie) is a control freak, and has no tolerance for a puppy who has not learned doggie manners. George (our 15-year-old black lab whose picture is on my "profile") just wants to sleep, and does not want to be tormented by an obnoxious puppy. Within two hours of entering our home, Stan figured out how to open the dog food bins, and also learned that if he tugs on the dish towel which hangs on the refrigerator door, it magically opens!
On day two, Amy put his tennis ball on the dining room table, in hopes that he would "chill". She turned her back long enough to sign on to the laptop (90 seconds?). When she turned around, there was Stan standing on the dining room table with the ball in his mouth. Oh yea, he peed on the dining room floor and the living room rug.
Day three (Thursday). After dinner, we go down to the basement to relax and watch "My Name is Earl" and "The Office". As soon as I get downstairs, I detect the distinct odor of "poo". I follow the odor to the corner, and find the offensive smelling pile. Upon sharing the information with Amy, she informs me that he was out of her sight for all of two minutes, when he went downstairs to get a toy (well, that's what she thought he was doing downstairs). After Amy disposed of the fecal matter (she is the one that wanted a third dog, so yes - it is her job), she casually mentioned that it looked a bit "wormy". We moved to the sofa to watch the idiot box. S(a)tan layed out next to me, flat on his back, with all four paws in the air. This created a question in my mind: "What exactly happens to a dog's scrotum after his balls are removed?". About 10 minutes into "Earl", I asked Amy if she could hold Stan just like he is. "Why?", she asked. I responded, "because I need to get some toilet paper to determine if this thing oozing out of his ass is a worm".
Day four. I won't bore you with the difficulty in actually getting a person from the shelter to speak to us. However, once Amy got a supervisor on the phone, and explained the situation, this is (I swear to God) the response: "I'm sorry ma'am, but our dogs are not guaranteed. You can exchange him for another dog, or return him - but we do not issue refunds." Are you freakin' kidding me?!?! Talk about missing the point! I don't give a shit about the 40 bucks. We just thought they should know that they adopted out a diseased dog. Yet they had no concern for the welfare of Stan, the two dogs we had at home already, or the hundred or so other dogs still at the shelter! So, despite the shelter's generous offer to kill Stan for us, and give us a different diseased dog, we decided to take him to our own vet. Well, Stan has a tapeworm, giardia, and an upper respiratory infection. Yet amazingly, no one at the shelter was able to find anything wrong with him.
Stan is back home. He is quarantined in the kitchen (where he ate my Ranch Doritos which were ON TOP of the refrigerator). He is on FIVE different medications. And he still has to wear the satelite dish for another week. Right now he is asleep next to me. He's really cute when he's sleeping and nothing is oozing out of his ass. I wish the next five minutes could last forever...
(Hey, this is my first blog ever - don't tease me too much.)
This is the story of Stan's 1st four days with us. He came home Tuesday after getting "fixed" (little did we realize how broken he was). Since he just got fixed, he has to wear a satelite dish on his head. He runs into everything with the sharp edges of his dish, including the other two dogs. My other two dogs hate him. Posey (our 7-year-old border collie) is a control freak, and has no tolerance for a puppy who has not learned doggie manners. George (our 15-year-old black lab whose picture is on my "profile") just wants to sleep, and does not want to be tormented by an obnoxious puppy. Within two hours of entering our home, Stan figured out how to open the dog food bins, and also learned that if he tugs on the dish towel which hangs on the refrigerator door, it magically opens!
On day two, Amy put his tennis ball on the dining room table, in hopes that he would "chill". She turned her back long enough to sign on to the laptop (90 seconds?). When she turned around, there was Stan standing on the dining room table with the ball in his mouth. Oh yea, he peed on the dining room floor and the living room rug.
Day three (Thursday). After dinner, we go down to the basement to relax and watch "My Name is Earl" and "The Office". As soon as I get downstairs, I detect the distinct odor of "poo". I follow the odor to the corner, and find the offensive smelling pile. Upon sharing the information with Amy, she informs me that he was out of her sight for all of two minutes, when he went downstairs to get a toy (well, that's what she thought he was doing downstairs). After Amy disposed of the fecal matter (she is the one that wanted a third dog, so yes - it is her job), she casually mentioned that it looked a bit "wormy". We moved to the sofa to watch the idiot box. S(a)tan layed out next to me, flat on his back, with all four paws in the air. This created a question in my mind: "What exactly happens to a dog's scrotum after his balls are removed?". About 10 minutes into "Earl", I asked Amy if she could hold Stan just like he is. "Why?", she asked. I responded, "because I need to get some toilet paper to determine if this thing oozing out of his ass is a worm".
Day four. I won't bore you with the difficulty in actually getting a person from the shelter to speak to us. However, once Amy got a supervisor on the phone, and explained the situation, this is (I swear to God) the response: "I'm sorry ma'am, but our dogs are not guaranteed. You can exchange him for another dog, or return him - but we do not issue refunds." Are you freakin' kidding me?!?! Talk about missing the point! I don't give a shit about the 40 bucks. We just thought they should know that they adopted out a diseased dog. Yet they had no concern for the welfare of Stan, the two dogs we had at home already, or the hundred or so other dogs still at the shelter! So, despite the shelter's generous offer to kill Stan for us, and give us a different diseased dog, we decided to take him to our own vet. Well, Stan has a tapeworm, giardia, and an upper respiratory infection. Yet amazingly, no one at the shelter was able to find anything wrong with him.
Stan is back home. He is quarantined in the kitchen (where he ate my Ranch Doritos which were ON TOP of the refrigerator). He is on FIVE different medications. And he still has to wear the satelite dish for another week. Right now he is asleep next to me. He's really cute when he's sleeping and nothing is oozing out of his ass. I wish the next five minutes could last forever...
(Hey, this is my first blog ever - don't tease me too much.)