I am in the middle of a somewhat hastily arranged home refinance. I don’t know what made me think about refinancing, but the idea popped into my head while at work one day so I went online and looked at exactly one mortgage option from exactly one bank. I filled out an application and according to my calculations, if it all goes through my monthly payments will be about $200 less a month. Of course, my calculations are hardly ever correct. And if I take after my mom, who went through a refinance last year, I will somehow end up paying more than I do now.

One of the items on the long and irritating list of tasks that have to be completed before this deal is wrapped up is to get the home appraised. Because I am always looking for an excuse to work from home, I arranged for the appraiser to come by my house this morning, despite her repeated attempts to schedule it for Sunday afternoon. I had really, really wanted to clean the house over the weekend. I thought it was important to get it all shiny and sparkly to try to make up for the tiny blemish on the bathroom shower wall:

But I didn’t clean. The thing about cleaning, is that it sucks. It sucks in general and sucks most of all on weekends. So, as the appointment time for the appraisal drew near and I looked around my messy house, my head filled with dread and shame. When the appraiser arrived, though, my feelings changed.

She knocked on the front door which (rightfully, if you ask me) caused Riley and Sigh to bark and approach the door. When I opened the door a crack, the appraiser immediately commanded me to lock the dogs in a room, and refused to come in until I did so. And I can understand why. I mean, have you ever seen anything more terrifying than this:

So for the duration of the appointment, I had to shuttle the dogs from room to room (the appraiser waited outside on the porch during each of the relocations) while she did her assessment. I don’t trust people who don’t like dogs, even though this lady claims that she is only skittish because she was attacked by a dog a few weeks ago. As the inconvenience of dealing with this woman grew, I found myself caring less and less about the disastrous state of my home. In fact, I was more than a little pleased when she turned to leave the house and I noticed that a rather large tumbleweed of dog fur had attached itself to the back of her black pant leg. Serves her right for making my dogs prisoners in their own home (but I hope she didn’t notice it until after she wrote and submitted my appraisal).

As of the writing of this post, it is Friday night. The weekend has started. I should be in a good mood, but based on the series of irritating moments that made up this day, my rage seems to be lingering.

Aside from obvious anger-inducing events like waking up and going to work, a few more things made today generally frustrating. I will list a few (but I will also try to find at least some bright side to each. I really am trying to be more positive when things get me down. We’ll see how successful I am…)

1. Rileypooed twice on his walk this morning. I only had one plastic bag. I had to find a stick and make a “shit kabob” out of the second deposit, and then walk very slowly and carefully for several blocks to make sure the kabob stayed in tact until I found a trash can.The positive: at least the second time was in a well-lit area so I could easily collect it all. Riley doesn’t crap in a pile. He spins around in circles leaving behind anywhere from 8-14 randomly scattered, shockingly small pellets. Usually, he does this in the shadows of a giant oak tree making it virtually impossible for me to find it all. I cannot tell you how many times I have returned home and found that the plastic bag is filled not with poo, but with acorns and clumps of dirt.
2. A one-hour meeting with the fake managers in my department (of which I am one), where any attempt to constructively talk about our actual work derailed quickly into talks of being over-worked and under-paid. This is not a rare occurrence, but for some reason it was more depressing today. I know we are supposed to be thankful that we have jobs at all. And I am. But part of me wishes that a company that is very profitable wanted to reward their employees, at least in some small way. It’s the same why I wish people with lots of money wanted to give more to pay for needed services. I don’t expect these things to actually happen, but sometimes thinking about it gets me down.The positive: the meeting meant I was away from my desk/computer for a full hour. And we were in the nice conference room with the squishy leather couches and the fireplace. And I drank a LOT of coffee.
3. Immediately after coming out of the meeting that left me feeling undervalued and unappreciated, I got a message on my cell phone saying I didn’t get the job that I had been interviewing for.The positive: On the message, the CEO said the choice came down to a couple people, and to make the decision he basically “threw a dart”. While darts is a fun game to play while drunk in a bar, I’m not sure it is a sign of confident leadership. In the end, I may have dodged a bullet by not getting this job.
4. I was forced to violate one of my most important project management rules- never launch a website on a Friday. This is the worst possible time to launch a site. The day is already the most hectic one of the week, people are tired and if something goes wrong that means you are working over the weekend to fix it. Today, we launched not one, but FIVE sites. It was crazy and bad and everything that could go wrong did. And I will be working to sort out some of the issues Saturday and Sunday.The positive: At the height of the chaos, I did an amazing imitation of New Biz Guy’s fake, schmoozy laugh. (yep, I’m really reaching on that one).
5. I signed up for my half marathon today. I signed G up too, because evidently I hate her. June 12th is the big day. Now I have to start running.The positive: I signed up for my half marathon today.

Herring, to be exact.

Riley has had very dry skin lately (who hasn’t?) and if his constant itching was getting on his nerves half as much as it was mine, it seemed necessary to try to do something to give him some relief. I went to the pet store a few weeks ago prepared to buy some kind of liquid supplement that I could put in his food, similar to what I had to give Nike when she went through her phase of licking off all of her fur (which is a pretty good story, but not one I can tell without having had several drinks, as the image of Nike’s hairless body scurrying around my old apartment still haunts me in my dreams).

Anyway, when I asked the sales associate what she recommended, she suggested changing his food to something with a different protein source (or something like that). I naturally balked at this, as experience tells me that changes in diet can have unpleasant digestive effects, but this still seemed like a better option than squirting some mystery substance over his kibble so I decided to take her advice. I had the option of choosing between a venison kibble and a herring kibble, and for reasons that I can’t quite explain, I went with the herring. Maybe it’s because one of the first movies I saw was Bambi, and I didn’t like the thought of Riley eating Bambi. Maybe it’s because the cat’s food is fish-based and somehow it seemed like a good idea to keep all animals eating similar foods. Whatever the reason, I bought it. Riley’s been eating it for about 3 weeks now, and at first there were no noticeable changes. But now…

Now… he stinks. I mean, really, really stinks. His whole head smells like a tuna can that has been sitting out in the sun. Every time he walks into the room his odor hits me like a slap across the face. And I think he is aware of it too. He looks ashamed. Not that I think he cares about the smell. He is, after all, often found sleeping with his nose up his own butt. But I think he is embarrassed that everyone knows he is on a seafood diet. I mean, it’s not very manly. Or dogly. Kinda makes him a pussy. And kinda makes me an idiot for giving it to him in the first pace.

Skin problems be damned. Tomorrow morning, as soon as the store opens, I’m gonna get him a big sack of BEEF kibble.

And then I am going to wash him with strawberry scented shampoo. I don’t want him to be too secure in his masculinity, after all.

Monday’s that start horribly are the best, aren’t they? This morning my routine trip to the coffee shop turned into a nightmare. A nightmare, I tell you. First, it snowed, which would be fine if I lived in Antarctica, but I don’t. I live in Portland, and it’s the end of March, and this is unacceptable. I don’t like walking in the snow, and Riley doesn’t either, as indicated by his angry, squinty eyes and nonsensical walking patterns (one must avoid getting water/snow on one’s paws, after all). But, we persevered because caffeine is important to me and getting a milk bone at the coffee shop is important to Riley.

And then, as if snow on March 31st wasn’t enough, the unthinkable happened. Well, first the routine happened. That routine being Riley’s elaborate bowel movement. But then (and I can barely even type this because even though it happened almost 8 hours ago it is still very upsetting), I was reaching in my back pocket to get a poo bag and trying to keep Riley from lunging toward the dogs playing in the park across the street and my hands were frozen and I guess I was a little distracted by the blinding snowstorm and the next thing I knew my coffee mug had slipped from my hand. And fell. To the ground. As in, the coffee was no longer in my mug, but rather, all over the sidewalk in front of me.

Then, the final insult… while I was preoccupied with 1) cussing out loud while a little old lady watched from her living room window, and 2) inspecting the dents in my stainless steel mug, Riley started lapping up the coffee as it ran into the street, which means that not only did Riley get to drink my coffee instead of me, but tomorrow morning, when I again find myself trying to scoop up Riley’s crap while holding a coffee mug and possibly enduring another blizzard, said crap will be (and I know this from Riley’s previous coffee drinking escapades) runny and disgusting and not at all conducive to clean up via tiny plastic bag.

I decided on Sunday to do a little clean-up/organizational work in my office. I’m not sure what prompted this. Maybe it was the two-foot tower of papers stacked precariously on a wobbly table that one of the cats kept knocking over. Or perhaps it was when I moved a pile of unpaid bills and uncovered a dried cat puke stalagmite beneath the printer shelf. Who knows why inspiration strikes?

Anyway, there were many reasons why the office needed some attention, and I mention the cat-related ones not because I am trying to blame them for a messy work space, but because one of the cats, Nike (also known as Shit Butt and Princess of Darkness), thrives in bleak, dungeon-like clutter. This is evidenced by the fact that she rarely ventures upstairs to the light of the day, preferring instead to live out her days in the cold, dark basement, never feeling the warmth of sun on her skin, never experiencing the joys of human companionship, such as affection and tuna-flavored treats. This behavioral pattern should have served as a clue that Nike might not appreciate the improvements I was making to the office. That and the fact that cats, in general, abhor change of any kind.

I set about doing basic cleaning and organizing, with much help from Diane, who is able to focus on tasks like these, whereas my attention span can be derailed if I happen to notice a single particle of dust floating through the air. When the office was sufficiently decluttered, we decided to take things a step further and remove and rearrange some furniture. We took out a small love seat and replaced it with a file cabinet. We moved the bookcase into the spare room in order to create space for the kegerator, which obviously should be within arms reach at all times during the workday. When we finished, I felt the office was not only more conducive to work, but was aesthetically pleasing as well. I did take note of the fact that Nike was a little agitated as I went upstairs for the night but since she had never been known for her sparkling personality I didn’t think much of it.

The next morning I came down to the office, a fresh cup of coffee in my hand, prepared to start a new day in my gloriously pristine office. I sat down and immediately noticed an unpleasant stench in the air, which led my eyes to a giant, steaming pile of crap under my desk. I then turned toward Nike, who was sitting a few feet away, staring at me and swishing her tail angrily, as if to say, “yes, I shit on you and your redecorating. And if you continue to tamper with my dwelling, I will not hesitate to shit again.”

Experience tells me Nike is not kidding around, so I will hold off on the vintage Guinness poster I had planned to hang on the wall for fear it would unsatisfactorily brighten up Nike’s life.

The series of dogs who are choosing to summer at Casa de Riley continues, and thus Nanette the Chihuahua Wonder has been staying with us for the past 2 weeks. Perhaps you remember her previous visit.

Riley and Nanette have been getting along swimmingly. They have been playing together more than they have in the past, and Nanette is humping him less (although she has repeatedly been found chewing off tufts of Riley’s fur, which I am guessing Riley is not thrilled about as an alternative to the humping).

During Nanette’s stay with us, though, we have been working on a special project, which has left Riley feeling a little jealous. He is quite used to being the center of attention, the star of the show. So imagine how sidelined he has felt during the production of this:

I think Riley officially has more friends than I do.

My aunt recently got an 8-month-old blue heeler mix named Finnian and he stayed with us for a few days last week. (Actually, his name is no longer Finnian. I decided that Finn was too close to the name of my mom’s dog (Flint), so while he was in my care I decided to change his name to Sullivan. My aunt was surprisingly open to this, but had gotten used to calling him Finn, so now his full name is Finnian O’Sullivan, which basically means everybody can pretty much call him whatever they want. For the remainder of this post, I will refer to him as Sully.) Anyway, within minutes of Sully’s arrival, he and Riley were playing a friendly little game in the backyard, as seen in the following picture:

Ok, so it may appear to be a bit vicious to us ignorant humans, but the boys had a blast.

And in case anyone is keeping track, yes, Sully was able to dominate Riley right from the start. Riley did, though, show some distinct (albeit fleeting) signs of standing up for himself. When Sully was relentlessly pouncing on him, there were a few rare occasions when Riley actually showed his teeth, and once he made a sound that may have been a very quiet, very brief (and, sad to say, not at all intimidating) growl. My little boy is growing some cojones. Muy pequeño cojones, but cojones nonetheless.

And even though Sully constantly tried to eat Riley’s food, and was often seen taking a bone or a toy right out of Riley’s mouth, they still spent much of their time together lying side by side. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, which is great because my aunt and I are heavily relying on each other this summer in terms of dog sitting services, and wouldn’t it be sad if Riley and Sully hated each others stinkin’ guts?

While we were off gallivanting in Italy, Riley spent two weeks at my aunt’s house, an experience we are now referring to as “Doggie Summer Camp 2007.” The following is a sampling of some of the events that occurred in our absence:

1. Riley fell into the fish pond

Now, this one is mildly amusing because Riley HATES water. I have seen him circle the pond before, and have yelled at him to get away, told him the rocks are slippery and he might lose his footing. Now, obviously the specifics of my warning were far beyond his understanding, but certainly he knows that when I tell him to come, he should do it. And he never really did it when he was by the fish pond, so it serves him right that he took a dive. My aunt ran out to help him, but by the time she got there he had already scampered out and was shaking the fishy, sludgy water off of his coat, the smell of which, I am imagining, was far from pleasant. Lesson learned? I doubt it.

2. Riley ate an entire dish of foil wrapped chocolates

And so, chocolate being poisonous to dogs, my aunt called the vet to inquire about whether or not he would need to be brought in to have his stomach pumped (it has been over a year since the last time Riley had his stomach pumped, so perhaps he was thinking he was due). The answer, thankfully, was no, he didn’t need to be brought in unless he started vomiting or if there was some reason to believe that the chocolate was not passing safely through his system. My aunt went into the backyard later that day and saw Riley’s poo glistening in the distance, the glint of aluminum catching the afternoon sun, so she knew all was well.

3. Riley ate a fake rubber tart

Because maybe, after having developed a taste for chocolate, he thought this was a tasty dessert as well. The larger question is, why does my aunt have rubber tarts on display in her house?

4. Riley insisted on sleeping on the couch and/or bed

No surprise here. My aunt figured keeping him away from the couches was a losing battle so she threw a blanket down on one of them and told him he could sleep there. He did sleep on the couch, but not the one with the blanket on it. And then at 7am he went and tapped on her bedroom door until she let him in and allowed him on her bed. I don’t know where he learned such terrible manners.

5. Riley redecorated the house

Assorted delicate items were carefully removed from tables and brought, unharmed, into other rooms, where, apparently, they looked better.

6. Riley befriended a post-surgery dachshund

Dachshunds who have been run over by cars are in for long, long recoveries. It’s good then, that they encounter dogs like Riley. When cautiously approached by the dachshund, who had visible stitches down the length of his shaved back, Riley evidently flattened himself on the ground and gingerly nosed the dachshund, being very careful not to hurt or scare this already skittish animal. This is the reason that Riley consistently gets away with all of the other items on this list, and then some.

I’d like to give a shout out to the folks at Woodstock Veterinary Clinic. Riley got into a little trouble last weekend and landed himself at Dove Lewis Emergency Animal Clinic. He ate a poisonous flower bulb and after a bout of frothy vomit, we took him in to get checked out. The vet at Dove Lewis was awesome (as always) and Riley was sent on his way with instructions to take it easy (easier than lounging around all day in my bed?) and eat bland food for a few days (more bland than the dry, flavorless kibble he normally eats??). What I hadn’t realized was that Dove Lewis called Riley’s regular vet, Woodstock Vet Clinic, and told them what had happened. Imagine my surprise when I received a phone call from Woodstock a few days later asking how Riley was doing.

Now, this is surprisingly excellent customer service, but it caught me off guard for another reason as well. Riley got off to a shaky start with Woodstock Vet Clinic. I took him there 2 days after I got him from the Humane Society for the free check up that they offer dogs who are adopted from shelters. Well, it would have been free, but they ended up running fecal tests because Riley so generously gave them a sample. Which brings me to the shaky start.

Riley has a, how shall I put this, “interesting” routine when he goes to the bathroom. He doesn’t just squat and crap like a normal dog. He likes to put on a show. And his idea of a show consists of spinning in frantic circles for the entire duration of the bowel movement, a motion which causes his crap to shoot out in all directions, leaving behind a circular arrangement of individual turds. This move is immediately followed by anywhere from 5-25 “kick backs” (wiping his paws by kicking his hind legs back behind him, which usually results in clumps of dirt and grass, and on some occasions, crap, being flung at anything within a 5 foot radius).

This routine was discovered the first time I walked Riley, but I had hoped it was a fluke. It became a confirmed pattern that day at the vet. And, I also learned that day that going to the vet makes Riley a little nervous, and shaky nerves = an upset stomach, and an upset stomach = explosive diarrhea. So there we are in the exam room, meeting the staff and the vet for the first time, and Riley starts in with the spinning. I’ll avoid excessive descriptions at this point, as I’m sure you can imagine the outcome, but I am not kidding when I say everyone in the room had to jump out of the way to avoid the spray that Riley left behind. It was 5:30pm, the end of the day for the clinic, and I’m sure everyone just wanted to go home and eat dinner. But instead, Riley and I were led off to a clean room, while a vet tech was left behind to clean up the mess.

I understandably got the cold shoulder from the staff the rest of the appointment, and even the appointment after that when I took him in to get fixed. But they have all been really nice the last few times I have brought Riley in, and their phone call the other day lets me know that we have officially been forgiven, and I thank them for that.

Meanwhile, Riley has realized that he has access to much larger, more public stages than the small exam rooms at Woodstock Vet Clinic. Since that fateful day back in September 2005, Riley has demonstrated his patented maneuver in front the recliners that face the wall of windows at Papaccinos on Woodstock Blvd, in the middle of the soccer field at Cleveland High School, minutes before a game was to get underway (meaning the flood lights were illuminating the field and the bleachers were filled with fans), and repeatedly at Reed College, where he prefers to go on a small patch of grass in the middle of campus that I now lovingly refer to as the “Triangle of Poo.”

It can only mean one thing- allergy season!

So, what does one do during this 4-5 month stretch of misery? If you’re a human, and you have health insurance, you try out one allergy medication after another until you find one that reduces your symptoms and returns your life to a (relatively) productive mode.

If you’re a dog, you continue sticking your head in bushes, sniffing tall grass and romping in flowery fields.

And if you’re Riley, you then rub your dry, irritated eyes with your dirty paws and give yourself a bacterial infection. Then you go to the vet, and wonder why you are getting a thermometer shoved up your butt and Q-tips stuck in your eyes, all the while feeling very betrayed because as far as you knew when you left the house you were going on your regular walk through the neighborhood and how could they trick you like this, whine, whine, whine.

So, per the vet’s instructions, Riley now has ointment that needs to be applied to his eyes a couple times a day, and is on benedryl in an effort to keep his hay fever at bay. And in seemingly unrelated news, he has to lose 5lbs.

But how, I ask you, can Riley be expected to lose weight when the only way he will eat his twice-daily pill is if it’s encased in peanut butter? I tried to give him the pill straight, and he spit it across the room. Kind of like he does with the 3 calorie Charlee Bears I try to give him every once in a while instead of the high fat treats he prefers. No wonder he is pudgy!

And should I really be taking him for extra long runs (well, walks) and exposing him to the inordinately high pollen count, given his condition? I thought about teaching him to use the treadmill, but I fear he doesn’t have the attention span for that. He’s likely to get distracted and forget to walk, which would send him flying backwards into the wall. And the treadmill is downstairs in the cats’ room, meaning they would witness his embarrassing dismount and lose any respect they have for him (and believe me, there’s not much to lose).

I suppose the only thing to do is cut the amount of dry food I feed him, and suffer the dejected looks he gives me when he sees so few kibbles fall into his dish. And while I’m at it, I think I’ll cut my food intake as well. I could certainly stand to lose 5lbs myself, and misery loves company.