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grrgoylThe poll results are in: And the good news is, of the people who took my poll (and thank you, BTW), most of you possess more than enough common sense to handle the challenges of a kennel assistant. With the exception of ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kavieshana, who apparently is so hopelessly inept that she'd probably end up locking herself out of the hospital with the dogs running loose inside, forming an Orwellian co-op and forcing the cats to do their laundry. (For anyone wondering, the first question about the large or small bowls has been hotly debated. One argument is that a smaller bowl will create less mess when overturned. My (and Tery's) standpoint is a larger bowl will be heavier and harder to overturn, and at the very least will give the dog a better chance at hydration before it is eventually overturned. And besides, spilled water doesn't create that objectionable a mess in either case.)
My weekend at the hospital: Was not terribly noteworthy, except I am perpetually puzzled when I come back Saturday to discover dogs that gave me no trouble at all now have a "Will Bite" sticker on their cage. Particularly in the case of Baby, a diminutive poodle something-or-other mix who runs to the front of her cage and rolls over for a belly rub upon seeing me (she also has one ear that sticks straight up while the other flops down, a recipe for utter cuteness). Evidently Baby will bite, though not me. Same goes for Beowulf, my favorite German shepherd. Everyone else is a little fearful of him, so there was much cause for amazement when I wrote on his report card "Gives nice kisses" (he does!) I don't get it. For someone like myself who generally can't stand dogs, I'm bowled over at how much they seem to like me. Tery says they sense my take-no-shit attitude and respect me accordingly. Just call me the Cesar "Dog Whisperer" Millan of South Sheridan Road.
Our Caribbean getaway: Is still lacking a hammock, one might say the critical component. So for now it's just a shady, flowery getaway, or as I like to call it, the Veranda.
Tery and the cats enjoy it (though not simultaneously)
Little White Boy enjoys it, and therein lies the problem
Tery called me at the hospital to tell me she left little Duncan unattended for about 20 minutes out there, during which time he had dug out most of the freshly potted flowers from the left box (typical ferret behavior) and had carefully dragged them over and placed them into the right box (fairly unferretlike behavior). He just wanted to try his hand at gardening. Actually I don't know why it surprises me: he'll spend hours moving his bottle top collection from one spot to another, a great activity that keeps him quietly busy and tires him out simultaneously. Tery should be so organized. Duncan is the Martha Stewart of the animal kingdom.
Speaking of organizing, today I tackle my closet and the loft, which has become an impassable dumping ground in an amazingly short period of time since moving the computer downstairs. I'm off.
kavieshana, who apparently is so hopelessly inept that she'd probably end up locking herself out of the hospital with the dogs running loose inside, forming an Orwellian co-op and forcing the cats to do their laundry. (For anyone wondering, the first question about the large or small bowls has been hotly debated. One argument is that a smaller bowl will create less mess when overturned. My (and Tery's) standpoint is a larger bowl will be heavier and harder to overturn, and at the very least will give the dog a better chance at hydration before it is eventually overturned. And besides, spilled water doesn't create that objectionable a mess in either case.) My weekend at the hospital: Was not terribly noteworthy, except I am perpetually puzzled when I come back Saturday to discover dogs that gave me no trouble at all now have a "Will Bite" sticker on their cage. Particularly in the case of Baby, a diminutive poodle something-or-other mix who runs to the front of her cage and rolls over for a belly rub upon seeing me (she also has one ear that sticks straight up while the other flops down, a recipe for utter cuteness). Evidently Baby will bite, though not me. Same goes for Beowulf, my favorite German shepherd. Everyone else is a little fearful of him, so there was much cause for amazement when I wrote on his report card "Gives nice kisses" (he does!) I don't get it. For someone like myself who generally can't stand dogs, I'm bowled over at how much they seem to like me. Tery says they sense my take-no-shit attitude and respect me accordingly. Just call me the Cesar "Dog Whisperer" Millan of South Sheridan Road.
Our Caribbean getaway: Is still lacking a hammock, one might say the critical component. So for now it's just a shady, flowery getaway, or as I like to call it, the Veranda.
Tery and the cats enjoy it (though not simultaneously)
Little White Boy enjoys it, and therein lies the problem
Tery called me at the hospital to tell me she left little Duncan unattended for about 20 minutes out there, during which time he had dug out most of the freshly potted flowers from the left box (typical ferret behavior) and had carefully dragged them over and placed them into the right box (fairly unferretlike behavior). He just wanted to try his hand at gardening. Actually I don't know why it surprises me: he'll spend hours moving his bottle top collection from one spot to another, a great activity that keeps him quietly busy and tires him out simultaneously. Tery should be so organized. Duncan is the Martha Stewart of the animal kingdom.
Speaking of organizing, today I tackle my closet and the loft, which has become an impassable dumping ground in an amazingly short period of time since moving the computer downstairs. I'm off.
