Happiness is a stick of your own.

Jonathan and I babysat the lovely Daisy over the weekend, which left us thinking about getting another dog. Comet would be less lonely, and having a dog each is fun when we go out. However, we thought, the Boston Terrier is the best dog for our lifestyle, and we could not possibly improve on that. To be as good as a Boston, the other dog would have to be short-haired, same size or smaller (because the jobbies are big enough as they are), happy in an apartment without a yard, and quiet. Moreover, to use the litterbox like Comet, it would have to be female (as males raise the leg).

The next morning, my production manager happened to mention that her friend is trying to give away a female chihuahua. This sounded like it fit all the criteria, so Jonathan and I debated it at length. Maybe it’s a sign that we’re ready. We’d be doing it for Comet, but we don’t know how she’d react. We couldn’t take a chihuahua camping. Eventually we got tired and stopped, having resolved nothing.

And then I got another e-mail from Annie. “Oops, it’s a chinchilla, not a chihuahua”.

Just goes to show (again). Ignore the problem long enough and it goes away.

This evening, I was sitting at my computer and Comet was eating, when all of a sudden she starting making a very laboured breathing noise, her chest heaving as she struggled to breathe. Then all noise stopped as I saw her trying to vomit without success. She was choking!

I wonder if this works on dogs, I thought, and lifted her onto her hind legs, put my arms around her and jerked my joined hands upwards into her thoracic cavity, feeling a little stupid. A few attempts later though, the morsel jumped out of her throat and she swallowed it instantly, looking at me as if to wonder what the big deal was.

Then I thought, okay, that was lucky, but what was I really supposed to do? Well, it turns out that doggie Heimlich actually does exist and is exactly what you’re supposed to do when your dog is choking.

Lucky guess!

Comet has taken to licking the couch. Any and every couch. I don’t know why.

I’m thinking about entering her into an audition for a doggie clothing catalog. Because let’s face it, when it comes to Boston Terriers, she’s Evangeline frikkin Lilly.

This weekend, I described this blog as “basically me, but without the life” because most of the interesting, most blogworthy stuff is unbloggable. It usually either falls under too personal or too NDA-risky. And sure enough, in an incredibly eventful weekend, the only bloggable event is a little misadventure that befell a Boston terrier. So here goes.

Martine and Ed graciously invited me over for Sunday-evening barbecue, and having neglected Comet for most of the weekend I decided to bring her along. She’d get to go on her very first subway ride and spend the evening relaxing at a suburban backyard barbecue.

I walked her to Berri metro station on a leash, then struggled to stuff her into a doggie cage for the subway ride, under the amused eyes of the local squeegies. Just as I was passing the turnstile into the station, the handle on the cage gave, the cage loudly hit the ground, the cage door opened and Comet flew out into the station like a bullet. My heart fell as I watched her scurry away, fully aware she could go down to any of the many platforms.

Luckily, two metro cops started after her and one of them quickly grabbed her by the skin of her back. He brought her back to me, sweetly stroking Comet, who looked absolutely terrified. The poor things’s ears were all the way back onto her head, I’ve never seen her look so subdued. It took the two metro cops and a ticket counter employee to get her back into the cage.

Needless to say, we got a car ride on the way home.

When you live with someone, you often develop little quirky cohabitation habits that only the two of you know about. I have one of those with Comet.

See, when she stands on her hind legs, she often farts audibly. And now I’m so used to this, that I know when she’s up to no good, like trying to reach my peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the counter.

When all else is quiet in the house, you may hear a pinched little “brrrrap”, followed by a “Hey! what are you doing!?”

It’s just one of those little things.

This is just a little plug for a nice discovery I made about a month ago: café Le Réveil du Maître. It’s a lovely café that admits dogs. You can enjoy a relaxed, sunny atmosphere and have coffee and muffins, while your pet runs around freely playing with friends.

I like the fact that it feels like a real café, instead of just a pet store with tables and chairs. Located in the Mile-End, it’s a nice 45-minute walk up St-Denis and St-Laurent from our place, but Comet and I made the journey twice this weekend. According to their site, their only publicity is word-of-mouth, so I’m adding this little blurb to it.

Like it’s ever any other year.

get into…

the sour cream.

And quite frankly, I resent the accusation.

A dog’s IQ is inversely related to the number of times you can pretend to throw the ball, and have her fall for it and run all the way down the hall before realizing she’s been duped. Again.