Sonic Egg Saves Romeo

We are now a *mostly* barkless household thanks to a slippery gray egg that emits some horrendous sound that only dogs can hear. It sends Romeo skittering away faster than you can say Yabba Dabba Doo! My life is complete. Worth every penny of the $40 we spent at PetSmart. Which, on a side note, is the most genius name for a store. It's a mart for pets but it's also being smart about your pets. Nguyening!

The only catch with this Sonic Egg is that it doesn't seem to bother the dogs when THEY bark. Only when WE bark. Yes. I have to physically hold the egg like a little lantern, say "BARK!" into it, and then Romeo immediately stops in his tracks and scampers away. Tofu runs upstairs and hides under our bed. And Coco stands down. She seems the least affected by it, but without the support of the others to stir the frenzy, she loses interest and wanders away nonchalantly like she really wasn't planning to bark that much anyway.

Whatever.

I will gladly greet guests at the door like a crazy homeless adult trick or treater if it means my guests will actually be able to enjoy themselves without having to undergo 5 minutes of bark immersion from 2 ankle high idiots and their knee high ringleader.

From reading the reviews on the Sonic Egg, I wonder if we got one that is under-sensitive because some reviewers say their eggs are set off by any loud noise, even coughing or sneezing. I may try to exchange ours to see if we get one that is actually triggered by the dogs.

And despite the mixed reviews on the remote controlled Sonic Egg, I'm going to give that a try too. A small handheld would be more attractive than this.

But the bottom line is, the Egg WORKS. Not the shock collar. Not the other ultrasonic brands. Not the water sprayed to the face. The Sonic Egg. Even if I have to be the one barking into it. 

Romeo Must Die

Is not the name of a movie in my household. It is a mantra. The min pin is a stark raving barking lunatic. If I'm upstairs with Dessy and Emmy "going to San Francisco" in Emmy's room via pillow bus driven by Mr. Moosey, he is downstairs barking his fool head off at every leaf and tumbleweed that crosses into view. Which happens about every 25 seconds. 

Then I have to run downstairs, shoo him out of the living room, and tell him to SHUT THE HELL UP OR I WILL SHUT HIM UP. By the time my foot touches the top step, he is on the couch again, barking like I did not just threaten his life and/or kick him in the stomach.

It was annoying before, but now with two kids, two stories, and too many gray hairs, I need Romeo like I need a tumor on my left testicle. And since we already cut his off, the next logical step is to invest in a shock collar. OK PETA, stop. I returned it. It worked well enough but we would need to buy two more for Tofu and Coco, and because their scrawny chihuahua necks are ringed with such thick fur, we'd have to shave them and strap on these giant collars and turn them on and off and it just seemed like too much hassle for too little benefit. Now I'm regretting that decision. I want to strap on a full body shock suit with electrodes attached to his miniature skull so that the second his pea sized brain even so much as flickers the first thought of a bark, the suit freezes him and locks his jaws shut. Has someone pitched that yet on Shark Tank? Let me be the first investor.

The dog is a nutjob and it's contagious. As The Good Doctor put it, on a scale of 1 to 100 for enjoyment, where 100 means they are our best friends and loving and entertaining and worth every collective piece of dook that we've picked up over the past 9 years, and 1 means they are sucking the life out of living, he gives them an 8 out of 100. He does not enjoy these dook makers. 

I think that's a little dramatic. They all have their moments of redemption. Mostly when they are curled up and cute and sleeping in the sun. Silently. I give Tofu an 81, Coco a 56, and Romeo a 43. OK, 47.

With that said, we bought a "Sonic Egg." When they bark it's supposed to send out soundwaves that only they can hear. We asked if it has a "Make their ears bleed" mode. It does not. Which is probably a good thing, because with the way things work in my house, Romeo would bark through the bleeding. Meaning that in addition to giving him twice daily insulin shots, brushing his teeth, applying cortisone spray, and putting ointment in his dry eyes, I would have to clean blood spatters off the living room floor too.

We will see if this was $40 well spent. If not, and you see a diabetic min pin wandering around the South Bay, he answers to Romeo. Or cheese.

Sick Dog

It's getting ridiculous. Romeo, do you know that in some countries they would just make some meat and noodle stir fry dish and call it a day?

Poor little dog. Last week his eyes starting to crust up with some really nasty yellow mucky sleep-on-steroids substance. The vet confirmed his eyes have become really dry and they don't make any tears. So this pus is now crusting over his little brown eyes and we are on a treatment plan that involves antibiotic eye drops 4 times a day.

In between giving him those drops, we also have to give him artificial tear drops to keep his eyes moist. And we also ordered a special prescription ointment to smear directly onto his eyeballs twice a day.

And don't forget--Romeo's diabetes still require two daily insulin injections. So much fun!!!

Basically, anytime you see that dog walk by, grab him. He needs some sort of medical intervention in the form of a shot, dropper, or ointment tube. 

And whenever he seems to be sleeping too long, we poke him to make sure he's still breathing. Dogs love that.

If you know of a good in-home care nurse, we could use a referral. Tofu is really bad with the needles. 

Drugging My Dogs

Sure enough, turn a camera on the dog and he acts like a perfect angel. Trust me people, he is not even close to being this good on a regular basis. He is the devil. 

Caution: if you are needle phobic, don't watch the section from 1:47 to 1:55.

Now we have to videotape him twice a day so he will stay calm and carry on. Proof that people, and dogs, do act differently when they're being watched.

Romeo Die Uh BEE Tus

Die being the key word in that phrase.

Saturday 11:45PM: Lap lap lap lap lap. Lap lap lap lap lap. Lap lap lap lap lap. Lap lap lap lap lap. Lap...lap...lap.

Saturday 11:50PM: Scratch bam scratch bam scratch bam. SCRATCH BAM SCRATCH BAM SCRATCH BAM. This soundtrack repeats 3 times until I wake up. Romeo is at our bedroom door, scratching the bejesus out of it so that some human with opposable thumbs will shuffle over and open the door, then follow his skittering paws around the corner, unlock the sliding door, flip on the back light, and wait 30 seconds for him to find a spot to pee, 90 seconds for him to pee, and 20 seconds for him to run back inside. Followed by human, turning off backyard light, shuffling back to the room, refilling the water bowl, and tucking his sorry butt back into his bed. That human was The Good Doctor.

Sunday 1AM: Scratch bam scratch bam scratch bam. SCRATCH BAM SCRATCH BAM SCRATCH BAM. I get up. But on my shift, add in 4 extra minutes for Romeo to decide that, in addition to peeing, he has to poop because all that Science Diet W/D high fiber food is working its fine way through his 9 pound body like Carl Edwards in pole position. Keep in mind, every minute of interrupted sleep at 2AM should be multiplied by 5 for its actual effect on the body.

Sunday 2AM: The Good Doctor wakes up and says, "It's my turn." No pooping. His shift is uneventful.

Sunday 330AM: The unmistakable splashing sound pee makes when it comes out of a min pin and lands on the carpet in the middle of a bedroom. I sit straight up, Good Doctor startles, we both start snapping our fingers and saying, "Romeo no, NO ROMEO NO!" I'm out of bed, he flips on the nightstand lamp, I flip on the main light and hustle the dog out to the backyard before heading into the kitchen to retrieve some paper towels and the pet cleaner. 10 minutes later, back in bed. Again, the multiple of 5 should be applied at the 3AM hour.

Sunday 5AM: Rubbing sounds. Romeo is scratching his back on the bottom of our armoire. Rub. Rub. Rub. I let him out as a pre-emptive strike. He pees. It's the least action packed of my rude awakenings. 

This was the worst night since his diagnosis. And it was our fault. Earlier in the day, we left for 2 hours to run some errands and pick up supplies for Emmy's belated birthday party. The Good Doctor has never done this before, but he made the mistake of leaving his snack-filled man bag on a chair. A chair within reach of a diabetic min pin. 

We came back to an apocalyptic scene.

The bag was on the ground, dragged two yards from its original chair, contents emptied. It was like Romeo had an agenda to not only eat everything in his power, but to send a message that he is not appreciating the twice daily neck stabbings we're giving him.

The iPod was tossed out of its box, important papers and records were separated and stepped on, crumpled and spread apart like he used them to skate from one side of the dining room to the next. 

The wrapper of a Carrot Cake Clif Bar, ripped into 64 tiny pieces, strewn all over the floor in the dining room and family room. In the kitchen, a tiny bit of plastic wrap, clinging to the remains of a label that said "Ch Chi Coo." Crumbs from a banana bread slice under the bench. 

Somehow two chocolate foil wrapped Easter eggs and a Nature Valley granola bar were untouched. The diabetic coma probably kicked in before he could finish them off.

New house rule: man bags must be stowed in the closet.

P.S. If this post leaves you wondering why my husband keeps so many baked goods on his person, that makes two of us.