My Great Danes do not, in fact, eat babies

As evidentiary offers of proof, please see Exhibits A and B, below.

I have a little feature that lets me see what keywords people type in to get to this blog, which is more often than not pretty amusing. My favorite entry comes from someone who is clearly thinking of getting a Great Dane but has small children and/or infants, or is possibly pregnant: "do Great Danes eat babies?" I would say that if you are worried a 160-pound dog will eat your babies you might be better off getting a cat.

As you can see here, the eating of children and babies is highly discouraged in this house:

Milo and Austin (Exhibit A)

Mitchell and Charley (Exhibit B)

Although Charley is not a Great Dane, he is at least as big as a five-year-old and can be particularly fractious on occasion.

Some of my favorite keyword entries that have directed people to the site:

• Great Dane eats owner;
• Bad things about Great Danes;
• Great Dane eats rocks [yes, I am well aware];
• Why does my Ridgeback puppy eat rocks [believe me, I wish I knew]; and
• Dog ate crazy silkie chicken stuffed animal [not just a normal chicken stuffed animal, but a "crazy" one].

And then there was this poor person who was probably looking for Red Hot Chili Peppers song lyrics:

• Thoity Doity Boids.

I do feel a little bit bad about that one.

Bye bye, pretty girl

Coco
June 8, 2009 - January 20, 2010
Such a good little girl

Someone is in denial

So apparently this is how Mike goes about not liking the chickens.* It has become abundantly evident to me this week that Coco is somewhat in love with Mike. On the days that he has been home, she eats like a small horse, winks and flirts a little, and tries unsuccessfully to fly out of her pen and into what she believes are his waiting arms (which doesn't actually work because she is so weak. And because his arms are not, in fact, waiting). On the days when he is at work, she pouts.

This seems to be the way of the world. The one who takes care of the animals gets crapped on (literally) and the one who couldn't care less is the one upon whom they bestow their unwavering love. Has anyone else noticed this?!?

Coco is still living in her pen in the guest room.** She'll probably be there for the duration of the winter, so if you want to come visit you may have to learn the love the poultry.

*Mike still firmly asserting that he does not like the chickens, and I do actually believe him.

**Forgive me this little rant, but please don't leave comments telling me that I am crazy for keeping a chicken in the house. Contrary to what some seem to believe, I am not a complete idiot and do practice sanitary and hygienic methods when dealing with Coco. And also, there is no other alternative. And in my own passive aggressive manner, I will delete those comments because they make me feel bad.

Um, I may have a bit of a problem

Coco, my very favorite and lovingest chicken, is temporarily an indoor bird. She has what we suspect is hepatitis, but a visit to Colorado State University College of Veterinary Medicine will either confirm or deny that tomorrow.

Because she needs to be isolated from the other birds, I am a little overjoyed that she has become a house-chicken. I am simultaneously a little worried that Mike is going to move to a hotel until I put her back in the coop. Alas, trade-offs.

Up until yesterday, Coco had the run of the guest room (sorry Cara - I know how you feel about animals in your room). So I decided that to cut down on the mess I would sew her a diaper. But I'm not calling it a diaper. It's her "backpack." I mean, how embarrassing to be a teenager in a diaper.

But I digress. I spent about an hour making it. A pattern-maker I am not. This thing is contrapted to within an inch of its life. When I showed Mike, he said, "I would have just set up a dog crate for her." Well duh. Why didn't I think of that? Probably because I don't work for a government think tank.

At any rate, the backpack has been retired and Coco seems pretty happy in her enormous Great Dane-sized crate.

Not even surprised

This post is probably going to pop up on Google for those people typing in search terms such as “dog ate chocolate,” “chocolate poisoning in dogs” and “oh my god why is my dog trying to kill himself by eating chocolate?”

Ivy and Milo recently ate a 5-pound batch of brownies. I'm not kidding - it was at least 5 pounds of German chocolate cake mix, 60 caramels, a can of condensed milk, an entire bag of chocolate chips, and a bag of coconut in an already-heavy glass pan. Actually, it was about as heavy as a large chicken, so maybe 8 pounds.

I would have taken a picture, but my mind was racing trying to figure out the best way to sweep up the tiny slivers of glass from the pan while simultaneously figuring out the mathematical equation for how much hydrogen peroxide to give a 160-pound-dog.

Trust me, I understand the perils of dogs ingesting chocolate. Which would explain the copious amounts of hydrogen peroxide we were pouring down their throats. One would think that by storing the brownies in the microwave that rests way above the stove, dogs would not be able to access said brownies. Wrong. Evidently these particular dogs have opposable thumbs.

It all worked out in the end, but I would highly recommend storing chocolate comestibles way out of the reach of 6-foot-tall dogs. Maybe try suspending them a few inches from the ceiling surrounded by elaborate booby traps. I'll let you know what I come up with.