Hey feaster folks. Sorry we've been MIA for oh-so long. Big things have happened.
We drove in the pukemobile for two whole days and wound up in a whole new world. My territory now has frogs and turtles and fishies and lizards and other awesome creatures for me to scream at and weeble on. I guess you can call this a homecoming for Big Pupi and me... we're back in the Land of 1,000 Summers. Otherwise known as "Texas." We've been having crazy fun and even pulled mom into a lake for some quality swimming time. Awesome! I love family bonding.
While we made the trip just fine, the camera is no where to be found. Once we're settled and have our wits about us again we'll resume our usual posting schedule complete with full-color photographs of your favorite cocker-beasts. Please try to contain your excitement.
And the feast continues.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Hey feaster folks. Sorry we've been MIA for oh-so long. Big things have happened.
Friday, July 2, 2010
It's Big Pupi again:
My folks have had me for just about 5 years now, and in that time my mom has never ever heard me howl. She didn't believe dad when he told her that I burst into squealing song every time she takes Stanislaw out and leaves me home. The thing is, I will never howl as long as I know someone is home, and so the only times dad has ever heard me sing my secret melodies is when he's still in bed snoozeling and I can't see that he's home.
The requirements for a Secret Howl are rarely met, but on this particular early morning mom had to take Stan out for a second morning walk (he was having issues finding his poobles) and dad was still in bed. Convinced that I was alone, and without realizing that I was being filmed, I flexed the golden pipes and howled like a beast of frightening proportions.
My singing stuffy Elf, (whose proper name is Saint Elf de Apartment Next to Kitty Smell), gets me really revved up for a good howl. All that manly thrashing was caught on tape. The howling however... you can't see me do it, and so I'm letting you know now it wasn't me. There's no way that my testosterone-fueled voice can reach octaves that high. No way. Impossible. I think I've been framed.
My howl always has, and always will be, my secret howl.
Sorry mom. Better luck next time.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Big Pupi has ISSUES.
When the clock strikes 4:30 PM my brother and I begin begging for our 5:15 feasting. We are never late, nope. Not ever. It drives mom crazy!! We stare at her, silently screaming through body language. Every time she looks up at us, I lick my lips and step gingerly from the right paw to the left. This is a polite way of saying: FEED ME YOU USELESS HUMAN!!!!
This goes on for the better part of an hour, and will not end until we are fed. Staring makes humans feel all squirmy and uncomfortable. It's pretty awesome!
A few nights ago, during my begging, my mom noticed that I was the one looking uncomfortable for a change. I tried to hold my gaze but kept feeling the need to tend to my manliness. As a beast which normally has laser focus, this was a tip off that something was indeed very wrong, and it didn't take long for my mom to realize that I once again suffered from a case of Angry Weebelitis. Again!! Why??!!
I immediately fell into a depression. I knew where this was heading - straight to the Place of Tile and Steel where I will be poked in the most inappropriate of places and handled in the most inappropriate of ways. DANG WEEBLE! Why must he spend the entire summer giving me grief?!
Mom and my vet were concerned about putting me on another dose of oral or injected antibiotics since this problem seems to continue throughout all of the warm weather months. That makes for a LOT of medication and a majorly increased risk of breeding some sort of super bacteria in my manliness. This sounds rather unpleasant, and I happen to be a big fan of my weeble. I don't want to harm him.
So the vet gave my mom some tools to bring home. I got all excited, thinking for sure that Dr. lady had set my mom up with some super awesome stuffy tools for my construction endeavors, but NO. What she got was this:
Sure, it's seriously better than the torture element she was given last year, but c'mon. Is this a stinkin' JOKE? I don't come up with these sorts of things and use them on people? What the heck is wrong with you humans?!
Unlike last summer's dentist's-looking monster device (which would inspire me to get outright violent with mom [a first], and which was never again attempted after I made my thoughts on it clear), this new device hooks into a soft rubber tube with holes at the end.
The evil contraption gets shoved a few inches into my manliness! THE HORROR! Then the medicine gets flushed through and when it's all done I get to feast on some serious cheese. Actually... I have to be honest with you... it's not so bad, especially compared to its predecessor. As long as my medicine is warm I'll stand there Like Good Boy for the few seconds until it's over with, and so far it hasn't made my weeble fall off. I know this for certain because I spend much time checking on such important matters.
I haven't had one single hint of Angry Weebelitis since this process began. I guess this is a good thing. E. coli of the wee was never all that enjoyable.
Once it is all said and done I feel the need to protect my manliness, and so I sleep with my legs in crossed protection positioning. That stinkin' hose can't get in here!
While all this torture and cruelty is happening to me, Stanislaw is being all Lounge Boyish in his man cave and mocking me for my weeble disorder. Whatever. He's got a bad case of noodlebutt and he knows it.
After a traumatic event my singing stuffy elf always makes me feel better, and so I thrash the heck out of him and force him to sing "Jingle Bells" about 3,543 times over and over and over again. I do this just to make my mom go insane and to remind her that even though she's got that hose thing, I've got the power in this place.
Oh, and don't think this whole event is going to deter me from staring you down for my dinner, dearest mother. Heck no. In fact, I'm thinking of pushing my start time up to 4:15, so I can get a FULL HOUR of slightly unnerving staring in every single day. Yeah, that's right. For as long as that hose is in the picture there will be staring contests and singing stuffies. Deal with it.
From a disgruntled dog with a happy weeble,
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Just yesterday I was all busy snoozeling and being that sweet and angelic boy of innocence that you all know me to be...
...while my Stinkbutt Brother, the evil beast prone to the hatching of plans both evil and beastly, sat perched in his stuffy nest. And what is done in a nest, I ask? Things are HATCHED in a nest. Like evil plans, for example.
I should have known to stay away from Big Pupi when he began to separate his tool stuffies from the other stuffies (ones which lack all usefulness when it comes to building and construction).
Before I knew what was what I found myself donning my brother's latest creation: The Squirrel Vest.
He checked it for size and, upon realizing that he didn't know a Small from a Medium (let alone how to measure), declared the slightly-too-snug Squirrel Vest to be his best invention to date.
"It will keep you toasty in the frostiest of weather!" Big Pupi trumpeted before he clamored back in to his stuffy nest. "It'll fight a chill, battle fashion faux-pas and beat boredom! In fact, once I get my hands on a few REAL squirrels, this vest will offer private hunting lessons!"
Being the lovely-in-spirit, gentle-in-manner and sweet-in-temperament beast that you all know me to be, I decided to pose all nice-like for Big Pupi's fasion look book (available next March).
He then paid me in chewies. And by "paid" I mean that he didn't beat me up and take my chewie away within the first 10 seconds of my quality chew-time.
I do have to give my brother some credit... this squirrel vest does good things for the ol' figure. Just wait 'til you see my hiney in this!
P.S. - Big Pupi just got his 2010-11 Rabies titer result and once AGAIN his test came back as "protective"!! That means his last Rabies shot is STILL providing him with adequate immunity and there is no need to vaccinate. Actually, according to BP's vet, he's got a far GREATER ratio of antibodies than is required to "pass" the test.
BP hasn't received an actual Rabies vaccine injection since 2004, which means he's going into his 6th year of viable immunity from just ONE shot. Not too long ago my brother and I tested "protective" for our DHPP and avoided those vaccines as well. Mom wishes she could send Big Pupi's results to the Rabies Challenge Fund to help in their quest to reduce Rabies vaccination schedules to 5 and eventually 7-year increments. So far Big Pupi has proven that the 3-year vaccine (which is essentially the same as the 1-year) is viable for twice that time. Not too shabby.
In case you don't remember, my folks decided to stop vaccinating us through injection a few years ago because of a health scare. When Big Pupi received his last Rabies injection he developed a large lump at the injection site that grew hard and didn't move with his skin (movement would indicate a cyst and be less cause for worry). It lasted for over 2 years, and just as the vet was going to biopsy the lump to check for cancer the mass began to shrink. THREE YEARS after the original injection the lump went away.
Because of his history, our new vet doesn't want to vaccinate Big Pupi ever again for anything, and my folks couldn't agree more with this decision. As an added bonus, I also get to avoid any injected vaccines with good titer results. So... here's hoping for many more years of "protective" titer results and two healthy beasts!
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Hey feaster folks! I'm here today to tell you all about my mostest favoritest thing: feasting.
Last week, my people made another one of those fabulous trips to the meat packer and came home with backpacks filled with deliciousness for my bro and me (mostly for me). In between my excitable shrieks I heard them talking about a special dinner that was planned for us, and man-oh-man let me tell you... it was CRAZY TASTY.
We each got a fresh marrow bone and a few ounces of succulent beefiness attached to its side. NICE! I'll have mine rare, please. That green stuff on the side is some broccoli and carrot baby food with a digestive enzyme hidden below.
Because these feastings were what my mom calls "project meals," my stinkbutt bro and I were made to eat in our crates. When we get feastables that require a bit of work, we tend to toss the meats about and sometimes can get into a growling match with each other. I don't know why they have a problem with me tossing my marrow bones around the apartment. I personally don't mind it one bit.
I LOVE my project feasts so much, my tail never stops waggling and I purr. I must have gotten to an especially good part of this feast at the end of this video because I start cooing really loudly:
It didn't take very long for me to finish and give my mom begging eyes for my next course. Certainly this was the appetizer, no?Big Pupi wanted to take his newly nakedized bone out of his feasting cage and onto the sofa for some quality snugs. My folks put a stop to that right away. They're always party poopers.This is my handiwork:Nice job, right? Because my bro and I went on a long run earlier that day my people thought we could use the extra calories and fat of a whole marrow bone. (Normally we're only allowed to eat 1/2 in a day.) But this time around... they were right!! My body needed that extra feasting so badly that it held onto it for another 24 hours, and my hiney tooted with joy and celebrations. I made sure to let everyone know what I had for dinner by baking air biscuits in the elevator and forcing people to abandon the ride early and take the stairs. They were probably running to get their own feasting marrow!! They can thank me for the dinner idea - and the extra exercise - some other time.
A few days after my feasting adventure my humans took my brother and me on a hiking adventure. SO FUN! It was a perfect day to drag dad around by his waist leash for a 7-mile bird-hunt through the woods.
I trudged ahead like the wild beast hunter extraordinaire that I am.
My brother is more of a gentle soul and observer of flora and fauna. (I prefer to eat flora and sometimes the fecal leavings of fauna - whatever "fauna" may be.)
We got super crazy muddy jumping into rivers and kicking up dusty trail dirt all over our bellies and legs. AWESOME! I enjoy a little grit between my toes. Everyone knows that hiking is all about getting filthy, testing the home cooking of the local wildlife while your people aren't looking, leaping head first into algae-coated water, and bringing about 10 ticks home on your ears.
I guess that last bit wasn't very much appreciated by my people because Big Pupi and I wound up getting a scrub down, having full body checks and getting our ear furs shaved down to nothing so those nasty little buggers could be plucked from our tasty meat-feasted bodies. Mom says we have pancake heads now, and I'd agree in BP's case~
~but nothing can take away from all the handsome on this face.
In the life of a beast there's nothing quite like an awesome feast to fuel an afternoon hunting in the woods. Yes. Yes, indeed.
Your good-looking, sweet-smelling, tick-free friend in feasting,
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Clover stuffy deserved it.
He'll never mock me again in front of his stuffy friends.
I sure showed him who's boss. (Normally it's mom. But this time it was me.)
I knocked the stuffing right out of him.
Then stretched his guts to make a point.
Point being: You don't mess with a Stanislaw
Word out to my homies from the snuggle ball.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Big Pupi isn't pleased:
You may have noticed that I have been blessed with devilishly handsome freckles. For this reason, mom calls me her "Irish Son" (making my pierogie-loving brother her "Polish Son"). Despite my clover-bearing heritage and the fact that I happen to look smashing in green, St. Patrick's Day is not a lucky one for me. Why, you might ask?
St. Paddy's makes my weeble angry.
The first time I found myself being horrendously violated by my doctor for an infection of my manliness was on this same Irish holiday one year ago. And this year, on the day us Irish folk should be drinking from green water bowls and getting kisses, I was back at the vet with another bout of Angry Weeble-itis.
If you remember, I have a "condition" which makes my manhood a little exaggerated for a beast of my proportions. When you add this to my amazing flexibility (I can hike a hinder up perpendicular to the ground when marking my territory), it makes for some weeble-flopping-on-stuff action. I pick up some nice bacteria doing this, and it always hits as soon as the weather warms up - which is March in my neck of the woods. Or city.
The doctor had to do the most horrible of horrible things to me at the Place of Tile and Steel. She actually took a little red rubber piece of tubing and SHOVED IT where I'm pretty certain it was NOT supposed to go, and then flushed sterile saline all over my privacy and I'm pretty sure I never ever ever want that to happen again. Humans are totally insane and I truly think they enjoy a little cocker spaniel torture every once in a while.
If I could have blushed through my freckles I would have. And to add insult to infection, I overheard my mom saying that I was a "neutered" male. What? No way. After a few bark park discussions on what "neutered" actually means, I assured my people that I, in fact, knew where my balls where and upon our return home from the doctor I brought one out to show my mom.
See? I think this qualifies me as "in tact," although I really don't like labels.
I spent the remainder of the evening gripping my ball as tightly as possible so as to ease any concerns about the degree of my masculinity. Or maybe it was just to reassure myself. I also made certain to check on my manhood often, as I was very concerned that I would try to run away after its day of horrors.
Thanks to an antibiotic, my weeble is no longer angry and seems to be doing quite well. But now mom holds me back when I mark my territory so that my manliness doesn't come in contact with anything anymore. This really screws with my aim, and it creates a problem of grand proportions since I like to lift my leg no less than a 1,000 times on every walk. I call it "going shopping," and a beast can't make any purchases if he can't hit his mark.
But... I guess all's well that ends well, and at least I've got my stuffy balls.
Your in-tact friend,
Sunday, March 14, 2010
I swear that this photo wasn't inspired by some serious snoozely brotherly snugging. That being said, shortly after this picture was taken I insisted that I be taken to the Place of Tile and Steel for a cootie vaccine and general dork prevention. I think mom understood my dire state, and Big Pupi and I were whisked away to the Place of Tile and Steel for a check-up.
She called it our "annual" and if I had known that a cootie test involved needles, ear checks and vet techs taking my blood without my permission - I would have never made the request. What a mistake! Big Pupi suffers from some serious White Coat Syndrome and is immediately turned into a pile of shivering mush the second our doctor walks into the exam room... and for no good reason, because our doctor is especially nice and generous with the skritches and sweet talk. I think she is totally awesome and I do my best grunty bummy hops when she scratches between my hip bones. The Place of Tile and Steel isn't all bad!
Doctor lady had lots of nice things to say about us. Our weight is ideal (I'm pretty sure this means that I am a beast of massive proportions), our ears are clean and our teeth are perfectly pearly white. We were also deemed Extreme Athletes because we have a heart rate of 60 beats per minute, when a normal heart for a dog our size beats 100-140 times per minute. This is really big news for Big Pupi. When he was adopted he had to be treated for full-fledged heartworm, which can often leave scars on the heart tissue and surrounding arteries. This damage can make the heart less efficient. It's nice to know that Big Pupi's ticker is at its absolute best. I think we owe this to all of the fast hunts that I drag my humans on. They can thank me later.
Because of Big Pupi's age and his history of iffy kidney values, he had to have extra blood stolen for a senior blood panel. It came back perfect! Every single organ value was right on target, and his creatinine levels have kept a steady, low, healthy number. This is huge news, because when my folks first took BP home his post-shelter blood work showed that he was at risk for kidney failure. His doctor recommended that he be checked every 6 months for his kidney values (creatinine and BUN), and the result of each test got worse and worse as time went on. Eight weeks after introducing the raw diet, mom had his values checked again and to her surprise they had dropped well within the healthy range and haven't budged since. This latest blood test confirmed that his kidneys remain in perfect working order and are no longer cause for any concern whatsoever. What a relief!
And to top it all off, our titer tests came back positive for immunity AGAIN, which means that we get to skip our DHPP vaccine for the third year in a row!! Makes you wonder why we are injected every single year with these vaccines, right?! That would be like your humans needing their tetanus, polio, diptheria, rotovirus, and meningitis vaccines every single year for their entire lives. It's a little much, especially when you know that over-vaccination in pets has been linked to malignant cancers. And I'll take any excuse to avoid a needle.
We've been elated after this vet visit. They haven't always been this good in the past. And it was our start on the raw diet that marked this sudden change in veterinary events. Thanks delicious feasts! All the more reason for me to eat more raw meatables. Right? RIGHT? I'll let you know how dinner works our for me tonight.
Happy feasting my friends. Your healthy manly bud,
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Big Pupi writes in fear:
To my absolute horror I have discovered that my mom's torturous reach has extended far beyond my hallowed home. For this, my fellow canines, I am sorry.
Many of you may remember my brother and me being subjected to such cruelty... an act that many humans would call "getting toasty" or "bundling up." I grow furs for these purposes and do not need my manliness compromised by the crushing nerdification and undignified "doggy sweater." And to add insult to fuzzy cotton/blend knittings, my mom sells said devices-of-horror in her Etsy shop. It would seem that her reach is far greater than I ever anticipated.
Sure, it gets cold where I live. So cold, in fact, that if my danglies hadn't been cut off they'd have frozen off about 2 years ago. But when donning such cozy duds I must turn my face away from my friends, lest they recognize me and commence mocking. Could you even imagine if they caught me in this?
or (GASP!) this??Okay, okay... so that skull one is a little bit more bad@ss and more befitting of a beast of my proportions. But how do you think Stanislaw feels being forced to step out in public in this??Can you just FEEL the desperation on our faces? The sadness? The WARM AND SNUGLY HUMILIATION??
Brace your beastly selves. It only gets worse.
Oh Taddy I feel your pain. In fact, I think I shall call you T-Pain from now on. Perhaps a career in rapping will restore your street cred. Just don't do it in that sweater.
I just can't believe this...
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
So, at some point our counting went completely bananas because January 30th was our 2-year anniversary of feasting on raw meatables. Seriously... get with the program MOM!! Even I can add better than you. Check it:
+ 2 rabbits
+ 7 oz. green tripe
+ 1.5 chickens cut into quarters
1 majorly delicious feast fit for a Stanislaw
See? My IQ is 234,003. My friend at the bark park has his PhD and he gave me the test, so I KNOW that number is correct. Don't even try to argue, mom. Your IQ is 7. My friend told me that too.
Anyways, we're sorry for being so absent lately. My humans are so busy with work and school and making sure there's cheese money for my feasts that there just hasn't been much time. But don't fret, I am still a spoiled beast and have been kept in fleece blankies and tasty chewies. I'm really good at not letting stress get to me...
...unless mom appears with the buzzy beard-stealing machine. In the cruelest of cruel acts she removed my manliness. I mean, C'MON!! She said something about "stink" and "matts" and I assured her that I don't give a flying poople about those things if it means I have to end up looking like this:Horrors! Do you see the crazy frowny face I've got going on? But I do enjoy giving my bro a hard time about his shaved dorkiness. I can't even believe that one dog could possess such a high degree of dork!
I mean, my bro is so nerdy he's all about being Good Boy. He even passed his 2010 therapy dog certification test with 152 out of 150 points. Yes, you read that right. He knows so many tricks that he got 2 extra points for it. And mom didn't even have time to study with him! He just did it all and was all about feasting on cheesy bits. I don't get it. To top it off, he was welcomed into a second therapy program that has a 1.5 year waiting list... and he got right in. WHAT GIVES? I'm a fun dude and like to play with kids. You just jump all over them and lick their faces, right? I CAN DO THAT!!! I'm really GOOD at that!!!
We haven't been totally out of the loop and with much excitement we threw our hats into the ring for our first year of Mango Minster. It's totally awesome. I'm in for the Sporty category because that's where the beasts belong and Big Pupi is up for Working because that's where the dorky Good Boy dogs go. WHATEVER! Please vote for us! We're in for some major competition with the other canines in our groups.
'Tis all for now, my beastly friends. Stay toasty, which I would do if mom didn't take all my manly furs. It's time for a dude-like prancing in protest.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Big Pupi might need anger management:
I never realized how much I detest NASCAR... until my mom came home with this toy. The evil, possessed little thing makes the most horrible growling sounds and is actually able to run away from me ON ITS OWN!! That's totally not kosher!!! Toys are supposed to be submissive, and accept their fate in my jaws. But this angry little bugger does not obey the rules and it just filled me with hatred and the need to bark and do some growling of my own. I REALLY don't like rule breakers!
It was time for me to release the beast, and the NASCAR toy got it. Try not to let the video or my rippling beast muscles of fury intimidate you. I can't help that I'm such an animal.
Rest in Pieces, evil toy.