Archive for the 'Belle & Luna & Lilly & Archie' Category

Published by PaintingChef on 10 Nov 2014


One of the greatest tragedies of the entire universe is that those who have the purest hearts and the sweetest souls spend the shortest time with us.

This past Saturday, our sweet girl, Belle, passed away peacefully in her sleep. She would have been 13 in January. A teenager. I imagine that she would have immediately began to roll her beautiful brown eyes at me at every chance.

Patrick and I got married in December of 2001. By January I was begging him for a puppy. We looked and we looked and we finally found someone whose dog had had puppies. We drove about 3 hours to see them when they were just a week or so old, still just a wiggling mass of puppy and poop. We just sat there and stared… “How do we pick one?” We started picking them up, cuddling them, I tried to stick a few in my bra and steal them, Patrick intervened… as he does.

I’m a sexist asshole and knew I wanted a female so that, at least, made it a little easier. Finally we just put all the females in a pile and watched. Waited. Suddenly one of them was squirming towards Patrick on her little belly and as soon as she got to him, she peed all over him. Belle chose us.

Patrick and Belle

She was our eternal puppy, even at 12 years old with a mostly white face and a hitch in her step from knee surgery when she was 7, she had a puppy quality to her face. She was always happy to see us. And you. And you over there, too. Every day was the best day of her life. But the ones where she got to swim too? Holy balls. (Which she did not have. Because she was a girl.) Those days were epic.

Maybe it was because we got her when we were newlyweds and didn’t ever plan on having children. Or perhaps it was because when you met Belle, you knew right away that there was no other way to love her than fully and completely and messily. But that puppy girl was our baby. She ruled our hearts. She owned them and carried them around with her.

I know that we are lucky. We didn’t have the struggle of wondering about the quality of her life. Are we selfishly prolonging her suffering because WE aren’t ready to say good bye. Belle was wide open Saturday afternoon. And then she wasn’t. She most likely had a stroke. We took her to the vet that evening because something was clearly not okay. Her xrays and blood work all looked good so the vet suggested that we let her stay overnight so they could keep an eye on her and check back with them in the morning. At 11:00 that night, she passed away in her sleep.

Before we left, we each gave her a big hug and lots of kisses and she wagged her tail and kissed us back. We didn’t know we were telling her goodbye but looking back, I think she knew.

Sweet dreams my puppy girl. I want to think that right now you are swimming endlessly, chasing your dummy and rolling around in the sand.

Dammit.  Play with me.

Published by PaintingChef on 10 Jul 2009

I’ve earned cake, right?

It was so sad. The way she looked up at me with those big brown eyes as the vet assistant LITERALLY dragged her across the floor and into the back room. And I’ve tried. For like two days now. I’ve TRIED to explain to her that she was going to have a little surgery and spend a few days with the doctor but that she would be home lickety split and we would make sure she was all well. I told her that she would get to swim in the pool to make her leg better. I PROMISED her that she was going to be all fixed up.

And all I could hear, in the sweet little girl voice that I like to pretend she talks to me in (SHUT UP! You KNOW you do it too…) was “But Mommy… I thought you had me fixed years ago!”

I CRIED. I cried in the lobby of the vet this morning. The surgeon had to come out and hug me and tell me it was going to be fine. And you know how you can tell that some people just aren’t huggers? This was most assuredly NOT a hugging woman. So I’m crying. The non-hugger is hugging. The dog is being dragged against her will. Oh, and some bulldog in the corner is peeing on a plant.

But I don’t fault him. When you have to go, you have to go.

Published by PaintingChef on 07 Jul 2009

There are no words…

I don’t know why writing here has become so difficult for me. I’m not sure why, every time I open up a blank Word document I find myself staring, typing and deleting over and over. There is not a lack of things “going on”. I’m full of stories.

We got a new boat. A wonderful, beautiful boat. It was as close to an impulse buy as something that you have to go to the bank and take out a loan to purchase can possibly be. One day we were wading in the pool wishing we were out on the lake but because I didn’t like the boat we had (yes, I’m THAT spoiled) I didn’t like to go out on the lake and the next day we were driving to Norris to look at a new boat.

Hello new boat.

Guess who won’t be able to enjoy the new boat?

This sweet angel…

Why, you ask? Well. She tore her ACL last week. And has to have surgery. Followed by rehabilitation. Which apparently does NOT involve taking flying leaps off of boats into the lake. (Sadly… this is the only thing she knows how to do on a boat.)

So yes, our dog is having surgery. Which some people may think is crazy but guess what? I’m a crazy animal lady with no kids and a Punk Ass Uterus.

Speaking of said uterus (isn’t this fun? The way it just rambles and rambles as though I’m trying to make a point or talk about something and then it doesn’t ever happen? Kind of like watching “The English Patient” in that you know something COULD happen, it just never does and you really have to pee and honestly? Would you miss all that much if you just snuck out to use the bathroom and maybe get some Milk Duds?) it is still decidedly VACANT.

And from there, I really don’t even know what to tell you. Perhaps we should investigate my recent and odd craving for all things cheese ravioli related?

Published by PaintingChef on 13 Feb 2009

A very, very sad and horrible thing happened.

Dear Winston Archibald Churchill-

Look MAN. This shoe fetish you have? Lovely. It does prove that you were meant to be mine. And yes, mommy does have some great, dare I say YUMMY shoes… But here’s a thought…

Let them be yummy to your EYES. Because if I have to enter the house and see the carnage that I saw the other day again, well, my cold, black, dead heart just might not be able to take the pain. I don’t care what your father tells you, there is NO SUCH THING as TOO MANY BLACK SHOES. Those were perfect little black peep-toe pumps that made my heart sing. And they were ON SALE.

And you? Made them your dinner. So yes. I stomped and screamed and cried and scared a little bit of pee out of you.


Maybe it is my fault. Maybe that shoebox smelled like bacon. Or like the butts you seem so fond of sniffing. I’m pretty sure I can’t send back the chewed carcass of a left shoe and ask that they replace it. I have a feeling that Bluefly would laugh their asses off at me. And yet I can’t bring myself to throw away that sad right shoe that sits so forlornly on my dresser. All alone. No mate. And right before Valentine’s Day, no less. It will never be worn. That was it’s only purpose in life.

WHY MUST YOU BREAK THE HEARTS OF INNOCENT SHOES? Do you not hear the soft, smooth, buttery leather crying out in agony?

Now I’m trying to be a little more diligent about not leaving my shoes in a big pile of beautiful next to my laundry hamper and instead am trying to remember to put them away and I’m even working hard to always keep the giant pile of GO FISH in my closet behind a closed door. I do this because I love, sweetie, I love you.

I just don’t like you very much right now. And don’t be surprised if the next shoe I leave lying around has a big plastic bag full of Icy-Hot hanging out in it. By god… you CAN be taught and the internet swears that shit will work…


And P.S… This isn’t working either…

Published by PaintingChef on 31 Jul 2008

And good morning to you too. Asshole.

This morning I was snuggled in a cocoon under the comforter enjoying those last 20 minutes of near-sleep. You know the ones… just as you’re waking up you roll over and find that perfectly comfortable spot in the bed, the spot that eludes you all night and you get perfectly good sleep but f you could have just found THIS spot… you could have had the kind of sleep that lets you wake up fully refreshed with sparkling non-puffy eyes and adorable bed-head (as opposed to crazy Unabomber bed-head, three-week bender eyeballs and sleep wrinkles).

So as I’m snuggled into the SPOT listening to that adorably bad kitten pounce around on the silk duvet (WORST. IDEA. EVER. btw…) and play with the air, I suddenly feel a strange warming sensation on my hip. And apparently my near-sleep was a little closer to actual sleep than awake because it must have taken me a full 45 seconds to realize that the ADORABLY bad and PERFECTLY LITTER BOX TRAINED asshole cat had just PISSED ON MY BED. On the aforementioned and ill-advised silk duvet. ON MY HIP.

My cat. She peed on me. More pee than I can produce after drinking six Captain Morgan and ginger ales while floating in a pool in Mexico. (Yes… still to come. But I have PICTURES too and I have not yet put Photoshop on this computer because it is living in a bowl in the middle of my dining room table along with three empty key chains, two cat toys and a partridge in a pear tree and so all I have are gargantuan 3 meg pictures (on the memory card that has been riding around in my billfold since we got back) that must first be shrunken down and perhaps adjusted for poorly lit conditions caused by alcohol consumption.)

I’m not really certain what noise I made when the whole situation clicked together but it brought Patrick a-runnin’. Riddle me this… Have you ever tried to remove a comforter from inside a duvet while a) not fully awake b)dancing around because you are squicked out at being covered in CAT URINE c)being helped by someone who isn’t schooled in the architecture involved in the duvet cover and d)DID I MENTION THE CAT PEE?

e) all of the above.

Obviously this meant I was going to the cleaners this morning. But if this will give you some indication of my priorities (and the washability of my summer dresses), I have a dermatologist, someone to do my nails, a vet (who will also be getting a call from me this morning because google seems to think Lilly may be trying to tell me she doesn’t feel good and not that she’s just an asshole) an aesthetician and a hair stylist. What I do NOT have are a doctor, a gynecologist, a dentist and a dry cleaner.

One of those things has now been remedied.

And the super friendly barista at Starbucks is now cursing the day he ever asked me how my morning was while he fixed me that triple shot…

That I TOTALLY earned.

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