The 2Spoos are now the 3Spooges.

Nothing worth while is ever easy!

It takes a village to raise…er no check that…to save a rescued dog.

Another spoo has been added to the Land of Misfit Critters. The story is, there was a very sweet spoo boy in the Pacific Northwest of the USA whose prey drive got the best of him. He did not hurt a child or another dog, but he did dispatch with a bird that did not belong to him. This brought his owners to place him on a dreaded open sales forum. When a breed rescuer saw that he was not neutered, she knew she had to save him from a puppy mill, clueless/greeder “breeder,” or a doodler. She made quite the trip to pick him up, pay for his sins, and find him a temp foster home.

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When she picked him up, as you can see by the before picture, he obviously was not being groomed properly. He also appeared to be an outside only dog. While I don’t want to step on any toes of people who may do so, I will firmly say I do not believe spoos are meant to be a dog you just throw in a back yard. When the rescuer got him home, he didn’t seem to know how to act in a house.

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BUT!!! He came around like a champ. And he cleaned up nice as you can see. His foster had other spoos and he learned the ropes quickly just like we all know spoos can do. There was still a lingering question as to perhaps how bad his prey drive is and that is where I came in.

Well, truth be told, it wasn’t originally where I jumped on board. I first fell head over heels the moment I saw his unkempt pic because my heart went straight to my second spoo, Shandy. Shandy, like Shasta was a puppy mill rescue. Shandy had a multitude of health problems from day one and while I am glad I was able to give her two wonderful years in dog heaven on earth, I’m sad I ONLY was able to give her two wonderful years. She died on the surgery table being treated for bloat. Here is a picture her for you to see the reason I connected to the rescued spoo. They could be siblings down to the white butter on top of their waffled heads.

Shandi happy

I contacted the rescuer about adopting him and that is when I heard his story and it seemed like a done deal. Here in Mexico, if a dog does something wrong you say a big sorry in the form of pesos and the dog isn’t destroyed or sold to whomever for whatever. Plus, I am with my dogs 24/7 which gives me a chance to clean the evidence out of their mouth and bury said evidence. No really – it gives me the chance for working on the drive and limiting temptations. Sherlock’s prey drive is off the charts too but I have worked so hard with him he now does instant recall. It was a long first three years though. I knew I could have success with this dog too as poodles are pleasers and just need guidance.

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There is another reason I feel so strongly about getting this dog. Shasta just turned 11 and had slowed down greatly. I had a bad health scare with her a few months ago which snapped me into the fact that as she is so large (75 pounds,) from a puppy mill, and has always had health issues; she might not be with me as long as I would hope, (although they are never with you as long as you hope.) Long story short, now that she had slowed, Sherlock was driving her nuts. He of course is play play play all day. If he was working a stripper pole, he would be at it 20 hours a day and be a millionaire.

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And Sherlock is really dependent on Shasta for his mental security. I have to even have them groomed together. The few times he has been without her he has been a wreck. When she is gone, he will be lost if he doesn’t have another pack mate. I would never be able to go to the store and leave him without coming home to a stressed puking dog.

While I had been looking at puppies, I figured an older dog would be better as Shasta may not appreciate puppy teeth and puppy lack of boundaries. I had my heart set on a six-month-old pup but the timing was wrong on my end and the pup had someone in the States who also wanted him. As much as I mourned not getting that dog, it seems it was all meant to be so I could give a safe and loving home to Sheldon.

That is right. I have named this rescue Sheldon after the Big Bang Sheldon. What poodle isn’t really smart and really “unique.” Sherlock was named Sherlock because he too was a smart but rather strange character.

So, this now is where I asked for help. Sheldon was in Oregon and I was in heaven…er…Mexico. The rescuer and I had been working for a week to figure out how to get him to me. There were two big problems. First, both Portland, OR where he would fly out of and Guadalajara, JAL where he would fly in are small airports with limited flights that do not have such long layovers that the crate time would not be appropriate. There were no seats available on the only direct flight within the time table. Second, this was in May is the hottest month in the year in Guadalajara and it would be above the allowed 85 C after about 1:00 in the afternoon to 7:00 in the evening and some of places I can change planes have a risk of over 85 (Houston and Phoenix.) LAX and Dallas would probably be fine all day and San Diego would too but all airlines that fly out of San Diego to Guadalajara land during the heat of the day. I also tried San Francisco and San Jose which might have worked if the stars aligned.

I asked if anyone planning a direct morning or evening flight (no afternoon flights in case of heat;) or a flight to Dallas, San Fran, San Jose, or possible San Diego, (if I could figure out how to get him over the CBX bridge into Tijuana,) any time before the 10th of May or going into Houston from Portland, OR or Seattle could fly with the dog. The rescuer would bring the dog in a crate to either Seattle or Portland airport to help check the dog in as baggage and I would take the dog and crate from the flyer as soon as they were out of the security area at the destination. I of course would pay for the dog’s flight cost plus a little extra in case the flyer would have to pay a porter to help with the crate. Or perhaps someone knew a flight attendant friend with a soft spot for spoos that could sneak him on board. Heck – even someone’s crazy cranky neighbor could hijack a plane and make it happen! All possibilities were open. I would then fly with the dog on a direct flight to Guad when I could arrive in the morning or evening.

Sherlock needed Sheldon, Shasta needed serenity, Sheldon needed safety, and I need a name that begins with Sh so I can fit properly in this sentence. But I needed really need help as this was turning out to be complicated and perhaps more expensive than I could afford if I had to go the route of last-minute booking, hotel rooms, and Uber’s that don’t leave me at the curb when they see a large crate and 50-pound dog. The dog had to be out of the fosters by the 10th of May. “Anyone???” I pleaded.

Radio silence then an angel.

A Spanish speaking person who saw the plea on Facebook got on with Volaris with the lengthy explanation of what I needed and she was able to book Sheldon and I on a direct flight from Seattle to Guadalajara leaving at 10:20 at night and arriving at 5:30 in the morning on a flight that was showing unavailable on the website. No worries on heat and a direct flight meant less crate time!!! All that was needed was for me to get my ticket there. I couldn’t decide if I want to do it same day or stay overnight so I could go to Target. Target is the ONLY USA store I miss, (okay – Nordstroms too. And Taco Bell.) I finally found a flight that would work but it left me with no Target money so that decisions was made for me. It would be a same day trip!

The day of the flight – NOT!

Well pluck a duck and call me Fanny. I just about made a HUGE mistake.

I was absolutely sure I was leaving for the airport at 3:30 am that Wednesday night. I told my work crew not to come the next day and told my dog sitter to arrive that night. Then the rescuer messaged me about seeing me Thursday and I was just about to correct her when I thought first to check my ticket.

I was eight hours away from leaving for the airport. Could you imagine me checking in for my 6:00 am flight a day early?

I blamed the heat (it was 92 degrees that day. 10 degrees over average,) for melting my brain. I can’t wait till I’m a big girl and can count my numbers and use one of those adult calendar thingies. Till then…..

The day of the flight – No. Really. This time I got it right.

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My two had no clue how their lives are going to change in the next 48 hours. I took them on their last meal out together. Taking three dogs to a restaurant is impossible so they will go one at a time leaving two behind to wonder what the third is getting they aren’t.

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I look forward to this as I never really have had any one-on-one time because I felt too guilty to leave just one alone. Now there will be a buddy to stay home with as I get to have my turn with each to where they are the one and only star.

That week, Shasta had oddly been placing herself in the front seat of the car as if she knows the back is about to get a little more crowded. I ordered her a seat belt so this seems to be working out. All three would be just fine in the back if Sherlock didn’t constantly run from window to window and spin like a top. Bed space will be fine too if Sherlock can learn to conserve space. He always looks like he has managed to put his body in three different areas.

This time the next day I would have 3spoos. Shasta Shea, Sherlock Shane, and Sheldon Shawn Sepahpur. Shay that shwiftly.

First leg of Sheldon Shenanigans – Morning departure of a night owl

I was not going to be able to sleep. It was 2:30 am and Sherlock sensed something as he didn’t take his eyes off of me because I was walking fast and putting some of his things in a bag. (His collar, his leash, and one of his toys.) The killer was when I ripped the bedspread off the bed and put it in the car. He was on it at the time I pulled it off. You see, I wanted Sheldon to have something soft to lay upon for the ride from Guadalajara to Ajijic. And I wanted him to know Shasta and Sherlock’s smell. Hence one confused Sherlock.

Let me say at this point I am usually a very organized person. I make lists. I list my lists. But when I have a wild hare (or hair?) all bets are off as to how things will go as there is zero planning. This adventure was as close to zero planning as one could get.

This brought about two problems. By chance I thought Houston could have storms. While checking Houston weather I checked Seattle’s. Good gosh granny!!! It is cold there. High of 65° F. How do people live like that? The wardrobe I had laid out screamed “day at the beach.” All of my closed toed shoes were in a box labeled “closed toe shoes” and were piled under Christmas decorations. I had one pair of lace-up closed toes out. The shoe choice was that of one.

leg hole

All my long-sleeved clothing? In storage boxes under the bed. I had two “Spring” jackets. One bright blue and the other bright pink. Neither would look good with black tennis shoes. I thought I would do a light blue top under the blue jacket. I put on my one pair of jeans that were loose enough I could spend 24 hours in without croaking. Dressed, I decided I needed another swish of mouth wash and accidentally spit it down my jacket and jeans instead of the sink (did I mention I’m exhausted?) So, blue shirt, pink jacket, my second most comfortable jeans that have a hole in the knee that highlights my unshaven knee, and a minty fresh mouth is how I went out the door. I already warned Seattle I would have no makeup on as nothing would look good after just one flight much less three. Hopefully the city had braced itself.

sad eyes

So, Sherlock gave me sad eyes as I left. I was ten minutes ahead of schedule. At 3:20 am and a nice 72° I was off. Hotel California was the first song on the radio. I knew I was in a good mood despite feeling physically drained already because I laughed when the song went off and the Mexican announcer barked the radio blurb in a loud strong Spanish. Listening to old USA songs to be jarred back to Mexico always makes me laugh.

car clock

At this point I remembered the second thing I should have thought of besides the weather. I’m night blind. This really hit home when I was on the mountain curves and the white lines disappeared. I hit the lights to turn them on bright but turned them totally off instead. I got them back on to see the reflectors on the upcoming hairpin curve. At that point my guardian angel was at heaven’s front desk turning in her resignation.

Airport line

But I arrived a little wider awake. The airport was packed at 4:00 am like I knew it would be. I made to through the immigration line, and the United line, and security line in good order so I had time to go to – 🤢 – Chili’s. I remembered the last time I ordered the omelet Mexican style and discovered my gringo stomach couldn’t handle so much red hot pepper so early in the day. I regretfully stayed safe had the ham and cheese 🤢🤮🤢🤮🤢🤮 The eggs were runny in the middle and I could only choke a bit down.

Now it was time to board and soon I would be back in Houston, where I lived for 25+ years, for a short layover. While just for an hour and twenty minutes, I would visit all my old friends there. Or nap. A nap sounded good.

24 hours till Sheldon and I are home. Maybe…

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At the airport I found myself in need poodle prayers. I got on the plane, got my seat belt on, and then we all got off the plane. Houston had storms that had the airport backed up there for at least one hour. As I only had a little over an hour layover, I was frantic they rebook me from Houston to Seattle. Señorita Kim and Señor Cigar were sad.

I killed time trying to figure out how so many people can eat Johnny Rocket burgers at 6:00 am. When my plane’s pilots ordered a Johnny Rocket burger I thought “this is NOT a good sign!” They knew we were going no where for a while.

I finally got on the plane. I was not sure if it was the right plane but I got on it. Once on the plane, they told us takeoff was again delayed for another hour. They gave us a choice this time to get off or stay on. My butt was glued to the seat. Literally. I had sat on some gum on the airport floor.

Finally we taxied but I saw we were at the far end of the runway with the FedEx and DHL planes offloading. They brought stairs to the plane for some reason at the same time the pilot was announcing we would be “taking of shortly.” I’m not a pilot but I was pretty sure we couldn’t take off with stairs attached and an open door.

Leg two of Sheldon’s shenanigans: H-town never looked so good.

(Note to self – figure out why shenanigans is the word that auto fills as soon as I type “sh.”)

Power to the poodle prayers. I arrived in Houston. I would describe the whole crazy chess game they continued to play with with our plane, but envision a plane taxiing down a Mexico interstate highway. I saw more of Guadalajara that morning than the whole two years I had lived there.

I got zero sleep on the plane which was a big bummer because this was the one flight I had a wall to lean on. From there on out I would be dream slobbering on strangers from a middle seat. But hey, at least I had a seat n’ the middle as opposed to a day delay.

I had done a smart cookie thing for a change. As soon as they booted us off the plane the first time in Guadalajara, I cornered the smallest of the United gate workers and said, “connect me or live cursed by the gringa with flaming red hair.” It worked and he had me rebooked in a flash. It seemed everyone one else was looking at their cell phone hoping it would beam an answer from the airline gods. As a result of me speaking with a human, I was just about the only one not running off the plane or crying when we landed. And now I sat leisurely enjoying a parade of humanity marching through Bush Intercontinental.

…Oh my my. That MAN had camel toe. How does that happen? Aww cute kid. How does that woman walk in those shoes that fast? That dog is neither service or emotional support – you don’t drag emotional support behind you on a leash. Are pajama pants a thing here? Why am I the only one without Starbucks?…

Okay. Enough people watching. They called my flight on time. Yippie Skippy!!!

Houston to Seattle – how could leg three go wrong?

The weather was lovely once in Houston as I chased the storm away with my foul attitude, and while the layover had its problems (bad tuna sandwich, my credit card not working out of my home country because I didn’t think to tell them I would be traveling for a day, running into a person I did not want to see….) it was okay. After I saw the line running down the concourse to the United help desk, I felt so glad I had gotten on this flight the minute they took us off the plane in Guadalajara. You can’t shut an airport down for two hours and not have a boat load of people without options. I was all cocky I wasn’t one of them.

Since I was placed on this flight after being delayed, I had no seat choice. I was at the back of the plane in a middle row. Keep in mind, this was a 2:30 pm flight on Thursday. I had not slept since around 9:00 am on Wednesday. All I had eaten was half a bad Chili’s omelet and half a bad tuna sandwich (not even a half,) and I hadn’t had enough fluids. I was tired, hangry, and starting dehydration dizzies. Even though I was in a middle row I figured I would pass out.

When I got to my row I wanted to cry. I was seated next to a body builder who was as wide as a door with shoulders so big, the one on my side took half my space. On the other side was an old man in a funny hat. I watched as Atlas squeezed himself out of his seat to let me in, sat down and waited to be crushed to death. Atlas’ sized caused me to get very cozy with the old guy (who eagerly said he was Jim and he was coming from a funeral which he seemed oddly happy about.) Okay….sleep. Somehow, some way, sleep.

I explained to Jim about how tired I was and why. MISTAKE!!! Turns out he as a preacher and he had “powers” to calm me and help me heal – I was tired so where did the healing need to happen? Sleep heals all!!! nooooooo. noooooo. nooooo. For four hours he told me how he was about to be killed by a lion in Africa but spoke to it and it helped save it from another lion. He went on about auras and how he could heal a person through an aura. He told me stories how he has found missing people like a woman in Seattle. Out of the whole big city, he felt her aura and led her family to the hotel she was staying. This guy was on Planet Insane and I was his captive audience. He tried to lead me to Jesus without even asking if I already knew Jesus. Apparently, my aura told him my soul had never heard of Jesus even though I grew up Southern Baptist, had to sit with my family to read the WHOLE bible out loud twice, and now live in Mexico where every sixth man is Jesus. Lying aura! I just about crawled over the seats of the plane when we landed to get away from this nut.

Finally, Seattle was heaven! For an hour…

Then things for the first time were happy happy happy. I met Cher. That is right. I met THE Cher….THE spoo who was the rescuer’s service dog (a real service dog I might add.) And after I quit being in awe of Cher and how well trained she was, I met her owner, Wendy the rescuer. She was just as lovely as I thought she would be. She and I worked to call Volaris because someone at the Lufthansa desk said the dog would have to be taken to cargo. It took like eight calls before a young man said the dog would go at baggage. We were relieved as cargo was off site of the airport.

We then drove to the cell phone lot where the foster had Sheldon and her three adorable spoos. He didn’t want to get out of the car. When he did, he was shaking and did not want to leave the foster. “Oh my,” I thought. “It is going to take months to get this dog to attach to me.” After letting the dogs pee and giving them some treats, Wendy and I were off to the airport with the XXL crate Wendy had to have special order so we would have the 3″ head clearance for Sheldon that international flights require.

We got to the airport and started to put the crate together. What a sight we must have been. Two women and two spoos all on the floor putting together a crate the size of Texas. It was a bugger to get together but we finished it right at the time of the two-hour window for checking baggage with an international flight. We got in line. Ahead of us was a group of six young people. I would later learn they were Brazilian. These youngsters all had suitcases over the weight allowed. They were at the counter taking out one shoe and putting it in another case and when that didn’t work taking out something else. I finally ask over them if we were going to still be okay because now we were within the two-hour time limit. The guy behind the counter said something about the door to the crate being too big.

We finally got to the front and were informed the WHOLE crate was too big and the dog could not fly. I lost it. If Wendy had not have been there, I would be in the Seattle jail right now. I had ORIGINALLY thought he would be okay to go in the XL but when talking to the Volaris “pet shipping” guy and finding out the dogs dimensions from Wendy, I was so bummed when told he HAD to go in an XXL. Shasta had to go in an XXL but Shasta is huge. They would not budge. They wanted to put me on a series of flights the next day. I had nowhere to go for the night. Wendy lives in Portland and had made the special trip to Seattle just so we could get a direct flight and she couldn’t come back the next day. My head shorted out at this point and the next thing I remember is Wendy on the phone with the foster mom who was still in the cell phone parking lot asking her to go to the closest Petco and get a smaller crate. We had to have it by 9:20, not just have it, but have it put together with the dog in it at the cargo window by 9:20. Plus, I had to be through security too and the lines were extremely long. The desk clerk noticed I had TSA and said I would be fine with security. My plane boarded at 9:40. It was 8:40. We had forty minutes to deal with the crate issue and 20 more minutes after that to get me though security and airport to the plane.

The foster mom took off after a new crate and Wendy and I had to start taking apart the old new crate. Now this is where zip ties come in to play. We had put all kinds of zip ties on this crate to make sure Waffles did not end up on a Mexico runway. We had zip tied the zip ties and now we needed it all apart. We had no knife and I stupidly thought we could stop some man for his pocket knife. Wendy reminded me we were in an airport. Asking strangers for a knife – not a good idea. I remembered the” key trick” from deep in the corner of the “useless information” area of my brain. Thanks goodness twisting a key worked to pop through the zips. Meanwhile, Wendy was surgically removing the “live animal” tags we were going to need on the new crate. She joked that we were poodle MacGyver’s. Boy did I need a laugh at that point.

Now let me add that we were now doing this in a pedestrian traffic lane and didn’t care. Without my having food and 24 hours of them stretching out, my jeans no longer fit. I was bent over on that floor giving all of flying Seattle butt crack. And I knew it because I could feel the damp Seattle breeze down to an area that shouldn’t feel a breeze in public. The crate bolts and zip ties were flinging all over the place. And we were moving at full pace. We looked like the pit crew changing tires and building a new car during a pit stop. With butt crack.

The foster mom called she was on her way back with a crate the same time we got the Godzilla crate apart and we went out to pick up the small one. Keep in mind we had two standard poodles leashed to us this whole time. Cher was a champ and Sheldon was nervous but still kept pace. We got the small crate and dashed inside.

This is where I will give you most amazing part of this trip – the woman who was now at the Volaris desk had two standard poodles – what are the odds -and after she could see Wendy was determined and I was contained in my crazy, she became the third angel I had getting me and Sheldon on that plane. We had filled out the paperwork already, and this woman left the desk to take us to the cargo check. She asked the woman that had to approve the crate and the dog if we had time to get the crate together and if we were okay for time and I saw her wink. The Cargo woman became the fourth angel. She helped Wendy put together the new crate while I held Cher and Sheldon, didn’t even look at the dog’s papers, told us “never mind” with the stickers and dish for water and approved it all so I was good to go try to get though security and on the plane myself.

I took off running. I came to the first security check point with a huge line and it said TSA was closed. I think I looked like a wild animal at that point because an airport worker asked if I was okay. I said the only way I could get on the plane in time was a TSA line. He said the TSA on the check in on the other side of the airport was open. Again – running. When he said other side of the airport, he meant other side of Seattle. But the TSA line ended up only having four people in front of me. The other lines had hundreds. Then it turned out the two people in front of me had NEVER been through a security line by the way they couldn’t figure out trays and jackets and what constituted metal. I was sweating and about to barf and did the unthinkable for me. I walked around them, pushed their trays back, and threw my bag on the belt. I turned to the guy scanning and said I was running late and then asked where was gate S15? As he scanned me, he said…uggggg…”on the other side of the airport, go down both escalators, take the train, go up both escalators, and follow the “S” signs.” The plane was starting to board at that time. I ran some more. Remember the jeans that were too large? I was full on gangster with my pants down my butt. Problem was, I was cowboy so the need to keep pulling them up was pretty darn important. Each time I used one hand to pull up my pants I let go of my bag which had to be held on my shoulder since I was running, my bag would slipped off, and I had to sling it back on again. When you have long hair, you can’t sling a bag on your shoulder without ripping off hair. I was leaving trails of long red hair through the Seattle airport. Somehow I made it though.

The Volaris angel who had been at the gate was already there helping process last minute boarding. She finally came over to me for a hug and told me Sheldon was on the plane and the crew had been told a dog was on board. I walked onto the gangway with noodle legs, sweat running down my very breezy crack, and so thankful.

I got to my seat and who was I sitting between? Two of the Brazilian, privileged, better than everyone, attractive 20’somethings. They did not shut up the whole flight. And it wasn’t them just talking over me. It was them standing up to talk to the two in front and the two behind. They could have booked three seats together in two rows but each needed an isle or a window so they were little fleas hopping up and down bugging the sh$% out of everyone around them. So again, I got zero sleep. I wanted to hurt someone really really bad. But even with sleep deprivation, the sparrow in me just smiled faintly every time they bumped into me and said non-sincere “sorry.”

Once I hit Mexico, everything seemed back in line. I had all my paperwork in order so I zipped through immigration. I had flown dogs into Guadalajara before so I knew what to expect. I had a purse full of pesos so if there was any problem, I could pay it away. I knew from the past that the dogs come out on the belt last. They want to make sure the owner has had time to get through immigration so the dog isn’t just making circles on the belt. I’m standing there waiting and I also know since it is Mexico, the dog could come out on any carousel and not just the one for my flight. I was looking back and forth at all four carousels that were going. Meanwhile, on the plane I had back spasms and leg cramps to beat the band. At one point I think I was crying blood. Now off the plane, my body was jerky. I couldn’t keep my legs still. I was swaying. Plus, my head was doing the Carrie thing spinning to look at all the carousels. I know I looked like I was on drugs.

I figured we were half done with luggage by looking at how many people were still waiting. Then I turned to look at carousel three and I saw the drug dog headed right for me. AND it snapped into my head that I had rubbed myself all over the floor of the Seattle airport. Who knows what I smelled of? He made one pass by me, then two. Finally, he walked off. At that point, everyone was gone but the belt was still moving. I was going to give it two more seconds before going to ask – or yell – “Where is my dog?” Then out he came. I couldn’t lift him and the crate off the belt so he was traveling south while I was pulling north. Out of nowhere, two men appeared and smilingly put him on my cart. Gee whiz, I love Mexico and Mexicans.

We went to customs. That went like butter. No hassles. The customs person for animal import was a vet and pointed out some skin issues and gunk in an ear. I thought she was going to use this to get a bribe out of me by denying him but she just said, “take him to the vet because that ear hurts.” I hit the button and got green so we left customs with no baggage search and found a wonderful porter who got me, the dog, and the crate loaded in my car and on our way.

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The drive again was interesting as I couldn’t see in places due to my night blindness. Sheldon put his head across the console and pushed his nose on me when we hit the Ajijic road and I knew it was all okay. It had all been worth it.

It was a long long journey. Wendy the rescuer was the only reason the dog made it to Ajijic. I lost my ever-loving mind and if she wasn’t as smart and calm as she is, we would not be where we were. Sleep deprived and starving, I was suddenly full energy thinking about introducing the dogs. This would be a make or break moment.

And on the ride I had changed his name. Sheldon did not suit him. The run of the “sh” names was over.

In the dark video below is the introduction of Shasta and Sherlock to -drum roll please – Wafflehead the Wonder Dog. To be called Waffles, Waffs, Waffers, Waffleman, Waff-a-poo, Waffsies….

I thought all the way home how to introduce them. I was going to do it in the driveway outside my gate one at a time but Waffles is strong and would have to be leashed and I didn’t have the energy to be drug down the street. I decided to give him high ground and an ability to decide when he was comfortable to get out of the car.

As you see, Sherlock could not control himself – literally. He OCD spun the whole night. The four of us were all in bed later and he would get up and spin then give a Waffles a butt sniff and calm for a while.

The next day it was very apparent who Waffles preferred. That would be me. He was either standing by me, sitting on me, or right under my feet when walking. Only once did he follow the other two out of the room that I was in. He was a big ole mamma’s boy in no time. No shaking scared dog any more. And I was so happy to be momma. His temperament was great and would only bloom more over time.

We had one tiff over a toy the next day as Waffs found the toy drawers and that was a slight problem with Sherlock. Sherlock has always insisted on taking all the toys out himself THEN letting Shasta pick one. Waffs went right in for Sherlock’s favorite squeakiest toy (actually it hadn’t been his favor till right that minute,). So!!! That means the dogs are officially siblings.

Postscript: Six months have passed and a lot has happened to the 3spooges.

Shasta is still with us. She really perked up for a few months after Waffles arrived but has slowed down again. But, she still is able to beat both dogs to the bacon.

Sherlock and Waffles are BFF’s. They take turns getting each other in trouble and are always by each other’s sides.

All four of us have moved from Ajijic to Queretaro. We have a great three story house with stairs to dart up as well as roof top decks facing both sides so we can bark at passing pooches. Best of all, we have a huge yard (by Queretaro standards,) to landscape with lots of places for spoos to hide and play chase in.

We are all looking to the future which is sure to be amazing now we are a pack with one more spoo heart full of love ❤🐩🐩🐩❤


A Mexico Cat Tale

Day One – The Invader

Fudge my life.

I came home from a long lunch to discover the stray cat that had taken up residence in the yard had somehow got into the house. Well, I didn’t discover it – the dogs did.

Mayhem!!! And that is an understatement. Fur and hair flew (poodles have hair instead of fur as it doesn’t shed – a useless piece of information you will never need.)

The cat finally ended up in my bathroom sink where it remained all night. Once it quit running, the dogs settled and so did kitty.


I had been wanting to catch this cat to have it fixed and dewormed but this wasn’t how I intended on doing it. The area has too many kittens and it didn’t matter if it was a he or a she – it needed to lose its baby making parts. I had envisioned renting a trap. No need now.

The vet was closed since it was after 6:00 pm so I had to figure out how the four of us were going to live together for the next 15 hours. The dogs kept their distance as the cat put up quite the fight when they first met. I was hoping it stayed that way.

Then it went from bad to worse. I got out the only meat I had to lure the cat: prosciutto. While I was corralling Sherlock, Shasta ate the package. And when I say package I mean plastic and all. I’m not sure how many of the thin plastic sheets were there but in the end there were only two and a half. I tried to pull the other pieces out of her mouth but she chomped my thumb and swallow all of the rest. She was very pleased with herself.

Photo Jul 06, 5 04 29 PM

Did I mention the vet was closed?

So, I fed her a couple of slices of bread and started blockage watch. I had this sinking feeling that this was going to result in surgery as it was a good amount of plastic. But hey – we were going to the vet with the cat anyway. The more the merrier.

It had begun as such a quite peaceful day. Poodles can turn that on a dime.

Day Two – Update From the Frontline

Shasta is fine so far. She pooed so the plastic should at least be in her large intestine. I need the Magic School Bus to see the journey through her digestive tract. We survived the night with that cat even being in the bed at one point. At first I gave kitty a break by shutting the door. Both dogs kept vigil for hours.


Then I got kitty out and sat it on my lap. The dogs sat waiting for me to give them permission to approach. Sherlock then stood over it until I made him stop because he was drooling on my leg.

The cat was totally unfazed by them being so close.
Bed time I put a towel in the corner of the bathroom counter and he settled in.

But then the night started to go like one where there is a new infant. Mommy (Shasta) got up to lovingly stare at the new wonder. Daddy (Sherlock) got up to wake up the baby in hopes of playing with it.


Visiting Grandma (me) would get up to get everything sorted out and everyone back to bed. Then it would start all over again.

This morning the cat found all the high places in the house while the dogs were out peeing. I then took it to the vets.

It has worms so I got dewormer for the dogs. Other than that, it is a health approximately nine month old, soon to be ball-less, male. I pick it up tomorrow so I have 24 hours to decide what to do with it. Shasta wants to keep it. Sherlock wants to slow roast it and serve it with a mushroom sauce. And I don’t like either of those options.

As long as I don’t name it or buy cat toys all options are on the table.

Day Three – No good deed goes unpunished.

Last night while petting Sherlock I noticed a sore on his back. I got out the magnifying light and sure enough, there was a cat bite. I had thought when the dogs discovered the cat, the cat got a piece of one of them! It was Sherlock, deservingly so. Therefore, before picking the cat up from the vet for being neutered, I took Sherlock in, as by morning the bite was beginning to abscess.

I knew it would need to be lanced but the vet thought it was best to also needle drain the area and then flush the resulting space. There are some pretty nasty bacteria and viruses down here in Central Mexico. This meant Sherlock had to be put under. Since he is five and has never had his teeth cleaned, we thought it would be good to get that out of the way too so he wouldn’t have to be put under a second time next year.

Meanwhile, Shasta had not pooped again so we decided she needed an ultrasound to see where the plastic was. There looked to be one sheet in the small intestine and two – maybe three – still in the large intestine. They weren’t compacted – yet – so we gave her some “grease” to help things slide. If all the sheets weren’t out in two days another ultrasound would be done and we would look at other options. Of course if she showed any distress, vomited, or became lethargic she would go straight in for surgery.

Now, as for the fate of the cat….

He was given a name but no toys so we are on a “we will see” basis.

Some really great names were suggested online but I have the “different drummer” thing. So my choices were:

“Waffle-head” called Waffles for short because that is what I had eaten right before we found him in the house.

“Sock Monkey from Outer Space” called Monkey for short because he goes limp like a sock monkey when I pick him up and he appeared from outer space since all the doors were closed when he was found. I can also call him Socks since he has white socks and Spacey if he turns out to be dingy like me.

“Brain Worm” to be called Worms for short because not only did he have worms, I have had the brain worm of the Meow, Meow, Meow song from the Meow Mix commercial playing in my head ever since setting eyes on him.

“Cyber Kitty” to be called Cyber to be spelled Syber because that is how I like my cats – on the internet. And how I like to spell – wrong.

I was having a tough time choosing but when the vet ask for a name for its charts, Monkey came out. So “Sock Monkey from Outer Space” it is.

What I decided to do was keep him inside for the next week to recover from being fixed and keep his diet healthy during recovery. His food, “house,” and litter box were put in my bathroom/closet and he also had the run of my bedroom. I was not thrilled with this situation at all but it is the only way to keep him from the dogs and not escape out an open outside door. I didn’t want to put him in my guest bedroom as he sheds and I was on target for starting Airbnb in two weeks.

After that, I will have to let the cat choose where it wants to be because there is no way to keep the doors closed to make sure it doesn’t get out. My doors are glass and wrought iron and are intended to be open in pretty weather. Plus, the housekeeper can’t be carrying a bucket of water to dump outside and worrying if she lets the cat slip out, she will be fired.

If it wants to still live inside at that time, I will move it’s litter box to the mop area. And he will be more than welcome. If it prefers street life I will have a box built to go over the dryer and put food out, and catch it for deworming , flea and tick control, and it’s shots. I also am having a tag made for a tear away collar so if he does meander, people finding him will not vaccinate him twice.

I have always been of the opinion that if you own a cat it should be kept indoors for the safety of the cat. But I have seen the number of unadopted cats in the shelters and think living in danger is better than living in a small cage. I really don’t think a shelter will have luck adopting this guy out because there are so many cute tiny kittens to pick from. Monkey certainly would not have been my pick at the pound.

When I went to pick up Sherlock from the vet I left Shasta alone with the cat. I figured this was fine because the cat was passed out from surgery under my bed.

I came home – no Shasta. I looked under the bed for the cat and found – both. I thought Shasta was stuck under there so I went out to get two 2 x 4’s to wedge the bed up. When I turned around after getting the two boards unburied from the shed, Shasta was right beside me. How she got her 75 pound body out is beyond me.


Monkey sticks his head out for Shasta to lick him. They are buddies. Sherlock and Monkey not so much. Sherlock is too rough for Monkey’s taste and Sherlock thinks Monkey will be tender to taste.

And someone had asked me if I wanted to buy a Pygmy goat kid today. Aye yai yai!!!

Day Four – Feline Friend

I have a very good dog. Care to guess its name?

Wrong! It is Sherlock. I know! I’m as shocked as you are. Shasta loves to lick Monkey but she is also muzzle punching the cat. Plus, she will not obey me at all. No leave it, no come, no sit. She is obsessed with the cat and has lost her hearing.


Sherlock on the other hand is backing off when I tell him to and comes when I see he is getting wound up and call him. I have said Good Boy to him so much the last 24 hours he and I are both beginning to believe this Fake News.


I saw how mellow Monkey was with me holding him, him wanting to snuggle, and how quickly he adjusted to the dogs, and can’t believe he didn’t live with people at some point. But when a cat eats your garbage for a month, has tapeworms hanging out by his bunghole, and isn’t fixed, ya kinda are sure he is stray. He might have been dumped after he grew out of the really cute kitten stage. But I know there is one more his age out there so it seems like he may have been from a feral litter and is just freakishly a good cat.

It has been bothering me that he isn’t symmetrical in his markings so I’m taking a Sharpie to try to even him out. I don’t know what to do about the one black dot on his nose. White-out? (Oh! Booger. I should have named him Booger. To late now 🙁

My allergies are really starting to get to me. I know when I had an allergy test ten years ago, cats were towards the top of the list. I am snorting and swallowing meds to get me through till I can find an allergist.


Drum roll….

Shasta pooped out a piece of plastic. So, if the train is on schedule, the rest should make reentry tomorrow. I will be so happy not to serve as Poo Inspector anymore.

And speaking of poo. The litter box had to be moved. This morning I went to get “odor control” litter because he gagged the dogs and I onto the sofa at four in the morning. As soon as I could stomach it, I ran in, scooped, and ran it to the outside trash. How can an odor linger so long?

But then, the first go at “odor control” was still out of control so the box went out to the mop and broom area which I lovingly refer to as The Scorpion Den. It would be where I would live if I was a scorpion. Only my housekeeper has the guts to venture in. If Monkey doesn’t want to get a stinger to his behind he will have to look before he squats.

Sherlock’s cat bite sore looks much better today and luckily it is still oozing. He wore a tee-shirt to lunch today though as I thought it would gross out other diners. Also, I had a bug bite on my left boob that looks like a hickey so I dug out a turtleneck to wear for tomorrow. The name of my new fashion line is Bite Wear. To be sold at a creepy abandoned house near you.

Day Seven – I Suffer Alone

What a difference a few days make. This video is of the Sherlock interacting with the cat on the third day. At the end of the video, I had to put down the camera to physically go get Sherlock to settle down.

Now as you can see in the second video from today, he isn’t moving. Why? Because he is pouting. Poor Sherlock has gotten what he wants 99.9% of his life. He tilts his head, puts up one paw, smiles, and sticks his tongue out as far as possible and people hand him their smartphones and wallets. But for two days now he has gotten a firm NO on the cat toy. He is mad and he is glad he is mad. I put the toy in a cabinet and he goes and lays by the door looking up at me with his coal-black eyes. Pulls every cute trick in the book. When all fails, he pouts.

Last night I got up from the sofa and said, “let’s go night night.” I got out jammies and went to brush my face and wash my teeth. When I returned, not only were all three sleeping, they were all three on MY side of the bed. And to add insult to injury, Sherlock was sleeping on my jammies.


I slid onto the edge and waited for them to shift positions. They finally did after ten years but Monkey woke up ready to rumble. He attacked anything of mine that moved. I was so tired I did what any techie parent would do to get some peace – I gave him my cell phone to play with.

Needless to say – dogs and cat are wonderful. I’m sleepless and battling the cat allergy that gets worse every day. C’est la vie.

Day Eight – Be Still My Beating Heart

Sherlock strikes again. He will give me a coronary one day.

We were all calmed for the night and I was cleaning the kitchen. Suddenly I heard Monkey’s bell on his collar go crazy and knew he was running around like a spaz. I wiped a few more swipes then decided to go supervise before something went wrong.

I turned the corner and there was Sherlock with a limp Monkey in his mouth. I screamed bloody murder and took off after him yelling “leave it.” We went once around the sofa and once around the dining room table before he finally came to a stop where the chase had begun. That was when I got close enough to see it wasn’t Monkey. (I need glasses for distance.)

The dogs can open their own drawers of their toy storage and he had dug around to find the exact toy to freak me out. I think Monkey was in on it because he had disappeared to the back and stayed out of sight during the chase. Needless to say, Sherlock was very thrilled to have gotten a game of chase out of me after my nightly “quiet time had started” I was so shook up, it took forever to sleep. Now I’m tired but have to pick up Sherlock’s toys. It is one trick he refuses to learn.

Day Ten – Walk With Soft Paws

Shasta loves to paw photo bomb.

And FYI…do not join a cat forum and ask how to make sure your big dogs do not hurt a new kitten. After all the suggestions of crating the dogs, putting the dogs in one room, or putting the dogs in the yard while I’m gone; I repeatedly explained that the dogs lived here. It is their house. They have run free in it for nine and five years respectively. The cat is the interloper.

I got torn a new one. I’m thinking I now have to go into witness protection. Anyone care to hide me and the dogs till they find a new villain?

And as for villains…does it look like to anyone else that Shasta is giving Sherlock and Monkey the bird? They won’t let her join in on their reindeer games.


Day Twelve – The Beginning of the End

I don’t know what is more surprising: That Sherlock has such a low voice or that he wants to get rid of Monkey. He prances like he is low on testosterone and he is constantly laying by or playing with the cat. Again – I call this fake news. But my allergies are only getting worse. It seems his humor may be the reality. But what to do with a stray cat that is so sweet and cute? And in Mexico???

Please let this story have a happy ending for us all…….

(Here are recient pictures of Monkey. His fur is so much shinier and he looks so much healthier than the first night.  Pretty cat but my snot filled nosterals say he sadly had to go. My heart hurts!!!!)


This post isn’t about poodles or Mexico. That isn’t where my heart is today. Today’s post is about death, societal norms, and coincidences, but mainly how unique each person is with their view towards each and how accepting we should all be to the differences.


This morning my Grandmother Honey died at the age of 101.  My aunt texted me the news she went peacefully, but at 101, I doubt she had the energy to go any other way.  My maternal grandmother and grandfather were a huge influence in my life. They were my life boat from a very dysfunctional set of parents. They lived in a small town in the Oklahoma Panhandle, Adams, which at its hay day was about 300 people. I spent as much time there in my youth as I could. It was a barren ugly town but in it I found my joy.

My grandfather passed away when I was 12 but my grandmother remained my rock. After I had left home and was married living a half a continent away, we moved my grandmother out of the little town to the close great “big” town of around 9000 people. She was lucky enough to get a brand new government funded senior living apartment where she lived until she was 94.

At 94 she was still living alone and driving. She went out to her car to get her purse and decided to take a short cut by stepping over a small two foot wall. She caught her toe on the wall, took a tumble, and broke her femur. At that point she did what a pioneer woman would do. She pulled herself back into her home on her elbows and called a family member instead of 911.  Sadly, that was when this very strong independent woman found herself in a nursing home care.

The nursing home wasn’t bad as far as nursing homes go. But to her it was a prison.  A family member would take her out to eat or even to Wal-Mart (senior citizen meeting place in a small town.) But she had lost her ability to fly. And she was sad.

Years pasted and I had managed to free myself from the toxic members of my family that still were in the area. I knew that the family I had escaped from was going to be out of town so I flew into Amarillo and drove the two hours to the nursing home to see Honey.  For a while, she thought I was my Aunt Marylea, who is blond and twenty years older than I. But oddly enough the nursing home staff thought I was Marylea too so I didn’t discount her mental process that much.  After talking for a while, it clicked with her who I was and she said, “Kim. You are the smart one. Tell me how I can die.” The whole situation washed over me at that point. She hadn’t smiled since I walked in. There was no light in her eyes. She wasn’t just sad; she was suffering a mental torture.

I explained to her why I had cut myself off from some of the family and she understood. She complained about her life, the people, and the place. I went and got her ice cream from Brahms and she ate it all but I still saw no happiness. And then she would cry. And then she would drift off to sleep. And then she would wake up and take a minute to readjust to who I was. I was sad.

When it was time for me to go, I took her hand and she sobbed.  I waited a while till she had calmed and told her more about my new life living downtown in a big city till she drifted off to sleep again. At that point I went to the door, looked back, and knew I would never see her again. So I quietly walked back and kissed her forehead and whispered my last goodbye. My being there had brought her no pleasure or comfort. If anything it stirred memories of her life before her fall. I walked to my rental car and I sobbed so deeply that a passerby knocked on the window and ask if I was okay. I had planned to stay three days but I hadn’t found and checked into a hotel yet so I drove to Adams. It was dark by then and I was so mentally exhausted that I went and parked the car back by where the old school was and slept in the back seat of the car till light woke me up.  I took the five minutes needed to drive every street, drove out to where my grandfather was buried, then returned to Amarillo and flew back home.

Today I find joy in the death of my grandmother. But others are weeping at her loss. There is no wrong or right in either. I have lost many people in my short 56 years and have seen every form of grief imaginable. The cocktail of the relationship to the person, our own personalities, the spiritual beliefs we carry, and the manner and timing of the person lost is all mixed differently for each person with each loss. The only wrong way to grieve is to expect others to do it the same as you. The differences we feel towards death are as natural and expected as death itself.


After I got home I kept hearing Honey ask me how she could die. She didn’t ask me like she wanted to kill herself but more of a vocalization that it was what she wanted. I pondered if I was able to mix a sweet drink of death and put it if front of her, if she would drink it. No. She had a strong Christian continence that would not allow her to commit suicide. I daydreamed about mixing my sweet drink of death into a Brahms milk shake but knew I was not brave enough to do so.  This all made me very angry at society’s cruelness to people suffering. When did it become the rule that the sick and saddened were left, or worse – herded into institutions – to exist in their pain? My answer to appease myself at the time was that it was just part of the selfish species we have evolved into. I felt we keep these people tormented because we can’t let them go. I believed the social norm for euthanasia was wrong and mean.

Oddly, I came to peace with the social norm through poodle forums and social media sites. It was also where I came to grasp part of ME being selfish was to believe everyone should have the same view as I.  There was an individual who posted on a lot of sites about his elderly poodle who had gone blind and deaf due to an autoimmune problem with her brain. The owner documented all the problems they were having getting her to “adjust” to waking into walls and not being able to do so much more.  It killed me. My reaction was, “why don’t they put that poor scared dog down?” I saw a suffering animal. But reading the comments, I found many people saw a loving owner saving its sweet animals life.

It became obvious to me the reason for a lot of people being opposed letting a loved one go was not as clear as I thought. While at times it could be an inability to face one’s own pain of losing someone – or a pet, it was often that people believed the suffering felt was worth it because of the love people felt for them. Therefore it was better to be alive and loved then dead and pain free. If you were loved, you had a reason to live.  I could not argue that. I have never suffered enough to judge if knowing that someone loved me would overcome my angst.  I still feel in my heart that euthanasia is compassion and what I personally would want, and is the best thing to do for animals in my care. But I no longer negatively judge other’s view that every second of their loved ones life is worth living for.


I had a dream. I am a night owl and usually don’t get up until noon if I don’t have to. So if I say I had a dream last night, for me it would be a dream occurring late morning as we remember the last one we have.  I dreamt I was in Adams. I was barefoot and had my cell phone in my back pocket. And I was very aware of snakes being present in the grass and rocks.

In the first of my dream I was walking around the streets of the town. I walked over to the “highway” that passes one edge and the flat prairie looked so pretty. I took out my cell phone and tried to take a picture but I couldn’t get one that didn’t have power lines in them. It frustrated me. I then walked down the street that lead to the church where my grandfather use to let me ring the bell. I was still looking down to make sure I didn’t step on a snake. Then I noticed there were homeless people living in the chicken coops along the way. In waking state I found this was odd because I don’t remember a chicken coop in Adams at all. I turned to go to the grain elevator to take a picture of it because I heard it was leaning like Pisa. I got there and there was something on fire that I couldn’t get by to take the picture. A man rode by on a horse and didn’t even say hello.

Then my dream snapped to my grandmother’s house. But it was modern and nice. Not the wooden falling down home from reality. My cousin from California was there with her two children.  Honey was cooking us something. She didn’t speak in my dream. She was just there. My cousin and I were talking about all the great places we had been and things we had done. Then I woke up.  I had no idea at the time Honey had died and analyzed the dream of being how uneasy I was in my past and how it had darkness in it and how now, like my cousin, I had escaped to a new exciting present where things were new and there were happy things – represented by Honey cooking, the bright lovely home, and the shared experiences with the family I enjoy.

When I read the text Honey had passed probably before or the same time I had the dream I, I had to remind myself to breath. This was the second time. This was another amazing coincidence.

Back in collage, I dated a young man who I still feel was my soul mate.  I was going to a university six hours away from where he lived and he had come to visit me. During the visit, he had two minor and one major stroke. He was in his 20’s. There is a long story involved, but when his parents were able to get him back close to them, they put him in a therapy rehabilitation home and told him I had not tried to find him – that he was half paralyzed and I was too selfish to want to see him anymore. Meanwhile they were telling me he blamed me for his stroke as I stressed him out and he never wanted to hear from me again. He sued the hospital he was at in the collage town and it took a couple of years before the suit moved ahead enough to need me for a deposition. He was there and it is when we discovered what his parents had done. BUT: I was married and pregnant by that time.  We were a Romeo and Juliet without the death scene at the end.  Years later, I woke up one morning remembering a very vivid dream. In my dream I was living in New York. He came to see me and we went out on the balcony of the tall building to talk.  We discussed how we still loved each other but had changed too much to ever be together. Then he kissed my cheek and flew off the balcony.  Not flew so much as floated.  It was an odd but calming dream.

A few hours passed and the phone rang. It was an elementary school friend I hadn’t spoken to for decades. She told me that Jeff, my love, had killed himself during the night. A feeling I can’t put a name to came over me. I was heart broken. And it was an amazing coincidence that I had that dream that night.

When I told people about the timing of the dream a lot were convinced he had come to say goodbye. Or they believed God sent me the dream to help me deal with the impending sorrow. But my mind works like Spock: logic, math, science, proof, statistics. I can only feel both dreams were coincidences.

Here is another difference I except in others. I never mocked or argued with people who believed I was sent an angel or a message from God or Jeff. Honey was an angel and very well could be being kissed on the forehead by Jesus as we speak and anyone who feels my dream last night was actually my grandmother coming to give comfort in cooking me a last meal could very well be right. Everyone has the right to believe in what gives them peace.  Everyone should be encourage to embrace those beliefs: even if the belief is in coincidences that appear to be mystical or heaven sent. The desired end result of our thoughts and feelings should be healing to ourselves without hurting others.

My hope is that this post makes you think of the way others view things and find acceptance with these differences.  My story is just that. It isn’t right. It isn’t wrong. It is mine. And I honor your story. However it is written, it is perfect for you. Honey’s story was perfect even with the pain and sorrow because it was meant to be. And I love her always for the love she gave.

The Life of An International Playboy

His name is Sherlock. No Ship Sherlock Shane Sepahpur to be exact.  And can that boy ever play!!! He plays with my dirty socks. He plays with his reflection in the glass at night. He plays with opossums that are playing dead. He plays with my mind. If it exists he can probably find a way to play with it. He is one of the biggest players on earth. Sorry Charlie Sheen and Tiger Woods. You just don’t have as much game.

Sherlock chill'n.jpg

But what makes this dude international? Well, to start with, his father was frozen sperm from Canada flown down to Texas to be “introduced” to his USA mom’s egg. His conception started and finished in two different countries. Now unless you and your honey are going to take a blanket and a bottle of wine and find a nice spot to lay between North Dakota and Saskatchewan, good luck achieving the same multinational start to a life.

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Even Sherlock’s DNA has an international dispute to it. Many sources state the origin of the poodle was Germany where it was know as the Pudelhund – a water retriever.  However, the French absconded with the credit for the poodle saying it was a cross between their breed the Barbet and a Hungarian water dog. Germany was in no mood to go to war over the creation of the breed and let France take credit. Strangely enough, Hungary wanted no part of the debate as they were to busy growing cords on their Komondors to give a flip. So, history clearly shows the Standard Poodle as being German, adopted by the French, and shrunk down by the clever Brits. Sherlock’s genes got around Europe like the plague.

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What has Sherlock done to maintain his history of international origins? He has become a mini star across the oceans and continents.  Sherlock originally appeared nationally in his home country of the US with an odd flash during the NBC sports broadcast of the Belmont Stakes.

His second appearance was only seconds longer a British show called Dogs That Make You Laugh Out Loud. Below is a clip of him barking and reacting to the CD. What a loon!!!

That was followed up by a second US flash at fame on the Jimmy Kimmel Show.

He was back to England where the show Harry Hill’s Tea Time paid for some of his work. I am still waiting to get footage from the production company so enjoy a few pictures of him having tea and biscuits without Harry Hill instead (isn’t it sweet he is sharing his biscuits with Shasta?)



Then the Netherlands and a T-mobile commercial was where he showed up next. Don’t blink. you will miss him.

And those were just the TV spots. Blogs picked up his video. From Germany to Brazil to the US where the AKC featured it and it was picked up by I ♥ Dogs; he was networking the net.

Sherlock’s second video to go simi-viral also had viewers from all over the globe. Below is the video and a screen shot of the last of the 195 pages of countries that the video was viewed in. I don’t even know where St. Pierre & Miquelon are although Youtube says they are in North America. Over 170,000 people managed to view him getting his excitement on for a cartoon. 

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For added fun, one of his pictures was picked up by a group of Photo-shoppers. They did some really fun pics but I only manage to download a few before the link disappeared.  It seems he has spent time on the catwalk in Paris, being an awful au pair in Australian, and appearing on Broadway.

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babies daddy

broadway babie
So this playboy needed to do what international entertainers do: move to a different country other than that of his birth. So here is my German/French Poodle who is half Canadian and half American from the Untied States living in our little Mexico village where he he dines on Italian, Indian, Brazilian, French bakery yummies, Sushi, German, Thai, American burgers, Canadian poutine and of course, Mexican – which he swears tastes better if stolen from someone else plate from a hiding place under the table.

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He truly is a dog of the world!

Not Just Another Day, Not Just Another Dog, Not Just Another Dusty Chicken…

Grooming day!!! The day only day I am dog free and I can go eat at a restaurant that doesn’t allow dogs and get major errands done. I needed furniture. Specifically a sofa. My bony butt can’t handle the willow bench any more that has been the only seating option since I moved months ago to Mexico.

I first headed to treat myself to a lunch at a canine free establishment the Spoos never let me go. I scarfed down a serving of green bean and baby potato salad in an amazing vinaigrette and a steak sandwich with grilled chipotles. Then I remembered I was really craving the chicken mole at another pup banned place. Oh well – the next grooming day.

I went to a few furniture stores before I made the command call that I was going to have to go with the custom made sofa because nothing was ringing my bells. But, in the process I found “the bird.”

The Ajijic Plaza has this one story tall kinetic bird sculpture that I have loved. You can kind of see it in the picture picture of the square in the bottom near center. Not long ago I saw a smaller one at a sale but it had been purchased. I was bummed.

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I believe the bird’s head is missing. That is quite okay. I lose mine a lot. (I could not find the name of the photographer to give them credit. If you know who took this, let me know so I can give them their due.)

But what did I find at one of the furniture stores??? I have named him Cromwell. He is temporarily placed by my table sold to me by a couple because they were moving back to the States. I had gone to their place hoping to buy their sofa 🤪

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Cromwell the bird. I have not named the guy who looks like he is constipated or the horse. I’m working on it.

Celebration of finding my rocking crane called for chicken mole. That’s right. I ate two lunches in a three hour time period. Gangstas need that chow. My solution to my bony butt on the bench is to fatten up that fanny

I still had two hours before picking up the Spoos. I decided to go check out an area I hadn’t explored yet. When I arrived in Ajijic, someone told me it was impossible to get lost. If you went too far one way you hit the lake. If you went too far the other way you hit the mountains. I ended up lost…

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Here is the lay out. Mountain (I call them hills as I have spent my fair share in the Rockies,) to the North. The lake to the South. The lake is 50 miles long so I have yet to get lost and ended up on the other side of it.

…on the opposite side of the mountains. I have no idea still after staring at google maps how I did it. But, all of a sudden I noticed the mountains to the south. Ummm – the lake is always to the south. Time to pull over and figure out if Waze knew Mexico. I pulled up at the groomers right at 5:00 pm and still confused as to where I had been.

The dog’s groom looked great. So that wasn’t going to last. I got home and they went into zoomies. Sherlock went into one of his spin jumps just as Shasta hit him full force. Sherlock slammed into the edge of the steel driveway gate where it rubs on the bushes when it opens. Hence the green line on Sherlock’s hip. He went down with a horrid yelp.

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Speaking of bony butt… A few have messaged me concerned about Sherlock’s weight. He is four years old and has always been skin and bones.  I have tried everything and he has been through countless vets and testing and he has always been extremely healthy. He eats higher quality food than I do and a lot of it. If you go to the movie section of this blog you will see he burns two calories for every one he eats. I promise this is not an abused or sick dog. Just ADHD (emphasis on the H,) deluxe.

I ran over, picked him up, put him in the car, loaded Shasta, and headed to the vet. Sherlock laid still during the short five minute drive. Sherlock laying down is never a good sign.

I got to the vets (where they are also groomed,) jumped out, ran in, and told the vet Sherlock was in the car and couldn’t stand up. She went to the car with me and when I opened the back hatch, Sherlock was spinning and jumping in circles like he always does. If it wasn’t for the stain on his back end I’m sure she would have thought that I was one of the worst over-reactors on Earth. She poked it and moved it around and said to see how he was in the morning. Darn dog!

And this is where the dusty chicken comes into play. There is a roadside stand where a man grills nothing but chicken. The locals call it dusty chicken because it use to be on a dirt section of the road and the passing cars coated the chicken as it grilled making a most yummy crust. It is like crack – meat meth. You have it once and you are hooked

It was a dusty chicken that the Spoos stole off the counter after their their last groom. I was unloading everything and made the mistake of bringing the chicken in first. Spoos are smart. Together their IQ adds up higher than mine. Unless I put a roasted chicken in a vault, it will be theirs. Now, let me add that the dusty chicken comes with some roasted hot peppers and onions. When I finished unloading the dogs were not to be found. I discovered them in the back bathroom like this:

It was clear which one ate the one missing pepper and that they had both shared in the chicken. All that was found was the two onions and one remaining pepper. One thing that was not remaining was the plastic bag the chicken was in. Crud! One or both ate the plastic along with chickens and bones.  I called the vet who recommended giving them white bread and watching them for signs of a problem. They got their bread and so did I as now toast was the only thing left for me for dinner. That night I wearily crawled into bed after being on poop vigil. On my pillow was the inside-out chicken bag. They put the evidence in the last place I would see for the day. They knew my anger would be long gone by then. “I love my dogs, I love my dogs, I love my……”

So fast forward back to the day Sherlock hurt his hip and Cromwell came into our life. The vet/groomers is right across from the dusty chicken stand and the smell has lured me in every time we left grooming or vet care before. But since they ate it – bones and all – last time I had decided there would be no pollo for them that as I had left grooming the first time. But, as I looked in the rear view mirror as I backed out of the vets after his “injury” I saw Sherlock standing with his leg up looking miserable. It might not have been broken but he was in pain. He needed chicken crack to make himself feel better. I stopped for a chicken – minus onions and peppers.

It was only after we got home and dug into our treat that it hit me he was holding up his front leg which he has done since a puppy as one of his cute begging poses. I was sure I had been played.

“Look into my eyes. You are getting very sleepy. Now count backwards from ten. When you get to one, the bacon will fall from your hands and you will have no memory of making bacon.”

Regardless, after my two lunches, I still enjoyed my share of the score. Birds win the day!


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I have named the constipated guy Congress. As showy as he is, he hasn’t done a thing since I have known him. And the horse is named A Horse With No Name because I’m just not all that clever these days. 

How Mexicans Treat This Gringa Fool With Kindness

Mexicans know how to do magic. Fortunately they choose to use their powers for good not evil.

I went exploring in the car with the dogs today. I was taking random streets of a village two over from mine and enjoying the vibrant lively neighborhoods. I was paying close attention to directional signs because so many streets are so narrow there is only room for cars in one direction. I saw an arrow pointed the way I wanted to go and went.

I was thrilled to see a painted mural at the top of the hill. The murals here are bright colored eye candy. It even looked like on this one they had painted the road to look like steps. But then I got closer I saw that the street did in fact turn into steps.

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I kept driving upward looking for a place to turn around and it soon became clear there was none. I’m an awful back-er-upper and it was a longish steep narrow road so I decided my tiny car could manage to maneuver turning in just the street area.

If you look at the photo, you will see I managed to get my car at about a 45 degree rotation before I was stuck. Couldn’t go forward, couldn’t go backwards. Oh Sh$& !!! I had no flicking clue what I was going to do. I got out of the car and just stared numbly until the Spoos saw a street dog and barked me back to reality. I regret not taking a picture of how wedged in I was from the outside of the car. It truly was dumbfounding.

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At that point the clock turned two. A very important thing happens every day at two: construction workers take lunch. Four men came out of the area you see with the locked chain fence. A conversation ensued of which I understood zero but did gather they were very amused – with the Spoos…

It took a little miming to get them to see I was asking for them to help me get unstuck. I got back in the car to watch as they told me how far I had until I hit a wall and which way to turn the wheels. But they all seemed to be indicating something different and confusing me so I got out and motioned for one of them to get behind the wheel.

At this time I took the dogs out so the driver wasn’t afraid of getting bit and three of the guys were petting and fussing over them. When I turned around, the fourth guy had my car pointed in the right direction! Magic!!!! I tried to pay them some pesos and they refused. I guess the selfies with the dogs and the story about the dingy American told over the dinner table was enough reward.

I took the dogs home and should of called it a day. Heck, I should have called it a year. Instead I headed to Superlake.

Superlake is a grocery store that caters to people living here from north of the border by carrying US/Canada brands and packaging in English. It also charges an arm and a leg and three toes.

I have tried to wean myself off this highway robbery but my ventures into buying items in true Mexico stores based on the picture on the box can/have been solid fails. I bought cookies that were like communion wafers with Elmer glue filling and tuna that turned out to be a can of oil with four or five seafood chunks that I prayed weren’t dolphin. My only success had been cheese but that had taken a long time to get right. I stood for probably 20 minutes watching what everyone else was buying, comparing it to the rest of their basket, and deducing who had like tastes with me. BTW – all cheese here is white. Just like god intended.

Anyhow, I digress greatly. I finished my Superlake shopping, paid the king’s ransom, and headed to the car with a basket full of good ole USA dyes, trans fats, corn syrups, and artificial additives. I had to park way down from the store so I started my trek. The sidewalk was busy so I pushed my cart down into the street and was clipping at a good pace.

Then I hit the invisible wall. The nice paved street in front of Superlake turned back into cobblestone streets of my quaint Mexican village and three of my cart wheels jammed in the crevices between stones. The video below of the dogs show what kind of street I thought I could push a 20 year old wobbly-wheel cart over.

My purchases were heavy so when I started trying to wrench the basket loose it was having none of it. I was aware a lot of other shoppers were watching this lucha libre match I was having with my trolly. I started looking for a cobblestone crevice big enough for me to hide in. No such luck.

Suddenly two men swooped in and started grabbing my bags. Being an American, my first reaction was that they were vultures swooping down on a dead-in-the-road animal and I was being robbed. Then the bi-lingual man said, “which car is yours?” Lighting quick – like magic – they unloaded the items into my car and freed the cart I now call Willie.

I tried to offer them each a cash reward but again they wouldn’t take it. So I walked over and gave the money to the indigenous woman selling needlepoint cloths by the sidewalk. This action caused the non-English speaker to slap me on the back like I had just scored a goal for the local soccer team and then start talking a mile a minute to me. I understood muy bien so I knew he was okay with my move of giving their reward to the old woman but then I thought he said something about a turkey with chicken pox roller skating in Tibet. I really REALLY have to hire a Spanish tutor.

So these were My Mexican Magicians of Mercy today. Now one more unrelated story…

This morning my Architect came by. The day before I had lost my redhead temper about furniture scratches and all the dust mess the remodelers were leaving. He calmed me down and promised to make everything right.

So, buddies once more I was showing him my new fancy vacuum sweeper. In the demonstration process, he watched as I had a hard time getting two “easy release” buttons to work. Then, in my zealousness of showing off the hand held canister feature, I rammed the vacuum into the furniture, hitting the release button just right, and dumping a very full waste container all down my leg and onto my foot and floor. It was all white construction dust. Again!!! If I had thought to take a picture! My foot looked like Pennywise’s face. Now who needed to be scolded?

All-in-all a day of complete humiliation – but it has me basking in the glow of human kindness. What a warm magical glow it is!!!

My dogs will be the death of me!

For three months after I moved to Mexico I didn’t have a car. But, with the lovely weather and amazing visuals, the dogs and I loved the walks to restaurants, stores, and the plaza.

eye candy
Some of the eye candy we pass on walks here in Ajijic.

Wanting the full no-car experience, I decided to carry a load of laundry to the place that was doing my washing as I waited for the remodel to reach the point of building the room for the washer/dryer. The place is up the mountain a short way on a very busy main road but there is a path cut out so you don’t have to walk close to traffic.

I threw the bag of clothing over my shoulder and embarked with the dogs. When we came around a corner there was a horse tied to one side of the path munching.

Horse on path
It seemed we had plenty of room to pass!

I assumed the horse was on a short rope. I assumed my dogs would halfway behave walking past it. I assumed the horse would ignore us. Wrong wrong and wrong again.

As soon as we got about 15 feet away the horse decided to trot over and say hello. The pups were fine until it started running to us. Then Sherlock decided to eat it and Shasta decided to run for cover. I was a wishbone.

Lugging laundry, with Shasta trying to pull me into the weeds and Sherlock trying to get us under some hooves, I tried to drag both of them quickly up the rocky hill – in flip flops. As we passed, the horse suddenly came to the conclusion it didn’t want to be neighborly any more, spooked, and took a poorly aimed and half-hearted kick at the white cotton ball that was pretending it was a wolf. But we came through unscathed.

On the return trip we found the horse still there and would have to do the same dance but I was free of my donkey load, prepared to keep the dogs short leashed beside me, and figured downhill was easier. I assumed it would go better.


This time the horse was ready for bad behavior from the two very tiny horses. It laid its ears back and did a little pawing and a lot of snorting. This for some reason scared Sherlock and made Shasta want to run up to play with it. Sherlock headed for the weeds and Shasta took off for the horse. As I was prepared for the opposite I got wishboned again and this time drug them rapidly down the hill.

I stopped to get a picture of the horse. I was panting and shaking so bad it was hard to dig my camera out of my purse. But when I did, I looked down and saw Frick’n Frack as calm as cucumbers not at all winded. They were looking at the horse like “no big deal!”

No big deal
I’m dying and they are easy breezy 🙁

Horses are part of what makes this place special. The Spoos are just going to have to learn barn etiquette.  Or I am going to have to start working on my upper body strength more. Just another day in poodle and pony Paradise.

double parked horse
Not an unusual site at all here.

big horse
Yes, that horse is as taller than the trucks. And no, it isn’t a parade. It is just another weekend by the lakeside.


The Spoos Move to Mexico!!!!!

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It has been a while since you have heard from me (Momma Mim,) and Shasta, and Sherlock. That is because it is hard to find time to peck at a keyboard when deciding where, when, and how, to start a great adventure. The first question I usually get when I tell people my adventure is permanently moving to a new country is “WHY?” This requires a blog post of it’s own and I will address it later. But the important thing is: we are here!!! Our adventure in Ajijic, Mexico is well underway!

Once I decided it was time to leave the USA it was easy to make a list of the “wheres.”  Paris, Rome, Barcelona, Adelaide, Vienna, Helsinki, Melbourne, Singapore, Stockholm, Luxembourg…. Then I started researching living expenses for the places on my list. One by one I saw I would have to choose between the city of my dreams or luxuries like toilet paper and a home with electricity. So I started a new list.

Affordable countries were reveled through research: Croatia, Panama, Portugal, Mexico, Vietnam, Ecuador, and Morocco all made the cut. I loved the idea of Split, Croatia so that is where I started my search. Split is amazingly beautify and is indeed affordable to live in but most of the expats are German and the locals seemed to be either depressed or withdrawn.  I did go in the off-season when the tourist dollars weren’t abundant so that may have had something to do with it. I also decided that the plane flight was too far to be able to go back and forth visiting the states with the dogs as they are so large they have to fly cargo.

The long-flight dread made me cross off Portugal, Vietnam, and Morocco. I was down to Panama, Mexico, and Ecuador. Diving deep into expat forums for Ecuador and talking to people living there, I discovered some deal breakers that I hadn’t seen when just researching the country and reading the glowing articles about moving there. Next on my list – Panama.  Everything about it sounded perfect until I got to the part about the weather. I could not see moving my Spoos to a place so hot and humid year round. We had already struggled in Houston, TX during the summer months as we couldn’t walk on sidewalks except early morning and late evening.  And, they refused to wear the hiking boots I got them. So….Mexico here we come.

I first checked out Mexico City. Love love love!!! The drawback was Mexico City is like any other city – fast paced.  And since I do not know how to speak Spanish, I found myself holding up lines, lost, and frustrated.  A large portion of people in the area I was in spoke English but as they were living the rat race, it was hard to find someone with time to help me out.  Don’t get me wrong. Mexican people are so kind anyone would have stopped and given help if I asked; but, I just didn’t want to be constantly intrusive.  It was clear I would have to find a smaller village to live in while I learned Spanish and then move to Mexico City.

I immediately crossed off any of the tourist beach towns as I don’t like even myself when I’m a tourist in Mexico. The idea of living with a bunch of loud drunk Americans cycling in and out of my town was shudder worthy.  This resulted in a list of four places that appealed to me where there was a large enough population of English speaking expats to assure an easy transition. They were Puebla City, Ajijic, San Miguel de Allende, and Merida.  I bought my ticket for Ajijic because I like to do things alphabetically and off I went.

The minute my taxi drove over the hill and I could see Lake Chapala I felt like I may had found home. The next day, walking the malecon and having coffee in the plaza, I KNEW I was home. The search was over.  I felt it in my heart. The sights, sounds, smells, and tastes delighted me and the friendliness of the people gave me a huge sense of joy.  I looked for the negatives but they seemed so small that a gentle breeze could blow them away.   I started house hunting the second day there, found one the third day, and spent the rest of the week falling further in love with Ajijic (even though I had no idea how to pronounce the name of my new love.)

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The next decision was the “when.” I knew I did not want to move during the heat of summer. I also knew because of the oil recession, homes took about three months to sell in Houston then one month for the buyers to close on the house. I got out my fingers and counted. September would be when it would finally be cool enough to move enough to move.  It was the last week in May. Perfect time to list the house to have a moving date around the end of September. The house went on the market.

That is when all heck broke loose. The first day the house was listed, seven people came to look at it. Five of those seven made offers. Four of those five started a bidding war. The one winner could close in three weeks. Liars!!! Oil obviously was not as recessed and buyers repressed as the news let on.  Oh – and the house I found on day two in Mexico fell through.  I found myself on the internet looking at houses and found one with pretty pictures. So I did what any insane person who was moving to a country where she didn’t speak the language or know anyone would do: I bought it sight unseen.

The buyers of my Houston home sweetly let me back rent my house in Houston for a couple of weeks so I had five weeks to pack/sell/give away my belongings, get a Mexican visa, wrap up business, attend to dogs healthcare, deal with friends and family who watch too much TV (“you will get kidnapped;” “you will die of infection when you go to the dentist;” “Mexicans are rapists and murders [fu$%^&# Trump;]…….) and learn to say, “help me. I have lost my mind” in Spanish.  Somehow I did it all WITHOUT losing my mind or any fingers, (although the finger loss came close.) But of course, I did it all in the heat of Houston’s summer.  I have never been one to time things well. No matter how much effort I put into it.

The “how” to the move was something I changed my mind on daily for the first few weeks.  I knew my belongings would go with a professional moving company as I had no desire to drop box after box on my toes.  But getting the dogs and I down there was problematic. I found out my car could not be nationalized in Mexico, (I envisioned a ceremony with a bunch of cars raising their right tires and swearing their allegiance Mexico roads and mine not being able to because she was of Japaneses descent) so I would have to drive it to the boarder every six months if I wanted to keep it. Heck no. The only time I drive anywhere every six months is when I go to the grocery store (I don’t cook so every six months works well.)

So, I could rent a car, leave it at the boarder, walk the dogs across to Mexico, rent another car, then buy a new one after my visa paperwork was finished. Or I could fly then buy a new car. Options with less steps always have appealed to me so to the sky we were bound. I bought my ticket and purchased two cargo tickets for Sherlock and Shasta. Easy breezy – NOT. I got an email after a few days that because of the crate size of the dogs and the size of the airplanes that flew into Guadalajara, only one could go on the plane at a time. The option to ship one on a flight ahead was given but, that meant the dog flying alone would have to go through cargo customs as opposed to inter-airport customs.  It was not an option for either of my babies to spend the night in a customs office alone. So, since I’m a brain sturgeon, I came up with my flight plan. I would fly someone from Ajijic to Houston to fly back with my one of my kiddos.  After all my back and forth between flying and driving, flying was written in stone.

At first I stressed day and night about flying my dogs cargo. There were so many horror stories – so I thought. Turns out there were just a few horror stories as documented because the airlines are required to keep records of animals being lost or croaking in flight and the numbers were very very low.  People just tend to tell the same stories over and over adding, “a friend of mine” before each to make it seem like millions of animals take off into the wild blue to never return again. It is SAFER to fly your dog than to drive unless you have a short snout dog.  Dogs die in car crashes, are stolen from cars when owners stop to eat, or get loose and ran over at pit stops way more often than being harmed in flight. But no one has a friend who tells the story of how they were side swiped at red light and Fido died when you mention your driving your dog to the dog park with you.

I followed the instructions of doing the paperwork to a tee and even had Spanish speaking vet tech review it all.  I got the proper sized crate and secured it like instructed.  Dropping off the dogs, filling out the paperwork, having them and the crate looked over, and saying sweet long goodbyes was so easy.  The problem came with me flying – not them.  Shasta and the young lady I had flown in to fly with her had zero problems. My flight was the last of the day and I had checked Sherlock in with ease. But when I went to check in, I was told because my gate had changed and my seat was not assigned yet, I would have to go to the customer service counter to get my seat assignment.  The line to customer service was insane because of the “last flight” time period (I stood there for a total of 75 minutes,) and everyone who was bumped or on canceled flights were taking forever to get on a plane the next day.  I waited until 20 minutes before my flight then said, “screw it” and ran to the gate to plead my case (which I had tried once already and was sent back to customer service.) I was told I had no seat on the flight. My dog was being loaded into the cargo hold and United had failed to get me a place on the plane.  I started crying telling them to get my dog off the plane or get me on.  People started taking out their cell phones to record the drama. One nice woman offered her seat as she was a dog lover and couldn’t imagine a dog at baggage claim over night without an owner.  Five minutes before they shut the door, they “found” me a seat. Turns out it was assigned to me all along but hadn’t been synced??? Yeah right 🙁

As soon as I was seated the flight attendant notified me the captain had been told there was a dog in the cargo area and my baby was fine as reported by baggage.  Once again, the dog was SO cared for. I was put through hell. When we got to Guadalajara it was after midnight. Sherlock’s crate was so big it wouldn’t fit through any of the luggage doors so they had to find a person with security clearance to open a people sized door.  I could see through the window and there were a group of people around him sticking their fingers in his crate, and from looking at their body language, making baby talk in Spanish to him. As soon as they got him in, the customs vet looked at his papers then took us to a small room to examine him.  Everything went smooth.  As it was late, the vet even helped me get my luggage and the big crate through the rest of customs.  Sherlock danced out of his crate when we got out of the airport and peed his first Mexico pee on a patch of lovely green grass outside the terminal.

We had our arranged driver take us to pick up Shasta and then we went to our cute Airbnb (I still had to sign papers on the house so we Airbnb’ed it for three days.)  The dogs were no worse for wear from the trip.  The joy of the new smells and new sights had them prancing on air. And they didn’t miss one single night hogging a king sized bed and making me sleep on the edge.  The adjustment to the new house went even better as I think they sensed my ease at being home.

So here we are, six months later and mind boggling happy. I treat culture shock as learning experiences and laugh when things go wrong because they always go wrong in such a way that I feel like I am living a sitcom.  I will add some of the experiences I have been sharing with another forum and keep you all up to date on living and loving Mexico.

La maleza vuela al sur cuando truena. I think that means “Wishing you all happiness and health;” in Spanish. (I have only had time to look through chapter one of “Learning Spanish in One Afternoon.”)

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It’s In My Mouth Monday – I’m a Nature Lover: Don’t Hate Me.

Sherlock writing today.

I love nature. That might surprise many of you who think standard poodles are prissy and don’t like to get out and get dirty. Well let me tell you: we were bred to hunt and hunt I do.

The problem arises though when I bring my treasures I found outside inside. Momma Mim is funny about this. She gets to bring in things like plants in pots and and sticks she puts in vases that she calls decor. But when I bring in decor she huffs and puffs and throws it back out. For example, I brought in this little stick.

tiny stick

Momma Mim said it was debris and threw it back outside. I don’t know what debris is but I certainly know it doesn’t belong outside. That was a little stick out of a bird’s nest and it had the best smells on it. I figured Momma Mim didn’t like it because it was so small so the next time I found a bigger one.

bigger stick

And still she frowny faced and took it back out. Just because I don’t have a vase to stick it in doesn’t mean it isn’t decor. I decided to try something different. I found a great leaf.

mouth leaf

It was all crunchy and delicate. I loved it. But MM said I was naughty. I don’t get it? I’m helping. I found another really neat yellow leaf and brought it in. I heard MM coming so I tried to pass it off to Shasta. She would have none of it and once again I was in trouble.
I thought I had figured out what the problem was. MM was really picky about decor. So I needed to switch tactics. Instead of vegetation, I would bring in animals. MM loves animals! Wrong!!! She really lost it when I brought in my new nature find.

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Boy did she get upset. She said I was not allowed to bring anything inside at all. She gave me my squirrel and told me that was my limit as to rodents in the house.

fake squirle

That was the last straw. If she won’t let me bring nature in, I’ll just go live outside. I am already putting my decor outside. Let’s see if she huffs now.

outdoor toys

She is one hard woman to live with!!!

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