Samson

What's up, gang.

Avoid these motherf***ers at all cost.

Remember a couple years ago when we owned a pair of Guinea Pigs?  Remember that?  How we bought them under the pretext that the girls would hopefully learn some responsibility by taking care of them, cleaning their cage on a regular basis, feeding them, etc.?  How after a couple months Kris and I found ourselves cleaning the cage three times a week, and our kids didn't lift a finger in the caring of said rodents, and how we ended up dropping them off at a local pet store in defeat?

The artist formerly known as 'Ricky.'

One of the dumbest things I ever told my kids was that if they would go along with this surrendering of their pets, then we would get a second dog.  I have no idea what motivated me to say something like this, and Kris could've murdered me.  Rest assured, for the next two years the girls regularly asked when we were getting a second dog, and once and awhile Kris and I would go on apps like PetFinder and snoop around.  We never found much, though.

Fast forward to the present.  Kris was browsing a rescue shelter called K9 Stray, down in Oxford, and came across a dachshund mix named Ricky.  This poor son of a bitch had been living on the streets and was picked up by Animal Control somewhere in Ohio (the Butthole of the Country.)  The rescue shelter had received Ricky and had been nursing him back to health, as he was starved and malnourished when they received him:

Ricky, when the shelter first received him from Animal Control.

Since he was a stray, they obviously didn't know his exact age, but they estimated it to be between 1 - 2 years, as he didn't have any of his puppy teeth anymore, but was still very juvenile in his behavior.  Due to his malnourishment over the years, his bones were very weak, and his front legs were underdeveloped, something that the shelter said would improve with a better diet and exercise.  Regardless, he'd would suffer from arthritis for the rest of his life.

How he looked the morning Kris drove down and checked him out.

Kris was very interested in Ricky, as he was described as a submissive and affectionate dog that was good around other dogs and kids, so she had me fill out an adoption application while I was at work and send it in to the shelter.  The very next day, while I was at work, I received a call from the shelter saying that they were interested in us meeting the dog.  Kris fortunately had the day off, so she drove downstate to check him out, with Watson in tow (the shelter requested we bring him as well, just to make sure the dogs got along with one another.)

Watson had to wait in the car while Kris went in first to fill out paperwork and check out the dog.  After awhile, she and a staff member had to bring Ricky outside into 'neutral' territory for the two dogs to meet.  Watson obviously dominated the younger, smaller dog - no surprises there - but they got along great, the shelter was convinced of the fit, and we got the green light.

After filling out a bunch of paperwork, we got ourselves a new dog.  The shelter was really accomodating:  when they found out we didn't have a second dog seat in Kris' van, they sold Kris a really nice dog crate (with bedding) for $7 (they only took cash and that's all Kris had on her at the time.)  They also gave us a collar, a high-end harness, and a leash, free of charge.  Had we bought all this separately on Amazon, we would've dropped at least $100, so the fact we walked out with so much was definitely appreciated.

On her drive back home, Kris and I went back and forth with names for this guy, as neither of us were fans of 'Ricky.'  My top names - Brutus, Sancho, Hugo, Porthos - were all shot down by Kris for being too 'weird.'  Her names - Leo, Frank, Walter, etc. - were just, well, terrible.  Eventually, in the end, I came up with 'Samson,' and that one stuck.

So, anyway, here you go, America - yet another f***ing mouth to feed in the Hough House.

Behold. . .

Samson, set up in the back of Kris' van, getting ready to ride back up to Midland.

Watson isn't so sure about this. . .

By the time Kris got back, I was home from work (some of us work on Fridays.)  She left to go pick up Abby from my mom's house (Alayna was away for the evening at a friend's house), so I was tasked with supervising Watson and Samson as the former showed the latter around the house.  There was a shit-load of barking.

A temporary setup for the time being.

Abby meets Samson. . .

This dude doesn't sit still for shit.

 

There was a lot of this.

Finally calm.

 

Towards the end of the night.  Both of these idiots were worn out.

When it was time to put Samson to sleep (he's gonna be in his crate for quite awhile, I think), Abby deemed it necessary to read him a bedtime story to help him go to sleep.

The next morning, Watson showed the new guy the ropes as to how mornings go around these parts.

Watson definitely gets jealous whenever Samson comes up to me.  I can't so much as pet the new dog without him getting in my face.

Samson has taken a shine to Abby, which is nice because Watson avoids her like the plague.

Snuggle buddies

Alayna finally returns from her sleepover and meets the new dog.  If you think her reaction is lackluster, it's because she had caught wind up of all of this Thursday evening, when she overheard Kris and I talking about dog beds for Samson.  She's a terrible actress.

I went to Home Depot and bought a dog run for the backyard, seeing how are yard isn't completely fenced in.  Not that we need it right now - the dog hates going in the snow.

Welcome to the shitshow, Samson. . .

- Brian

Santa, a Train, and Ninety Minutes in the Freezing Cold

Season's Greetings, cuties.

This Holiday season's been really, really weird, folks.  Maybe it's the fact that it's a week shorter this year, seeing how Thanksgiving fell one week later in November than it usually does - who knows.  Whatever the case, Kris and I have really been dropping the ball with all things Christmas-y this year:  we've been half-assing the whole Elf on the Shelf thing, we haven't gotten around to Christmas Cards yet (not sure if we're even doing it this year, seeing how we're already half-way through December), and the kids haven't even been to frickin' Bronners.

Good grief.

Anyway, we were able to remedy at least one of our parental deficiencies today:  we hauled our kids downtown to Midland's famous Santa House so the kids could greet 'Santa.'  This year was more than a little awkward - neither kid sat on his lap (they're to the age where they're a little too old for that), so they just kinda stood facing him and told him what they wanted.

Midland's City Court House - all decked out to the 9's for the Holidays. . .

Gotta love meet-and-greets with Mr. Claus.

Anyway, here's how we spent that two-hour mandatory Christmas outing.  Kris and the girls got to ride a train, I froze my ass off standing in line for over an hour, and the girls got their last-minute wish items in.

Happy frickin' Christmas, everybody. . .

Downtown Midland and Santa's train.  The Santa House opens up on certain days at 1:30pm, so Kris and I had tried getting the kids out the door by 1:00pm in order to drive down, find a good parking spot, and snag a spot in line before the line backed up too long.  Alas, the girls took forever getting around this afternoon, so we didn't get down there until 1:40 or so.  By that time, the line was backed up down the sidewalk, so I grudingly assumed a position in line while Kris walked the girls down to the train to pass some time.

A train on wheels?  Clearly they don't understand how trains operate up there in the North Pole. . .

The girls didn't have to wait long to board the train - nearly everybody was waiting in line, like me.

More weird selfies with mom.

About an hour later, after the girls' train ride around Midland - and after Kris ran across the street to pick up a couple plates of cinnamon rolls from her church, First United Methodist - the rest of my family joined me in line.  By that point in time, I was right up against Santa's House, about a dozen or so people back from the front.  The kids goofed around in the yard, not wanting to stand around bored in line (can't say I blame them - I was frozen to the bone and bored out of my mind.)

Checking out a one-armed Elf near the Santa sign.

Trust falls.  Why not.

Sisters, bein' weird.

Waiting outside the Red Door for admittance into Santa's crib.

FINALLY inside, after about an hour and fifteen minutes of freezing my ass off outside.  My toes and fingers were numb by this point, which happens all the time now thanks to getting frostbite back in 1998 when I was on my high school ski team - still paying for that one.

It was sooooo awesome being inside where it was warm. . .

The Houghs.  In a big f***ing sleigh.

The girls check out some of the weirdness in Santa's house. . .

These creepy-ass animatronic elves are terrifying. . .

Chaos.

In the queue to see Santa

So are these gnomes, or dwarves?  What the hell do either have to do with Christmas?  I thought that was Elf territory. . .

I look really, really old in this picture. . .

FINALLY.  After an hour and a half. . . 

This is seriously the best picture I could get of her - she didn't even attempt to sit on his lap, she just walked up and he started asking her what she wanted.  I guess she asked for a gold hover board. . . which she is definitely not getting this year.

Abby's turn. . .

Abby asked for a Pomeranian.  Seriously.  Then, after Santa asked if she was sure, she adjusted it to simply 'a new puppy.'  When he asked what she'd like if he couldn't swing that - nicely done, Mr. Claus - she settled on a rosegold karaoke microphone.  Sweet Jesus, I hate kids sometimes. . .

The Hough Girls with Santa

Outside afterwards, for a mandatory picture in front of Santa's House (check out the ridiculously long line - it continues to wrap around out of frame to the left quite a ways, all the way down the sidewalk.)

And, in closing, here's a one-armed Christmas Elf.  You're welcome.

- Brian