He doesn’t like to get his paws wet, if the grass is wet he will hold his piss for days.

He hates squirrels… and they hate him.

Sometimes he sneaks up on to the side of the couch he’s not allowed to lay on.  And when we catch him, he freezes, refusing to look at us….peering at us from the corner of his eye.  Like if he doesn’t move, we wont see him.

He has a lot of doggy nightmares. People who don’t believe dogs dream, and therefore don’t have a conscience, and therefore don’t have a soul, and therefore won’t go to heaven, need to come to my house and watch him sleep. 

He likes bananas.

He likes beer. (and no…we don’t give him beer, he steals it from other boaters at the sand bar)

He likes me better than he likes my husband.

He doesn’t know what “do you gotta go potty” means. After ten years of asking him the same thing every morning, he still doesn’t quite get it.  He cocks his head, and looks at you like you’re talking in the same jarbled language as the “Charlie Brown teacher.” 

He knows what “Where’s the squirrel?” means.

He can’t catch ANYTHING in his mouth to save his life. He’s like the kid on the block that never gets chosen in the neighborhood baseball game, because he can’t catch worth shit.  If you throw him a treat, it usually bounces off  the top of his head, he eats it AFTER it has dropped to the floor.

He likes cats.

He loved his best friend Porky. (another stray cat we had taken in)

He tolerated our Shih tzu dog “Bubba”

He probably really likes my husband better than me.

He’s the best damn dog ever.





This is the story of how Sarge lost his leg….

It was in January of 2002, and it was a very sunny unseasonably nice day out.  After putting Sarge outside, my husband and I left for breakfast. It was his morning ritual to chase squirrels back and forth across the yard. It totally pissed him off the way they would taunt him all the time. He could be snoring comfortably in his favorite over-sized chair, and all you had to do was whisper “Sarge, where’s the squirrel?” He would bolt from his chair like a bat out of hell and run to the window.  He hated them.

So anyway, we let him out to do his business, and left for breakfast. My son was home, so we weren’t worried about leaving Sarge. We had a leisurely breakfast before heading back home. When we arrived, we had a message on the machine….”Hello, this is the Emergency Animal Hospital…your dog has been hit by a car, please call us immediately.”  Our dog had escaped out of the fence, and my son had been searching frantically for him.

We rushed to the animal hospital, and when we arrived we were shocked to find out they had done absolutely nothing for Sarge. He was laying in a back kennel covered in blood, with his front right leg bent awkwardly. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. As the Vet walked past another cage, I ran up to him, asking him why he hadn’t treated Sarge yet. He completely dismissed me… which completely pissed me off.


And the piece of crap vet said, “I have other animals I need to look at first, you aren’t the only one here.”

Now, I realize other animals may have needed attention as well, however, I know for a fact there were only a few cars in the parking lot, and Sarge had been there for several hours. (Yeah, I know..I’ll feel guilty for the rest of my life over that one).

And then, the POS (Piece of Shit) Vet had the nerve to tell me if I didn’t like it I could take him…and leave. My husband proceeded to play peacemaker, forcing me to keep my mouth shut. And anybody that knows me… knows that aint no easy task. Sarge had a large walk in cage, so Dennis and I quickly entered, attempting to calm Sarge as he practically hemorrhaged from his nose. We sat there for at LEAST another half an hour before the POS Vet came back. I asked him if he had at least given Sarge anything for the pain.  And…..he hadn’t. He told us there was nothing we could really do because Sarge’s leg wasn’t broken, it had damaged tendons that may or may not come back. He didn’t seem too concerned about the huge bruise on his side covering his rib cage, or the gash above his eye. He “suggested” we leave Sarge overnight for observation and come back in the morning.  And I “suggested” to him that maybe he should take that stethoscope he was wearing around his neck, and shove it right up his a…”

We carried Sarge to the car, walking back inside to pay the nurse at the front counter for their few hours of housing.  She told us quietly that the Vet had still not given Sarge any medication, apologizing  for not doing more. It was painfully obvious the POS Vet either:  

      A – had a problem with Pit Bulls

 or B – had just broken up with his stripper girlfriend because she had just given him some STD.   

I choose the latter. We took him home with us that night, sleeping with him on a makeshift bed we made for him on the floor of our living room. We honestly didn’t think he would make it through the night.  We called our Vet the first thing in the morning, and rushed Sarge to his office. Our Vet Dr. Stephen Harry aka “The Best Freakin Vet Ever” couldn’t believe the treatment Sarge had received (or should I say… didn’t receive) at the Emergency Hospital. He took X-rays, concluding Sarge had cracked ribs, broken bones in his nose and severed tendons in his leg. He proceeded to give Sarge treatment and medications. We took him back home with us for a long recuperation. Several days later the “The Best Freakin Vet Ever” called us, asking us to tell him again what happened at the Hospital. I repeated my story, and he informed us he was going to report the POS Vet to whom-ever “Great Vets” report “Shitty Vets” to. I was freaking thrilled to hear several weeks later the POS Vet was no longer working at the Emergency Animal Hospital. A little sliver of justice had prevailed. My “Best Freakin Vet Ever” rocks.

Sarge recovered quite nicely….however, the tendons in his front leg never did recover, forcing us to amputate his leg.  Luckily, dogs recover quickly from that type of surgery, and  he continues to run as fast and as gracefully as ever. (Ok, maybe not so much now, since he’s quite a bit older) The squirrels get NO reprieve from the my big galoot.