CRASH! BOOM! CRASH again. Burglar?! Rapture?! Unfortunately buglers nor Jesus himself squeak so it must be a….RAT. Just my luck, I’m really starting to get used to this whole being woken up at 3am thing. Lucky for me everything that is about to take place involved me in bed, observing the chaos from afar.

Like any home owner, we always tend to experience unwanted visitations quite frequently. Some from the annoying neighborhood children, your parents, and other times, some of these unwanted guests just waltz right in! Like a Mouse, or a Rat for instance. Very low maintenance guests,  but there is something mighty creepy about rodent vacancy, no?

I was sound asleep, dreaming about Brad Pitt and Pina Colada when all of the sudden I hear a loud “squeak” Surprised? No, experiencing retinal disturbance from what happens next, yes. Next thing I know, the doggy door swings open violently, and BAM a rat in my bedroom, or perhaps a severely deformed chiauaua? Nope, it was definitely a rat because my psychotic cat was right behind the not so little monster.

At this point I’m beating my husband with a rolled up magazine trying my hardest to awake the beast. After a few swats on the head he pops right up confused as all hell. Meanwhile I’m screaming in the background, the cat is storming around the bedroom like a damn cheetah, while a giant squeaking rat leads the way.

I thought maybe he would try to map out a plan of execution before taking affirmative action but,  his fight or flight senses took charge. Then and there my darling was chasing the animals in boxer shorts and my high heels….PAUSE: does he have any idea how expensive those are?! Probably not because I bought them on his credit card! I guess that’s the least I can do…

Sadly those were the only shoes close enough and who wants their toes taken off by a rat?  After a good ten minutes of chasing the bastard, my husband was able to trap the rat, and himself in our extremely small bathroom. How they ended up in there is still unclear to me, but nevertheless, he was one step closer to ending this chaos once and for all! I spoke too soon….. Now he was banging on the walls for me to let him out of the bathroom and at the same time trying to lure the rat inside the trash can. I was terrified that maybe the rat had already bit him and he was experiencing some sort of zombie effect! if I open the door will they both bite me?! I got on my knees and prayed for the safety of my husband (and my heels RIP).

After one hour of sheer mayhem my hero some how managed to capture the rat! We took the trash can outside and off he went into the dark hills, free to roam someone Else’s bedroom at 3AM.  All was well, except for how pissed off the cat was. I could tell if he could shake his head and spew curse words at the same time he would of.  Let this be a lesson to all of you, rat and cats=husbands in heels!

I swear, my pets are going to send me straight to the hospital one of these days. It’s either going to be my pets or my husband doing the sending…I can’t tell. Have you ever noticed that men always enter chaotic animal situations with good intentions, and unfortunately just make the whole ordeal ten times worse? Me too!

It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon and our three lovely pups were basking in the sun. I think they knew how schitzo the weather had been this year, and really needed to catch up on some serious summertime naps. Bella and Zoey, the gigantic slices of bullmastiff bread, were sandwiching our professional snack thief, the hot link basset hound Mr. Clouseau.

Given that it was an average day, I must’ve been doing the dishes or cleaning up massive piles of doggie dung… I can’t quite recall. Anyhow, out of nowhere, Pepe Le Pew crawled out of the bushes! Like clockwork, the dogs awoke and sprinted towards Pepe. Like clockwork, Pepe the skunk sprays the dogs. Like clockwork, my husband automatically thinks letting the pups in the house would probably be the best idea.  At this point, all five of us were franticly running in circles as the putrid spray was passed from canine to human to our new furniture. My new furniture!!! What would I tell our guests now? ‘Oh yes, it’s a new fragrance from Maui. All the Hawaiians are wearing it. It’s called barf, would you like a bottle?’

EVERYTHING was skunked. I sat in the nauseating stench trying to formulate a plan of action before a nervous break down ensued. Here’s what I came up with:

• Step 1: We go to the store and purchase a shelf full of tomato sauce.
• Step 2: Humans and canines go for a tomato dip.
• Step 3: Bid farewell to the odorific couches.
• Step 4: Success! (I should know better than to assumes such an easy victory)

Without a second thought, my husband and I grabbed the keys and headed straight for the drug store. We needed 4 boxes of rubber gloves, skunk wash, and whatever else would permanently rid my animals of Pepe’s revenge. ‘Why do all of the cashiers keep leaving the counter during our time-constrained dilemma?’, I thought to myself.  ‘Helllooo??? Our house is thrashed and our animals wreak…can I get some help over here?’ Oh wait, WE SMELL TOO! I blame my olfactory deficiency on a deviated septum. My husband…well, he’s not the superior gender so that’s just a biological disadvantage. But seriously, I think the spray had killed any smelling sense left in our bodies at that point. Seeing as how the whole store cleared out within 2 minutes of our grand entrance, we won’t be going back to that place anytime soon.

Hour after hour, wash after wash, this stuff was not coming off! Was it time to just accept this new smell into our house? To live, eat, and sleep in skunk? Just as I settled into my lovely new skunk couch, a light bulb appeared above my head! Eureka! Lets just take the dogs to our local groomers! So simple. So easy. I wonder if they can de-skunk humans too. Five hours and two groomers later, our dogs were de-stenched, and we were banned from both groomers…an exile well worth the loss, I might add.

Two weeks later the skunk was finally out of our lives. My Pepe nightmares have finally subsided, and we have agreed upon a plan of action should this ever happen again. Drop everything and move.

Um, where’s the cat? I should probably start keeping track of how many times I’ve asked that question this year. It’s definitely more than once a day. I’ll tell you that much. But seriously, where the hell is the cat?!

Felines have always been very mysterious creatures to me. They eat, they sleep, they cuddle…and then they go outside and kill a few birds, a lizard, and if given enough wet food maybe a rat or two. It’s fine; they need to re-identitify with their roots (I get it). But once a rabid bird, or the headless lizard enters my humble abode chasing me around my own damn house, that’s when I throw in the towel! So after your occasional in-house lizard morgue and a few close encounters with 3 very curious coyotes. We assessed the situation and decided to convert our rambunctious out-door killer into a loveable house cat.

Yes, my cat. You’re here to make me feel fancy, eat rats, pursue your life long purpose as a world-class cuddler and most importantly, break any tension I may have during awkward conversations. “Were you aware that you child pooped in the pool today?” “CAT”.  I mean, why does he need to be outside anyways! We have a lovely home, not to mention a wonderful 4-story cathouse and some semi S&M cat toys… perhaps they all buy from the same vendor?

It’s a hard job being polite, sarcastic and often time’s an evil mastermind. All of which are never portrayed in those cute little kitty photos. Someone should really photoshop that ball of yarn into a leather couch, no?

As it turned out, changing my cat’s identity would be far more destructive than we had ever imagined. Lets start with ruining the couches and ease into the occasional poop in my dress shoes…pouncing on the children while they eat breakfast and, no matter how hard we try to keep him inside, the snow leopard always ends up OUT! It’s like a broken record between my husband and I alternating the search. I’m starting to wonder if maybe, just maybe all of those animal super hero films are no longer fiction. That was my argument of choice mid-sleep with my husband, a lousy attempt to excuse our kitten search for the night. “No, no he’s probably flying in the sky somewhere saving a life or two!” Being out smarted by your animals gives a whole new meaning to the word “failure”.

In the meantime, I shall work on my methods of outsmarting our cat, and having poop free shoes. Perhaps, investing it a kitty leash will give him that freedom he once had. What a good compromise considering how people that actually walk their cats on a leash, look like idiots.

There comes a time in a dog’s life when she gives up guard-dogging duties, and cashes in on her senior citizen rights. With this transition comes a hefty change in priorities. The days of burglar barking have been replaced with 12-hour naps interrupted only by the occasional pantry pounce.

A typical problem us pet owners run into on a fairly regular basis, at some point in our lives. While we still adore old faithful, duty calls and.. well, we need that sense of comfort in this chaotic suburban world, where our primary enemies are coyotes, skunks and the occasional annoying neighbor.

As weeks went by pondering over our ideal guard dog, we decided to go with none other than another powerful bullmastiff. I mean, honestly, who’s going to mess with a dog the size of a golf cart? Having a dog of that size would not only keep my family protected, but also transport my martinis on their soon to be made doggie tray harness.

As it turns out, Bella the 130+ pound bullmastiff is a big softy. Where is the gatekeeper that was bred to engage poachers and hold them to the ground without mauling them??! Protective my toosh! Would we have faired better importing an elephant from Africa? I mean the poops were quite comparable in size. We witnessed in awe, as our “heroine” scampers howling through the house, tail between the legs with our 5-pound cat in hot-pursuit.

It’s become apparent that our biggest threat is no longer intruders; it’s the potential of Bella eating us out of house and home. It would come as no surprise if I were to walk in the house one day after work to find the beast kissing the faces of a couple of robbers she let into the house. Ferocious protector? Hmm. Unconditional lover? Yes. Although my dream of sun bathing in safety as Bella delivers me a delicious cocktail has faltered, we love her now more than ever.

The Berryhill family would like to present the upcoming feature film, My Fish Tank Sucks! A the zany tale of two exhausted parents and one sleep preventing fish tank.

Well that’s it…that’s my milliondollar idea. It’s no wonder my savings account is missing that extra zero or two. I just wish there was some way to benefit from this persistent problem of ours; the worlds most expensive fish tank that has mechanical seizers at least twice a week. Who knew bubbles could be so violent? This damn fish tank has been the cherry on my disastrous animal sundae for months. I mean, between the dogs, the crazy cat, the skunk, and the kids, a little fish tank malfunction shouldn’t be too hard to handle, right? Wrong.

When my husband and I first moved in together we agreed that a few fish would be a great way to start out our questionable love for animals and, well, just love in general. Playing it safe with fish is usually the first step to any new relationship…a litmus test of love and responsibility (note: I’m trying to make this sound more romantic than the whole situation actually was). In actuality, what fish lack is what makes them so appealing. They lack the fur to shed on your clothes, they lack the ability to pee on your couch, and they lack the vocal cords of their incessantly barking relatives. Throw in the fact that they taste delicious and look great for décor, and we have a winner!

As it turns out, the life of a fish owner is actually quite easy…and uneventful. Who am I kidding this is the world most boring pet. Perhaps we were ready for a new challenge? We had proven our fish ownership skills, so what next? My fish arrogance created some sort of domino effect…fish to cat, cat to dog, dog to dog, and dog to kid. In retrospect, if it weren’t for my fish, I would probably be on a tropical island basking in the sun!

If only my fish were as cute as my fury critters, I would be able to forgive them for being so boring. I swear, what fish lack in cuddlebility, they make up in telepathy. They can hear my thoughts and they react accordingly. Their telepathic vengeance occurs every now and then when the pump “breaks” at midnight. Beware of Nemo, folks. He is much more powerful than what meets the eye!!