One of the pitfalls of owning a dog is needing someone to watch the dog when you are out of town. Montana, perfect angel that she is has many uncles and aunties to choose from when we take the (too rare) trip out of town, but not everyone is so lucky.
For the past week the Offender household has hosted Ms. Rascal, a doberman-rottweiler mix. Ms. Rascal is no Montana, lacking the charm and grace that Montana has achieved over the years. Despite their friendship as pups, the two are not getting along well, with fights occurring over who gets to use the dog-bed, lay on the couch, and receive any attention in general.
The skirmishes always begin in the same way. Ms. Rascal will be doing something that she thinks is quite special (such as sitting in the dog-bed) and Montana will glance at her and walk toward her, tail wagging. Rascal's hackles will rise, her gut will issue a growl, and then she will bare her teeth and basically come for Montana. Montana's reaction? "In my house? Oh. No. You. Didn't. Bring it, bitch!" The two go at it far worse than Mariah and Evil Mariah ever did.
Usually these cat-fights are curbed before they ever really begin, with a stern "ladies" issued by Fang or me, but as we cannot be everywhere all the time sometimes they go at it like two high-school girls pulling out chunks of dry over-permed hair over who stole whose tuna-melt. These battles require yanking both by the scruffs of their necks away from one another. An accomplished dog-owner, my left and right arms are usually skilled enough to do this on my own, but Ms. Rascal chose not to relent just recently.
Since pictures of physical injury can be off-putting, we'll put that after the jump with the aftermath.
The dogs have been separated by a baby-gate ever since, staring at one another and whimpering to see each other again. Ms. Rascal will be picked up tonight (just in time for our Olympics party tonight). She won't be coming back.
