sure as shit

We had a brief period of nice weather yesterday morning before the crazy wind hit.  During that time, I took advantage of the warmth by going outside to hang some towels to dry.  While I was out there, I went ahead and started cleaning up some of the accumulated dog crap that the two resident hounds leave in the yard.

Know what I realized?  I managed to hang my clothes line right over the area where the dogs like to poop the best.  There were literally piles of crap all along the length of the clothes line.  It was as if we were keeping a cow or horse or other large animal back there.  Seriously.  I picked up a whole grocery bag full of shit, and that was just from beneath my line.

The question is, have the dogs always mostly crapped along that one line?  Or, did they start doing it after I hung the clothes line last spring?  And, why?  I honestly didn't think dogs were that particular about where they dropped a turd.  I know that hamsters and rodents have a spot in the corner of their cages and whatnot, but dogs?  They aren't supposed to be that sophisticated.

So, there I was, squatting in the yard, cleaning up crap and musing over the location of the dogs' preferred potty line.  What a morning.  I probably looked like I was the one dropping the turds, as I was hunched over, walking along, and stopping every few inches to snag another piece of poo.  At least the grass will be green.

Do your dogs have a poop place, or are mine the only psychotic pooches around?

a sunday rant

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Oh. My. God. If I could just get five minutes of peace and quiet in the morning, I'd be happy. But, I think the only way to make that happen is to get up before everyone else. When Alex insists on getting up between 6:30 and 7 AM every day, including weekends, that seems to be darn near impossible. What can I say? I like to sleep.

This weekend, my husband has been kind enough to get up with the kids both mornings. I really appreciate the extra sleep. But, when I do finally roll out of bed around 8:30 or so, I am bombarded with questions, as if I had been away for days. Today, the kids woke me up by playing catch. Right outside the bedroom door. Throwing a ball. Or, maybe two balls, seeing from the evidence. What fun.

Groggily, I got up, walked down the hall, and around the corner to the kitchen. My plan was to fix a pot of coffee, so I might be a more pleasant person as the day wore on. Do you know what I found? A dog. That is, a dog standing in the middle of the kitchen table. Yes, on top of the table. WTF?

We need to go grocery shopping again today, though we just went yesterday.  Of course, I forgot to buy a couple of things on my mental list.  You would, too, if you only kept a mental list and had to take both kids and your husband shopping.  Distractions, anyone?  Also, I thought we had two more full boxes of cereal in the house, enough to last two weeks.  Upon getting up this morning, I discovered we had half of one.  I swear, my oldest kid would eat every last crumb in the house at one sitting, if given the chance.

photo by gmnonic, via a Creative Commons license

 What do you do?  How much should a nine year old eat?  Should I let him eat whenever he wants, as long as the food is healthy?  Or, should I attempt to moderate his intake?  He is a normal weight (seriously, not just normal for now, but completely normal).  If he says he's hungry, which he claims to be all the time, do I feed him?  Really, I feel like I wouldn't be able to keep any food in the house if I let him eat however much he wanted, whenever he wanted.  I have trouble keeping the snacks stocked now.

Fifty years ago, I bet parents didn't worry about this sort of thing.  But, with the rising obesity crisis, how can one not worry?  Even the so-called "healthy" snacks aren't as healthy as they used to be.  We have over-processed every last morsel of food.  Even when it appears to be whole, it has been sprayed with pesticides, chemicals, waxes, and other toxins.  The food that we eat is slowly killing us, and yet we always want to eat more.

Yesterday, my son's Cub Scout den went and raked leaves for a woman who's husband is terminally ill.  He has leukemia and was just readmitted to the hospital on Wednesday.  She is watching the love of her life die, and though she is a physician, she can do nothing for him.  One day, this will be us.  Not my family, per say, but all of us.  We are the fattest nation in the world, yet we are the most undernourished and chemically stressed.  How many of us will actually die of old age?  How many of us will pass due to something like cancer, caused by the carcinogens that we have so easily welcomed into our homes?

So, what do we do?  Do we ignore the risks and live the best lives that we possibly can?  Do we go to the other extreme and only buy organics. locally grown foods, and hormone-free meats?  Do we grow all our own fruits and vegetables, so that we know what is in or on them?  Do we raise chickens in our backyard? Will that even help?  There is cause to wonder.

photo by Darin Barry, via a creative commons license

not any old dog

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Last night, my husband and I finally watched the final episode of Lost.  Yes, I know we're a bit behind the times.  We didn't start watching until the show had gone off the air.  That's not what this is about.



This scene had me tearing up for another reason, altogether.  Okay, fine.  Jack died.  I kinda saw that coming.  What I didn't expect was that Vincent, the dog, would come out of the jungle and lay beside him as he took his last breath.  That's what really got to me.

When I was seven, my mom got me a puppy.  Her name was Maggie.  I will always remember the day I got her.  My mother picked me up from school, where I was in second grade.  It was February.  We walked out to the car, where I immediately noticed a towel in the front seat.  Lifting the towel, I found a tiny, wriggling black dog.  She was small enough to fit in my still-small hands, and she was adorable.  Most of all, she was mine.

I didn't always treat Maggie quite right.  I can remember being resentful of her as I had to clean up her messes and take her out to potty in the backyard.  I remember playing rough games, probably unintentionally inflicting pain in my play, but that she would always play right along.  I would dress her up in my old clothes and put on doggie fashion shows, too, likely humiliating the poor mutt.  There was one time when she sat down on my slipper and peed.  I felt the hot liquid oozing around my toes and immediately freaked out.  I was, after all, only seven and the idea of pee on MY toes upset me quite a bit.  I picked her up and tossed her onto her newspaper in the bathroom.  I didn't throw her, just a little toss, but it was still unkind.

Yet, I loved the dog.  I baked her dog treats and cakes for her birthday.  I filled her stocking at Christmas and made sure she had a new sweater under the tree.  In fact, one year I even crocheted her a doggie sweater.  She didn't like my human friends, but to me, she was the best.

As I watched Jack's death scene and Vincent came into the picture, I began to remember that Maggie was always around when I felt ill.  On a normal day, she didn't like to go into my bedroom.  However, when I was sick, she would come lay on the floor beside my bed.  My mother once told me that dogs could tell when their people didn't feel well and always tried to make them feel a little better.

Maggie died several years ago.  I wasn't by her side.  I had moved away from home and she had been sick for a long time.  Emotionally, I'd already buried her.  She was no longer my friend.  She was just my mother's old, crabby dog.  I didn't help my mother wrap up her body and take it to be cremated.  I didn't say goodbye.  I didn't lay beside her as she left this life behind.  Again, to me, she was already gone.

But, Maggie wouldn't have been that cold-hearted and careless towards me.  She would have pawed me, licked my face, and made me realize that it was okay.  Her presence would have relaxed me, as did Vincent's on Jack's day.

I have two dogs now and, to me, they're just pets.  They aren't friends, they aren't really family.  They're dogs who entertain me.  They play with my kids.  They live in my house and sometimes give me kisses.  But, they're still dogs.  However, in Maggie's memory, I'll be extra kind to my two dogs this Christmas.  I'll bake cookies for them with the kids.  I may even give them a stocking (no, probably not.)  At any rate, I won't let them be cold or lonely because, like them or not, they are my companions.

To Flounder

I took my daughter and my miniature schnauzer, Fritz, for a walk on the greenway today.  When we started out, Fritz was very uptight, pulling on his leash, marking his "territory," and being a general grump.  This was the first time he had been on a walk with the baby.  Along the way, he gradually loosened up until he was nicely walking by my side and paying no attention to passers-by.  However, towards the end of the hike, there were several bikes, joggers, and skaters passing us right in a row.  There was a momentary frenzy of activity and, then, a jogger came from behind us with another dog.  Poor Fritz jumped, started barking, and pulled on the leash like crazy-- his typical reaction to such a situation.  What happened?  He had been doing so well only moments before.

I began to ponder this observation and realized that people can be very much like Fritz at times.  We enter a situation in a state of unease, alert to our surroundings, and a bit uncomfortable.  After some time, we develop a rhythm and fall into place.  Things are easy, unhurried.  However, when we are caught by surprise or a flurry of activity, we quickly fall back into our old ways.  We react through our deepest instincts.  Could this be what they mean by the saying, "you can't teach an old dog new tricks?"

I'm going through a period of this in my own life.  Change is on the horizon, though I can't quite tell what shape it will take.  Will it catch me off guard?  Will I react as I have in the past?  Will I flee and hide my head or will I learn to stand strong in the face of fear and/or adversity?  You see, I greatly fear change.  I need to learn to adapt more easily.  I wonder, if I should learn to be more flexible, will I still fall into my old ways once change rears its head?

So, what about you?  Have there been times in which you've been sailing along, struck off guard, and left floundering?  How have you overcome the situation?