Seriously? I am NOT Obsessed

So me and The Girl had a deep and thought provoking conversations tonight while I was snuggling up with Kipper. He was breathing hard per his usual and so I him Kipper once he was dead I was going to get a Yard Cow and let it lay on the bed just like he was. The Girl laughed and mocked this idea. Mocked the idea of the Yard Cow becoming a House Cow.

"You can't house break a cow!"

"Sure you can! If you can house break this silly dog you can house train anything!"

"When I finish this game [she was playing mahjong] I'm gonna look this up, I bet you can't do it."

I love the internets. Love. Google pointed her in just the right direction here.

What's really amazing is the site's author describes Kipper to a P. Just substitute the word "Cow" with the word "Kipper":

Cows love you. They are harmless, they look nice, they don't need a box to crap
in, they keep the grass down and they are so trusting and stupid that you cannot
but lose your heart to them. They will listen to your problems and never ask a
thing in return. They will be your friend forever. And when get tired of them,
you can kill them and eat them. Perfect.

Except for the killing and eating part. Kipper does his share of digging
holes in the grass, doesn't need a litter box and is trusting and stupid.
He listens to our problems and can keep a secret.

I was terribly intrigued by this idea of the Yard Cow becoming a House Cow and so further research revealed that the trick to house breaking a cow is to have your cat demonstrate how to use a litter box a few times so the cat trains the cow. Simple!

But not so simple at my house because we aren't cat people. Which is an understatement as to the depth of emotions I have about cats as an effort to keep the Cat People hate mail out of my email account. But yeah, truth told. I hate cats.

So much so I will have to put down my dream of a House Cow and move on to something else. Like a House Goat.

And Another Thing About Our Dog...

Its official: Kipper is retarded. The other night, I dropped a raw brussel sprout on the floor and he snapped it up like a piece of cheese. This wasn’t an isolated brussel sprout incident either because later he gave me the sad dog eyes to beseech me for another sprout and then he ran into the kitchen and started sniffing the floor where he found the first one.

So maybe he isn’t retarded but just really weird.

He fits right in with the rest of us doesn’t he?

Once upon a time, there was a white dog, a washing machine and an elephant named Freckles

Yesterday was one of those days that felt like three days. And not because it was boring, either. To begin with I had only a short predawn nap and had accomplished a few things over night. I did some housekeeping, balanced the checkbook (ouch! June stay away from the mall already!) I also watched a movie from start to finish without interruption commercial or otherwise. Too bad it wasn’t an entirely relaxing movie experience because it’s two in the morning and the film had a wonky soundtrack to it that meant the dialogue was very soft and quiet and the music WAS VERY LOUD so I was constantly moving the volume around, rewinding so I could hear and jamming my finger over the minus button so I didn’t wake up The Girl. At least, I got my exercise and a few adrenaline jolts, right?

You know about breakfast and moon pies. I didn’t mention while we were at breakfast we again discussed the feasibility of moving to Texas after Beav graduates from high school. We did come to the conclusion if we do move it will be problematic to our travel bugs to actually have goats, chickens or a yard cow. The Girl sagely suggested the only wise solution to this was a Yard Elephant. Which would be made of awesome and no one would venture down our road unannounced. Keeping Freckles (I’ve already named him) out of the pool will be problematic so he will need a pond to call his own. I’m guessing elephants can fend for themselves while people are away. It’s not like a chicken hawk or fox or javalina pig would carry off our yard elephant like they would chickens. Thank goodness we got that settled over breakfast, right?

Wally decided yesterday was the day to do laundry because the Army wasn’t calling him back (grrrr…don’t make my kids promises and then fail to keep them…that’s my job!) and the washing machine just sort of whirled down to a complete stop and was making an ominous loud buzzing noise.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank The Girl’s Papa for noting her ken mechanical sensibilities and helping her develop gifts because three hours later she was finished fixing it and we were not six hundred bucks poorer and still had time to go out for dinner per our original plan. Had I been alone with Wally we would have called Sears and The Girl would have returned from work to find me weeping over a bill. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

In the midst of a mini flood in the laundry room I had to prove the towel I grabbed wasn’t a “good” towel. My line of logic was any towel was a perfect towel for the job in the face of a big gush of water issuing forth from the bottom of the washing machine. (Yes Dad, the breaker was off and the machine unplugged before the bottom was opened) It took about 15 seconds and free flowing water for her to see the bleach stain on the towel and agree it was just fine to put it on the floor. After many failed diagnosis TG found the reason for the clogged drain. Jesus smiled on us because it wasn’t the drain leading out of the house but rather a bunch of left over goodies from our pockets in the washing machine drain. Mostly my leftover work goodies like IV line caps, needle caps, alcohol wipes and empty pill packages.

Meanwhile, TG is almost finished with her repair job and discovers the back yard gate is open. She was on her way to the breaker box to restart the washer to check the integrity of her genius. (Yes Dad, the floor was completely dry and the wires were even dried off with a towel but not a good towel because that would be a crime against towels and womankind everywhere) She sticks her head back into the house and asks my least favorite question:

“Is the dog with you?”

Fuckity. The dog escaped from the backyard. My family has become a well oiled machine when we have a breach in the back yard dog compound. It’s like someone hollers: “Dog Escape!!” and everyone knows their position. TG took one bike in one direction, Wally takes the other bike the opposite direction and I run down the path towards the park, staying close to the house and MINI van so I can pick up the dog we apparently are holding prisoner in a grassy backyard . All of us are armed with cell phones.

Kip hadn’t been gone very long because fifteen minutes before the alarm was sounded, I had heard him yelping at a passing dog. He is a lot slower than he once was and is really supposed to be dead so I was guessing he wasn’t a mile away at the golf course like last year. After about five minutes of panting through the park I got the much hoped for phone call: “Do you have a white dog?” My first inclination is to ask: “Is he dead?” But I always hold back because most people wouldn’t think it was funny unless you knew Kipper or me and my gallows humor.

“I do, is he fluffy, friendly and named Kipper?

“He is”

“Oh thank you! Thank you! He’s old and not terribly healthy. Does he seem ok?”

“He …I thought it was a ‘she’ because of the pink toe nails…but yeah, he seems ok.”

“So where are you?” (Another dreaded question because God knows where he is: Limon? Watkins? Downtown? Cheyenne Mountain?)

The dog wasn’t very far away and I knew either Wally or TG would be passing the bridge at any minute because we have Operation Save The Dog From Himself down like a special ops team. Sure enough, as I was talking to my new boyfriend Brad, TG rolled up on the bike and I could hear her saying: “Hey, that’s my dog!”

Brad wasn’t going to be fooled into surrendering the dog to just anyone (bless him):

“Do you know someone named The Girl, riding a bike? She’s in a white tee shirt.”
Once we established Kipper was not being taken off by a stranger for a Korean dinner party or vivisection at the medical school, Brad asked me:

“Is your dog deaf? I heard people calling his name but he didn‘t notice.”

Oh he noticed all right. He wasn’t ready to return to the yard at Cleaver Prison Camp For Dogs. The smells on the outside are just too good to give up.

I’m really thankful Brad didn’t ask why his toe nails were pink. I don’t like to sully my karma with lying about having a silly twelve year old daughter at home and the truth is too embarrassing.

We earned our pre dinner martini last night. The dog can explain to you why his toe nails are pink. My lips are sealed.

Apple Picking Time

Kipper went for a walk this morning, dragging me behind him holding onto a cord we laughingly call a lead. Actually when he goes for a walk it’s more like going for a sniff because he keeps his nose squarely down towards the ground to gather as much information as possible usually missing rabbits and squirrels he could bark and bolt after. We don’t go very far any more because he’s ailing and I don’t want him to die or anything on his walk. It was lovely in the park today, not too hot (why I took the hairy beast out) just the perfect mid-summer morning. Along the way I noticed two women picking peaches from a tree. We were spared a late freeze and the sunny hot summer we’ve had has been good to the fruit trees. I stopped and asked if the squirrels had spared any. They laughed and said there were plenty offering me a couple. Unfortunately, the peaches were picked too early, hard as a rock but I said thanks and offered some of our apples. Our tree is loaded with them and I managed to pick about a dozen or so of the small and sweet fruit. They aren’t firm and sour enough for an apple pie but perfect for apple butter and sauce. The lady who belonged to the peach tree declined the offer but the other woman who was also just out for a walk was intrigued and finally after a short conversation about apple sauce and butter recipes she took me up on my offer promising to stop by tomorrow morning for a bag of apples. I hope there are some left because the squirrels manage to knock off and take small bites out of at least--I exaggerate not--one hundred or so a day. Another reason why squirrels are my backyard nemesis those nasty little buggers take one bite out of these lovely pieces of fruit and then drop them, going on to the next. Wasteful. I suppose if I were depending on my tree for dried fruit next winter I would painstakingly cut around the squirrel bites but instead I just work on my softball pitch over the fence so the raccoons can enjoy them. It’s a daily task to keep hornets at bay so I’m getting quite the arm if I say so myself.

I hope hilarity doesn’t ensue when I’m up on the ladder this afternoon picking apples for my new friend Helen.

Mrs. Cleaver You've Got A Stupid Dog

(to the tune of "Mrs.Brown You've Got A Lovely Daughter")
Mrs. Cleaver you have a stupid do-og
stu-pid do-og
Dogs as dumb as him are something’ rare
But it’s sad, so sad he can’t find his way
Out of a blanket on his head.


Yup, it's official. Kipper isn't the brightest bulb in the box and the elevator doesn't get to the top in this one. Good thing he's sweet...when he isn't barking at a doorbell on television, howling when the phone rings, barking when someone enthusiasticlly says the word squirrel or thinking the blanket on his head is another signal for "naptime". The only thing he did do? He tipped the cup over the cookie and he used his front paw rather than nosing it over.

I should probably check him for those thumbs a little more often.

On The Road With Ellie Mae

My inner Hick was showing this morning, She always rears her tow-headed close set eye self in big cities I’ve never lived. The place I live has a bit of a sprawl to it but nothing like Los Angeles. We broke through the clouds and there were rooftops and roads which seemed endless. When ever I fly into a city thinking about how many people each large building houses overwhelms me and makes me realize how small I really am. LAX is one of the few airports in the middle of a large city which adds to my disorientation when I first arrive after having been in the lovely blue void above the earth, having had nothing to see except brown, green yellow patchwork or in this case the ruffled edges of the canyons and desert. This morning I awakened just in time to see the Grand Canyon. I’ve only been to see it once when I was about five and have flown over it several times. Flying above the desert beyond the canyon and into California is peaceful. The topography is varied in ways you can only see from the air and aren’t aware of when you are in the middle of it. I think the art created by the wind shifting the sand is best appreciated from above. That the city of angels was covered in morning clouds added to the abruptness of the change in scene. The weather this morning in Southern California was more like a balmy day in San Francisco; a little humid and coolish. My favorite type. We didn’t have enough time to leave the airport and venture to Hermosa Beach like I had hoped but we had a leisurely lunch and I explored Tom Bradley International Terminal: slack-jawed, with an Ellie Mae Clampett dialogue running through my head.

Oh the places you could go from that airport! Taipei! Dubai! Tel Aviv! Frankfurt! Mexico City! Santiago! It was all so marvelous to think of such places tied together by one--relatively--small place. We were watching the people in line: Israelis speaking Hebrew which sounds beautiful even it‘s a list of the day‘s errands and marketing; , beautiful Middle-Eastern women dressed impeccably in Western dresses (I wondered if they would veil once they arrived in Dubai) , large Asian families as varied in dress as any family at an airport in the Midwest. The Girl astutely noted how the six degrees of separation could probably be played with any number of the quell waiting to go through security. I loved hearing the assortment of languages around me. I remembered the first time that happened to me.

Years ago, my sister lived in Los Angeles, on a hill overlooking the Pacific ocean that featured Catalina
\\Island on clear days. It was breathtaking even for a 13 year old who worked nonstop to hide Ellie Mae under a veneer of distain and disinterest. When it was time to return home, I remember being in awe of the people in the airport. My world was pretty limited to Upper Middle Class White Folks. So seeing Africans and Asians was heady stuff. The day I left LA, my flight was late or we were early and had extra time so we walked to the international area and wandered around the terminal watching the people. I remember it was the first time I had seen a woman in a sari and I thought it was the most elegant thing I had ever seen: a silk evening gown you just wore like a skirt and a blouse. I still sigh a tiny sigh when I see a woman in a sari.

Now I’m seated in Business Class, having just finished my Bi-Bim-Bab that came with a tube of Hot Red Pepper Paste , freeze dried anchovies and boiled pumpkin. Having never had traditional Korean food (outside of BBQ) it was a very good meal. I’m sure the well seasoned road warriors out of Seoul find the food just terrible and say things like we say: “Oh God why do they bother at all!” I passed on the tube of hot pepper paste and the only reason I don’t have a picture of my Bi-Bim-Bab brochure is I can’t figure out a delicate way to actually photograph it. “Lookit lookit, it’s got a pitcher of my food on it. Dang, we ain’t in Colarada no more are we, Girl! Hooo doggies!”

We didn’t book our trip in Business Class and I’m not sure how it happened but what a rare treat. I’m thinking it’s paybacks for the last few days at home. The last night reached a crescendo when I got a call asking if I had a very sweet white dog named Kipper.

Kipper was supposed to be next door. He was three blocks away and when we picked him up, he was terribly proud he had ran so far and wasn’t coughing and panting. My guess is he slept all day today; fresh and tired from his own adventure.

Contrary to What My Family Believes...

...I ain't dead yet. No sirree DAWG! I iz alive and barkin' and beggin' for all sorts of head scratches and bits of food. The moms got me some new medicine a couple of weeks ago and I feel like a young pup! Hooah! as my boy would say. Good thing this medicine worked and it takes like hot meat from the outside stove because I was a gonner. Lemme tell you, I could barely move around for the coughing. I sure was gonna miss everyone, too. Me and my boy Buddy have way too many dogs to bark at, squirrels to chase, bunnies to nom and Magpies who need payback.

Mommy called the payback thing: Karma. So today I was taking my second after breakfast nap (I didn't say I was all better, Ima old dog with the Cee Ahtch Eff and need frequent naps) when all the sudden Mommy appears at the door with a treat! A treat!! Yeah! ThatiswhatIamtalkinabout Yay! If Buddy had been over we would be doin' chest bumps! But as I'm hoisting this old body up off the cool grass I notice a big bunch of sticks that reminded me of the time I moved the woodpile into the middle of the yard because that was a better place for it and I was bored when I was a puppy...good times...good times...anyhow, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, the big pile of sticks. So I decide the treat can wait and start ambling towards the sticks when Mommy starts screaming at me like she did when I had the little Not-A-Bunny-But-Like-A-Bunny in my mouth.
"Kipper get away! Get. Away. Now." she used her big mean Mom voice I hear when I've run away or one of my boys does something he isn't supposed to do.
Shoot, she always ruins the fun, doesn't she? Resistance was futile as she hauled me into to the house by my collar. Giving her the dying dog look with a little gack cough didn't change her mind,and making myself weigh as much as the mastiff down the street didn't work either. I don't understand Mommy, she gives me chicken skin, pop corn and crackers if I ask for them but she wouldn't let me sniff the baby birds in the nest near my favorite pee tree. Because I really just wanted to, you know, sniff them. It's not like I'm a cat and I've been told I have a 'soft mouth'. So I'm in the house and what's an old dog like me supposed to do? I got my favorite blue baby 'saur and walked from the front of the house to the back about eleventy million times hoping and thinking someone would lose their patience with me and just let me back outside. I was hoping Other Mom would come home and not see the big pile of sticks in the back yard and just let me outside so I could further, you know, investigate the situation with the fragrant birds. Didn't happen and no matter how hard I stared at the big window that opens, it wouldn't open.

Mommy talked into the little black box thing and found someone to come and take care of the birds and the nest. I tried to tell her I would be happy to take care of them but she wasn't paying any attention to me. Then told my other boy to take me upstairs when the doorbell rang. Upstairs? When the doorbell rings? That is so not my style or my job? My job is to make sure everyone who comes into the house gives me an ear scratch and possibly a belly rub! And this is the thanks a dying dog gets for his decade's worth of love and devotion. I have to go upstairs to bed and miss all the excitement. So I stayed put by the back door and was real quiet hoping I would become invisible. I was about to fall asleep when I noticed my two arch enemies poking their heads into the big pile of sticks where the little birds were! Those little birds belonged to my enemies! I had the perfect oppertunity to avenge the years of taunting and abuse I had suffered at their wings so I let Mommy know just how I felt and tried to say: "OH THE INJUSTICE OF THIS WORLD!! THOSE EVIL FOOD STEALING BIRDS THAT TEASE ME CAN PLAY WITH THE LITTLE BIRDS WHY CAN'T I?"

That's when Mommy leaned down and gave me an ear scratch while she explained Karma to me. "It's Karma, old boy, What goes around comes around...those naughty birds won't tease you anymore, now will they? Serves them right, losing their six children to bird rescue after the way they treated you. I bet they won't tag team your food and water ever again!"

I hope she's right because I'm feeling better but the old ticker isn't what it used to be and I can't be running after those pesky things. What a day. What a day and a half! I need a nap.

If you're in the 'hood give a holler over the fence and I'll bark back! For the time bein' at least. Can't keep this old dog down. Nope not the poison berries, the big moving car or the garage door or even the Cee Ahtch Eff with "pro-found card eomaglea"

Love,

Kipper the big-hearted dog and that ain't no metaphor, neither.

Taking The Scarlett O'Hara Approach

Gad zooks, what a weird horoscope this week!

The month of August brought you some peculiar advances. You got a reward that didn't mean as much to you as it might have had you received it earlier. You outgrew an enigma that had puzzled and frustrated you forever. And you finally wriggled free of a shadowy game that you had been attached to long after it lost its power to educate you. As curious as these wistful breakthroughs have been, they are prologue to what's headed your way. Get ready to solve a problem you didn't even know you loved.

That's what I get for checking in with Rob this morning before I start to blog. I was going to blather on about heirloom tomatoes and large giggle inspiring phallic English cucumbers. But NoOOoOOooo Rob has induced more navel staring; staring I'm going to spare anyone who stumbles into my blog. I will say this, I've had wistful breakthroughs this summer, some I've shared here and some I am holding close. But this final line: "get ready to solve a problem you didn't even know you loved?" Oh for the love of God, what's next. I don't really want to know the answer to that question so I'm just going to let life unfold all by itself which is actually what I do best. Trying to control what happens around me only pisses me off when cosmic circumstances don't go. exactly. the. way. I. want. them. to. go.

So I'm going to put my fingers in my ears and sing "la-la-la-la-la- I‘ll just think about this tomorrow" and proceed with a blog about my garden.

It's the time of year when lettuce bolts and the kale gets crisp around the edges while the basil threatens to flower if I don’t harvest it for the freezer. The gaillardia daisies are spreading themselves a bit too thin and are lying (lying? lain? Bueller...anyone...seriously, email me with the correct tense) on their sides like drunken party girls the morning after, just before they resurrect themselves from a strangers bed or a friend's couch and make the inevitable "Walk of Shame". Pretty maroon petals are a bit mooshed and have dirt scattered over them, leaves a little limp, some blossoms are face down while others are to the side; only a few are left standing. The coreopsis are being over taken by zombie blossoms and hopefully my diligent deadheading on Sunday will stave off the winter and the zombie attack for a few more weeks. My lavender is thriving this late summer as are the cone flowers and weedy looking sunflowers. The sedum has been diligently plodding their way towards pink. Novice that I am, I made some tactical errors in planting the front bed and ended up not only with very tall bee balm in the front but one single four o’clock that has defied the back of the package and is at least 48 inches tall! It's standing in the front of my cheerful and completely utilitarian blanket flowers; reminding me of the pretty little girl in your first grade class who always won the spelling bee, spoke two languages, played the violin and had a mother who looked like a 1955 version of Elizabeth Taylor. You know the one, she would push herself to the front of the kindergarten choir or cry if she didn't get to be the princess in the play. The Ieneangabe (TG's German word for show off) girl everyone secretly deplored and feared but every mother privately wished her little girl would be.

Despite my obvious issues with show offs I'm not moving the heavily laden shrub because I'll kill it at its peak. That seems like an unfair end to a plant that didn’t actually ask to be up front and center stage. But I have started moving my mistakes and hopefully not killing them in the process. I have moved one of the drunken and unkempt gaillardias and a couple of the zombie threatened coreopsis now live in different spots and are languishing this morning. As a novice I also ended up with big clumps of yellow or too much red in spots so I'm spreading the wealth of colors. Hopefully I haven't killed my perennials in my quest for aesthetic perfection.

I'm already shopping for seeds and have a different plan for the veg garden next year. I'm including a wider variety, having learned to make better use of my little space. Namely, the "Breakfast Bar" (TG‘s clever nickname for the sunflowers) took up too much room and had the audacity to turn their lovely heads away from the backyard and directly into the path of the greedy squirrels who hurl themselves at the heads making a snack of things (plus a mess on the ground below). Next year, we shall have yellow beets, fancy French green beans, heirloom tomatoes, cucumbers, kale, garlic, English peas, and a staggered crop of lettuces. I can’t wait. This garden is feeling like the end of a love affair. You know the type, it leaps into your life in a swell of passion and pheromones but then a few months later. Nothing. Nada. What was your name again? (Lesbians specialize in this sort of serial monogamy, or some I’m told)

I've selected the bulbs I'm setting out in a few weeks and will have a variety of tulips, very fragrant old fashioned purple iris, white iris and red hyacinths. My goal like most gardener‘s goals is to have nonstop varietals color from May until October. Our growing season is so short here. I don't think I will ever get used to daffodils blooming in May rather than late February. So I feel I must take advantage of the short season with wild bursts of color to brace me for the onslaught of the dead winter colors. It feels akin to what the French must have experienced when they knew the Nazi's were nearing Paris and they tried to drink all the champagne and hid the art.

It's been such a strange, exciting, sad, happy, thrilling, sobering week at my house I can't seem to wrap my head around it so I'm leaning towards the whimsical and when I have a bit more chronographic distance I can probably explain what it means to watch my son take an oath more important than the one I took about twenty-six years ago; an oath I'm not even sure I could uphold. But enough of that! Let's talk about how silly Kipper looks in this picture!




"HALP ME! THEES WOMEN R TEASIN ME AN MAKIN ME LOOK LIEK TEH DEVIL DAWG!"

I am teh Alpha Dog Byoch!

The Mom’s are working and I got the smart cat across the street to help me with the computer because I need some help here, and I’m hoping Mom’s internet friends can help justice be served.

Here’s the deal, before it was warm enough for me to stay outside I had to go to the bath place and then all the sudden, everyone is crying and I had to go the doctor’s office and they are all looking at my tail and putting shiny things on my chest because my heart sounded funny and Other Mom is crying and I’m trying to make her feel better but couldn’t. I hear Moms talking to each other Sea Ach Ef whatever that is and they are letting me sleep on the big white bed without me even having to sneak up there!. They are telling me I’m going to have a good life and we will make the best of it even if I only have two years.

Two years??? I’m a little upset about this. If I survived the garage door hitting my back, poison berries and a car hitting me; this old mutt can manage a little Sea Ach Eff. I get peanut butter in the morning before breakfast and peanut butter at night, too. Hey, this thing with my heart isn’t too bad. And no one makes fun of my big belly because it wasn’t from eating too many snacks and sneaking cookies from the pantry. I have a condition.

And that my friends is quality of life. Sort of. I have few complaints.

So what I want to know if I’m all sick and dying and stuff, why can’t I take myself for walks. I tried that and got yelled at: “Kipper get back in the house!”

I can’t help myself to food sitting at my eye level on the coffee table, its right there; I’m old and according to these people dying. But what do I hear? “Kipper, what do you think you are doing? That’s not your’s!”

A couple of days ago, Mom’s were sitting on the front porch and the front door was open, I had to investigate, make sure everything was ok, right? I walk out the front door and see a plate of food, on the ground. Must be for me, right? Especially seeing’ there was a bone on it, right? I pick it up and walk down to the mailbox where Mom was standing. Instead of her being all happy for the dying dog getting a bone this is what she says to me:

“Oh my god! That’s a chicken bone, give me that! Drop it! Now! And what are you doing outside? Get back in that house!”

I stand my ground, if I’m dying and stuff then I can parade around in front of the house with a bone in my mouth. So what does she do? Humiliates me, leads me into the house and pries the bone out of my mouth.

Last week we had snow and it was so cool. I love snow. I had to wait HOURS before I could play in it and so I ran out of the backdoor and buried my nose in the snow and I rolled in the snow and I dove into the snow and sniffed. Mmmmmmm it smells so good in the snow. Moms were grouchy about the snow and fussed at me for being wet when I finally came in the house. But the best part of the snow? My new stuffed animal, THAT MOVED AND WAS ALIVE. I found it in the backyard. Too bad Moms saw it at the same time. I had just picked it up in my mouth, had a firm but friendly hold of it when ALL HELL BROKE LOSE!

They were screaming stuff at me like: “OH MY GOD, HE HAS THE GUINEA PIG IN HIS MOUTH!! KIPPER DROP IT! DROP. IT. NOW!!! Holy shit this is someone’s pet and he is going to kill it!”
“NOW Drop it now!!!

I can’t remember everything because they were so loud and screeching it hurt my ears so I dropped the soft toy to have a big howl. And they scared me, too. Two years ago, I found another real toy and was in even more trouble because I killed it. Which is why I made sure I used what Other Mom refers to as my “soft mouth” on this toy? Then the toy ran away from me and you guessed it. Mom escorted me into the house and upstairs to the room with the big bed, shutting me in. Probably to give the soft toy a special treat. I haven’t seen that special toy since the big snow last week. But I smelled it. It’s here somewhere.

You would think they would let a dying dog have his own REAL pet instead of the not real toys like my Pounce Baby and the “Saurs. Not these two, they are determined to make my last two years feel like fourteen.

But this dying thing isn’t all bad, I still like my walks and I can keep up, too just like before the doctor put the shiny thing on my chest and said I was murmuring or something like that. I love my food and I love my treats. I’ll miss my boys and Moms but I’ll see them again. And when I do: I’ll explain to them why I gather the bunny-in-a-hat, my moose, the ‘saurs, Pounce, baby rabbit, Shamu the whale, my sea cow and snake in the back yard, all in a circle around me.

Cuz you all are so nice to read my blog, I’ll let you in on a secret, don’t tell Moms: I’m telling them stories about the time I moved the woodpile, could jump high enough to grab an apple off the tree, and ate tomatoes straight from the vine.

In the meantime I’m chillin’ on the couch. I'm allowed.

Kipper Q. Dogg

OH HAI, MAH NAMEZ IZ KIPPR AN IS JUNECLEAVERS DAWG BUT IM NOT EDGY. I LUV MAH MOMS, THAY GIMMIE TREATS. TONITE I GOT 2 LICK PIE TIN CLEAN. I DID GUD JOB, TEW. BUT MAH MOMS TEASE MEZ AN TELL MEZ IF I WORE PANTS THAY WUD BE BELTD UNDR MAH ARM PITZ CUZ MAH BELLY IZ SEW GUD. SEW I SHOWD TEHM, I WENT 4 WALK YEZTERDAI ALL BY MAHSELF! IS VRY SMART DAWG AN WENT OUTSIDE 2 TEH HOOJ FIELD BEHIND MAH YARD. IT SMEZLLD SEW GUD, TEW. I CUD SMEZLL TEH SNOW IN TEH AIR. I KNEW IT WUZ GOIN 2 SMEZLL BE4E MAH MOMS KNEW IT. TODAI I PLAYD IN TEH SNOW. I HAD EXERCIZE SEW I CUD HAS PIE. MAH MOM DIDNT EXERCIZE AN SHE HAD PIE. IF SHE DOESNT STOP EATIN PIE SHE WILL HAS 2 WEAR HER PANTS UNDR HER ARM PITZ LIEK MEZ.

I know, I know. LOL Cat speak is possibly one of the most ridiculous internet memes. But Kipper isn’t as smart as my friend's dog who speaks as if he were the product of a first tier southern university. He certainly isn’t as smart as this dog. Kipper speaks in LOLCat.

I love Kipper, so Monday almost killed me when I heard the tearful: “The dog is gone!!” when the girl opened the door to let the dog in. He’s escaped before and has been gone for hours; the other day it had only been about fifteen minutes so the search wasn't too hard. I found him in the open space behind our house, nose to the ground, tail up in the air, rapt in a smelly treasure. At first he didn‘t respond to my calls and I know he heard me. But when he finally looked up at me, the joy on his face was infectious. I found myself laughing at him and encouraging him to come to me versus yelling and telling him he was a bad dog for leaving the yard. As Kipper ran towards me, ears flapping back, tongue out of his mouth I could almost hear him say:

“MOM! DIS AR TEH SO KEWL! I LUV DIS PLACE! I GAEV MYSELF WALK! I SMELL OTHR DAWGS! I SMELL BUNNEHS! I SMELL DOSE TRICKY RACOONS!“

Kipper is a sweet dog, he means well but he is incorrigible. I blame myself of course. I’m the one who ignores the begging behaviors and laughs at him when he barks for his supper. Tonight, I give him a pie tin to finish off the bits of crust and pumpkin.

In early 1999, I was running some useless errand with The Beav and bribed him with a trip to the “Fish Store” as a vain attempt to belay the whining and flailing because we were going to Home Depot or some place terribly important like The Rack. At the pet store, Beaver dried his tears and ran back to the fish tanks so I amused myself wandering around, mindlessly looking around at things I hadn’t any use for, when I came upon this massive cage holding one little white pup. He looked like an albino Golden Retriever puppy. All by himself, head neatly placed on his front paws lost in some sort of reverie and when he saw me stop, he looked at me expectantly, light blue eyes softening as we continued to look one another over. I was in love. All the advice of “wait until your youngest child is in first grade…having a puppy is like having a baby, are you ready…?“ flew out the window because I was gobsmacked with love. I think I fell in love with this dog faster than I did my kids; and about as fast as I did The Girl. Before I told Ward about the dog, I took the boys back to the pet store and we played with the puppy. (Hey, I’m not stupid). That evening, after Ward was gobsmacked we took Kipper home and a new era was ushered in for me. I became a Dog Person.

Kipper is just like me and Wally: smart but not a great student. He flunked Puppy Kindergarten twice. He just won‘t stay if there is another dog to play with or a treat or a loved one nearby. Why should he? Being the elicit progeny of a border collie champion and a golden retriever champion, he herds, talks and will eat anything vaguely resembling food. As a puppy, he needed a job. One day, he moved the entire wood pile into the middle of the yard. I couldn‘t convince him to put it back it, either. Kipper loved to chase after the boys when they were small and he still plays tug-of-war but don’t count on him fetching and retrieving anything. Nope, that dog wouldn’t retrieve a ball to save--his favorite--Wally’s life.

Last year, we left our little crack shacks and moved into our new-old house. It’s the perfect setting for us, too. Only one neighbor can hear me yelling at the boys or the dog in the backyard we back to green space. The downside to this are the varmits. We have rabbits, squirrels, raccoons and--my favorite--coyotes. Kipper has this stupid bark when he sees a rabbit or a squirrel. Its the sort of Squeee bark of a dog who has just had his tail stepped on or his balls cut off without anesthesia. And then the poor animal runs sort of knock-kneed. Picture the most uncoordinated nerd in your fifth grade class and you have Kipper. Of course, his goofy yelping precludes him from ever catching a squirrel. Poor Kip, he didn’t get the adorable and useful creeping behavior his mother probably possessed. In fact, he probably would do as poorly as Jas’s tard dog did with sheep. A few weeks after we moved into the house, he did manage to get a baby rabbit. The poor creature barely had it’s eyes open and the inane squeeee barking probably made it’s brain explode. I don’t know who was more surprised, the dog or the boys. I think the boys stood on the porch gaping at him until someone finally called me:

“Mom! Kipper has a bunny! He finally caught a rabbit!“

I’m intrigued and wander to the back door. Yup, dog is in the middle of the yard with a tiny bunny in his mouth.

“SO WUT DO I DOEZ NAO? I JUS SCOOPD DIS UP INTO MAH MOUTH AN I DON’T K NAO WUT 2 DO! DO I EAT IT OR DO I DROP IT. MOM IZ TELLIN ME 2 DROP IT. BUT I DON’T WANTS 2 DROP IT CUZ I CAUGHT IT AN IT’S MINE. BUT IT FEELS FUNNY IN MAH MOUTH. IT FEELS LIEK MAH POUNCE BABY. I DON’T EAT POUNCE BABY, I LUV MAH POUNCE.“

TG very helpfully walked outside with a stick to try to get it out of his mouth. Um…yes…NO. He was not going to open his mouth on the command of “Drop it!“ Predictably he ran away from her. I call Wally outside, he’s a boy he likes disgusting things, maybe he’ll pull it out of the dog’s mouth.

“You want me to do what?…No way, that’s gross! And it‘s dead!“

Yeah, my heroes. Whatever. We were late for an orthodontist appointment and I couldn’t leave the dog to eat the bunny because that would be a disgusting mess when he threw it up or if he left bits on the back patio. I was upset we were late for the appointment and I was mad the dog had caught this poor baby so I stomped into the house, put some vinyl gloves on, stomped into the backyard, commanded the dog come to me. Of course he came to me, still stunned that he had actually caught something with all the stupid spastic barking.
“Y’all are all a bunch of pussy’s!” I scolded as I pried the dog‘s mouth open and popped out the corpse. I marched to the back fence, arm outstretched and threw it over the fence. I turned around and TG, Beav and Wally were now gapping at me. “Oh, please, I touch worse at work!” I still tease Wally about being such a baby about the dead rabbit.

So far, Kipper hasn’t even come close to another rabbit. My guess if he ever gets another one it will because he gives it a heart attack with the infernal barking.

We do have a witching hour at our house and it is only made worse by early darkness in the winter. The Spas-Dog behavior begins at about 4:30.
7:00 BARK AT MOMS CUZ I HAS 2 PEE! NAO! AN WHILE I’M UP, I NEEDZ 2 EAT NAO!!

7:15 FINISHD WIF BREAKFAST NAO IT’S TIEMZ 2 SNEAK INTO MAH BEDROOM. THAY CALL IT TEH GUEST ROOM BUT RLY, DAT’S MAH BED.

11:30 GO DOWNSTAIRS AN C WHA MOM IZ DOIN. USUALLY SHE IZ IN TEH BASEMEZNT PAINTIN SEWMEZTHIN AN YELLS AT MEZ WHEN I NUDGE HER. SEW I BARK AT HER TILL SHE LETS MEZ OUTSIDE. BUT FURST I HAS 2 PULL ALL MAH TOYS OUT OV TEH BASKET AN PUT THEM BY TEH BAKDOOR SO THEY CAN GO OUTSIDE AN ENJOY TEH GUD SMELLS.

12:30 I HAS 2 BARK AN BARK AN BARK 2 COMEZ INTO TEH HOUZ CUZ I’M THIRSTY FRUM CHAZIN DOSE DAMN BIRDZ DAT TEASE MEZ SEW MUTCH. I FINLEE LERND IF I JUS SIT STILL AN WATCH TEHM FLY AROUND, THAY WON’T BOTEHR MAH FUD. BUT IF I CHAZE WAN, TEH OTEHR WILL TAKEZ MAH FUD. BAD BAD BIRDZ!

12:35 SNEAK UP 2 MAH BEDROOM 4 NAP.

4:30 IT’S DARK. MUST BE TIEMZ 2 EAT. TIEMZ 2 EAT!! TIEMZ 2 EAT!! OMG IT’S TIEMZ 4 MAH DINNR. GIT MAH DINNR NAO GIT MAH DINNR NAO!! Y DOEZ SHE MAK MEZ GO OUTSIDE WHEN I’M ASKIN 4 DINNR. DOSE BOIS DON’T HAS 2 GO OUTSIDE WHEN THAY R NOISY.

4:40 BEG 2 COMEZ INSIDE

4:45 BARK SEWMEZ MOAR

4:55 GO BAK OUTSIDE IF I CANT EAT NAO, CAN MAH MANATEE GO OUTSIDE, HE NEEDZ 2 GO POTTY? NO? CAN MAH POUNCE BABY GO OUTSIDE? HE NEEDZ 2 GO POTTY! NO? CAN MAH SNOWMAN GO OUTSIDE, HE IZ SNOWMAN AN HE NEEDZ 2 GO OUTSIDE! NO!? HOW BOUT MAH SOUR. MAH DINOSOUR NEEDZ 2 USE TEH POTTY!!

5:05 COMEZ INSIDE AN ASK: WER IZ MAH DINNR IZ TIEMZ 4 DINNR WER IZ? IS HUNGRY DIS MINIT!

Kipper and I play this game for another ninety minutes until it is time for him to eat; or I’m insane from the barking and playing doorman and just feed him early. I thought the witching hour was bad with a toddler but winter with Kipper makes the hours between four and six with a two-year old Beaver look like a relaxing spa vacation.

I was without my boy for eight long years, and the idea of returning to a Kipper free life is unimaginable. After I left Ward, he wouldn’t let me have the dog. His argument was he would get too lonely if the dog left when the children were with me. Oh what--the fuck--ever. It wasn’t until Ward married Alexis Carrington Colby when I was allowed to have Kipper. Alexis and Kipper didn’t hit it off so he was relegated to the evil ex wife's house. Kip is panic stricken if we even tease him about returning to Alexis' house! More panic stricken than when the suitcases appear.

As I was writing this last night, the dog was sleeping on my feet when he heard the garage door open. He leapt to attention, grabbed his manatee and moved to sit squarely in the doorway so whoever was coming into the house would not miss the dog.

"IZ MAH OTHR MOMMY, OR MAYBE DOSE BOIS! I LUV OTHR MOMMY AN BOIS! MAYBE THEY WILL LET ME TAEK MAH MANATEE OUTSIDE! IF IZ TEH BOIS THEY WILL SAY OH HAI, AN PET ME AN PULAY TUG-OV-WAR WIF ME. BEAVR GIVEZ ME TREAT. WHEN OTHR MOMMY COMEZ IN SHE ALWAYS SEZ OH HAI 2 ME AN GIVEZ ME SNUGGLE!”

It’s the other mommy and yes, she gives him a snuggle even before she shuts the door.