C8H10N4O2

Yesterday morning we cruised across town to my favorite coffee place in our favorite neighborhood before the monthly trip to Really Big Store Where You Can Buy A Case Of Tylenol Or Diamonds. I hate going to this place and I avoid it as carefully as I avoid cooking and balancing my checkbook. Everything is just so darn oversized and big! Even the shopping carts are oversized. And of course they are because a regular cart wouldn’t hold the 2000 pack of toilet paper.

The Girl was well caffeinated and five minutes before the store opened she had lined up the cart in front of the door and was rolling it back and forth, leaning into it like a contestant for one of those shoppers’ sweepstakes; the type where you run into a store and have five minutes to fill your cart. Girl was super charged and revving up her cart. I swear I heard her make car noises.

I was a little concerned about TG yesterday, too because when we walked into the warehouse I asked if we had won the lottery the night before, because if we did, I was buying diamonds. You must know TG is very sensible about money so I was gobsmacked when she remarked: “If we won the lottery we are NOT buying diamonds here. We are chartering an airplane and going to Tiffany’s in New York for our diamonds.” I just stopped and stared at her like she had three heads.

“You can’t seriously mean that? That would be a stupid waste of money when there is a perfectly good Tiffany’s just down the street from here!”

Sister girl needs to watch the coffee intake; it’s impairing her judgment.

Mrs. Kravitz

image found here

I was deadheading the salvia today when I remembered a conversation I had with one of my neighbors a month or so ago We had been home for about four days, I was still unsure what time zone I was in much less what day of the week it was so I was a little rough around the edges from the jet lag. The flowers had bolted while we were gone and were close to their peak even before we left for our trip in early June. While we had been away the weather had been too hot too fast especially in the south bed. My salvia was spent, the big pink showy things that threaten to take over each year were done, and the dianthuses bordering the front walk were done, too. Rather than let them go to seed naturally, like I would in late August, I gave them all drastic haircuts murmuring little prayers that I wasn’t killing the plants and they would bloom again before next May or June. I’m crouched down in my perennials, surrounded by the hum of bees, enjoying a hot dry morning when I hear a familiar but not entirely welcome voice from the public path adjacent to our south yard. Our neighbor, Mrs. Kravitz and her husband George, were walking their elderly and fat golden retriever.

“Oh your flowers were so pretty! Why are you doing that to them” Mrs. K said, her voice dripping with judgment because that’s how she always sounds.

“So they bloom again. They bolted while we were away, just like my radishes and salad greens. Too hot too fast this year.” I looked up at her squinting against the sunlight and really wishing I didn’t have to be nice to this woman.

“Are you sure about that? I’ve never heard of Salvia coming back.” I swear I could hear her tongue click against her teeth. She couldn’t stand The Girl and I and really wanted to see us fail at this whole redoing a distressed house thing because we are the scourge of the earth and everything Jesus hates. Whenever she sees us her disappointment that we are gay and not just like her family radiates through her hypocritical eyes and threatens to beat us over the head. I wish I could say I can’t stand this woman but really what I feel for her is beyond the emotion of hatred. I feel sadness she is so incredibly intolerant of us not only because we are queer but because we are democrats and we are not Catholic. That’s a lot of criteria we fall short in. She is a Christian in bigots clothing. During election season, they had an anti-reproductive rights campaign sign in their yard and she approached our next door neighbor and told C she was going to hell if C didn’t vote yes on this particular referendum. (I never got a chance to ask her how many babies they were going to adopt…) A couple of months later Mrs. K rushed over to C’s house and was terribly upset she might sell it to “that homosexual couple who were looking at it last week.” When C told me about this, I saw red. The following Sunday was the open house and how I wished I knew a bunch of drag queens and really Nelly queens so I could round them up for a tour of the house. The evil fantasy of squealing over dressed drag queens tripping up the front walk made me cackle like an evil genius. A couple of years ago, she and George refused to go to their across the street neighbor’s wake because he died an AIDS related death. And they pointedly said this is why they weren’t going. They can barely bring themselves to speak to me when I‘m outside and I always without fail give them a cheery hello, trying to take the high road. Because someday I’m going to get a chance to tell her about the Jesus I know who believes in loving your neighbor. But the icing on the cake was definitely last month when she stood on my property dispensing gardening advice and her yard is a boring mess of weeds and petunias. All of this flashed though my mind as I looked up at her, praying God would speak through me and silence Edgy June Cleaver.

Isn’t it wonderful we are gifted with filters and the ability to speak internally because this is what Evil June said before nice June spoke up:

Actually you stupid judgmental woman, I’m not sure if they will bloom or not because all I know about gardening is what I learned from a handful of magazine articles and gardening last summer. So you know what? If I’m wrong you can come over here and tell me just how wrong I am, which I’m sure you won’t hesitate doing. So now just move along with your self-righteous self and feel assured you are the perfect specimen of human

“Mrs. Kravitz, it’s going to be interesting to see if they come back isn’t it? These are all perennials so my guess is they will be back bigger and better in a week or so. You and George have a nice day.” I beamed at her as I turned back to my work willing her to disappear.

It’s been tempting the last couple of weeks to make her a big bouquet of Salvia and just lay it on her doorstep as a neighborly gesture of good will. It was also tempting to ask if we could borrow their extremely gay rainbow paper party ball thingy I can see from the street in their garage. It would have been nice to hang on our porch this June 28th to celebrate the 41st anniversary of the beginning of The Gay Rights Movement.

But I didn’t. Maybe next year if it’s still in their garage and I’ll even give her a bundle of salvia in return for the loan.

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.

Spring Threatens

image found here
This morning, I took Wally downtown for a job fair. It was tricky to find and in one of the oldest neighborhoods in the city and one of the places referred to as "The 'Hood". It was the first black neighborhood in the city and the houses were all built sometime during the last few years of the 19th century. Once upon a time it was a stop over for jazz musicians, porters and waiters on the cross country trains and then the thrill seeking Beats. Our little city had it's own artsy Harlem. But then the trains stopped running as frequently... Twenty plus years ago, I stumbled into this neighborhood and the once festive store fronts and club entrances were either boarded up or in shambles. The houses had sagging porches, peeling paint and trash in the yards. The cars lining the streets were as dilapidated as the buildings and houses. I had a few co-workers who lived there and they told me I was foolish to go down there and stay there even if it was an accident because any given time you could hear people shouting at each other, gun fire and squealing tires. I’m still naive enough to think a white woman would have only garnered curious stares rather than attracting violence. A few years after that, community groups started a re-gentrification project, the gang violence was under a little better control and a sense of pride had returned to the neighborhood. My co-worker who had once been so negative about the place was now passionate about saving her home and making it something to be proud of. The old jazz clubs re-opened and the soul food restaurants started advertising. The light rail moved in and the neighbors could get work on the other side of town and the white folks from the SE could come and gawk and spend their money. Ward, me and the boys went down there one Sunday afternoon many years ago. It was a chance to ride the train--something the boys loved--and a novel way for me and Ward to see something other than our Fabulous Suburb. Besides the restaurant I wanted to try was one of the oldest restaurants in town.

The train wound its way through the deserted Sunday afternoon streets in the financial district downtown before moving past the train yards and to Five Points. We got off the train at the end of the line. We stumbled off the train a little disoriented; neither of us had been down there on foot. We walked a couple of blocks along the main street and I spied the houses down the side streets, most of them still looked a little shabby but more hopeful with old mass plantings of heavily scented purple and yellow iris, old spirea, snow ball and forsythia heavy with blooms all surrounded by patches of bright green grass. We stood on the raised platform and looked around below us. The street was empty but the businesses had an efficient rather than derelict air about them. There were a few men sitting on the sidewalks in the shades of awnings, some were asleep some sitting on their haunches and staring at us. There was a kid standing near the train stop and he was hunched over with his hands jammed into the pockets of his over ample pants. We stepped off the platform and I started walking towards the young man. Ward was about to stop me but I was too far ahead. This kid didn’t give me a chance to ask him a question before he was questioning me.
“Whatchu want?” He leaned back, took his hands out his pants and crossed them over his chest like some kind of Biggy Small wannabe. I think he was trying to intimidate me but he didn’t realize I had a long history of working with gang bangers, junkies and your average street thug so nothing shook me up too much. Especially on a Sunday afternoon, in a city with the reputation of being more Cow Town than Mean Streets.
“I’m looking for Mamma’s; it’s supposed to be around here.”
“Over der. Good food , too. “ He relaxed a little and continued to size me up, his head nodding up and down, still unsure I wasn’t a cop or a warrant officer or a social worker or a bounty hunter disguised as a white suburban housewife.
I tossed thanks over my shoulder as I walked towards the family and we approached the poorly marked restaurant with a rickety and decrepit door.

We walked into the restaurant and the contrast between the bright afternoon and the dark room temporally blinded us; my guess is we all looked stunned for a few seconds. Once my eyes adjusted I noted we were the only people in the restaurant except an elderly gentleman and an older woman in a smock apron. The room was simple and painted a industrial/institutional green. Each table had four chairs and red checkered oil cloths. Near the back, the only thing on the wall was a picture of Jesus. Predictably, it was white Jesus. The people were sitting at the table under the picture of Christ. The man addressed us after he stood up using a cane for support. He had a suspicious tremor in his voice, and probably had good reason to distrust white people. He was old enough to remember the danger of making eye contact with a white woman or not duck his head in the direction of a white man.
“You folks lost?”
“No sir, we heard about your restaurant and would like to have Sunday dinner here if you are still open.” Ward was respectful but direct and completely nonplussed by this adventure I had taken us on. His parents had been incredibly liberal and politically active in the 1950’s and 60’s. Had they not had teenagers at home, my guess is they would have been registering voters in Alabama and Georgia; marching on Washington, the whole deal.
“We open?” he turned his entire body towards the seated woman who was looking us up and down and up and down again.
“We open.” Was her quiet answer. She heaved herself up and went into the kitchen.

All I remember before we had our delicious food as the kids were thankfully and remarkably well behaved; and the buzz from the window air conditioner was so loud if you had wanted to tell secrets you didn’t dare. I do remember the man coming to our table asking why we had bothered to come all the way across town for dinner. We explained we had heard what was happening in the neighborhood and wanted to see it. His daughter (the chief) came out every few minutes and joined in the conversation, warming up to the idea of white folks coming in for lunch. He told us there were still people living in the houses they were born, some close to one hundred . He was proud of his home, a pretty place with old iris blooming in the yard and big leafy trees along red stone sidewalks. The roasted chicken was smothered in gravy; the greens were smoking hot with cayenne, the mashed potatoes buttery and the corn bread sweet. My then three year old ate a quarter of a chicken and his picky eating older brother had almost that. The food was simple and straight forward but there was enough different about it I felt like I had stepped into another part of the country when I got off the train.

I grew up in Texas but don’t remember eating southern style food as a kid. Years ago, my black co-workers thought it was because I was a racist until they figured out I had never had opportunity to try it. So they would bring crazy things for me to try just to see if I would eat them and then have a big laugh over the white girl from Texas who loved chitins but didn’t much care for the pickled pigs’ feet and gushed over mixed greens. I can still hear one of them saying: “Baby, those ain’t nothing’ but weeds that grows in the ditch!” (I remembered that line when I fixed our collards last summer) So my palate had a bit of a swagger to it that afternoon at Mamma’s.

Today, I drove down that same street and the restaurant is still there. The front has been repainted and the tiny sign has been replaced with a fancy new sign. It cheered me to see one of the oldest restaurants in town was still open. The notorious jazz clubs from the thirties and forties were there, too. I wondered if the now famous jazz names would stop in and jam after their real gigs, like they did fifty years ago. Inviting benches lined the sidewalk and invited people to sit and watch the world go by. It wasn’t terribly early in the morning nor was it cold but their weren’t kids skulking around on the corners or older guys sitting against buildings like there had been in the past. I drove the side streets and the yards were clean, the houses were painted and had many had been carefully restored. The Queen Anne style homes rivaled the one’s I had seen in San Francisco a couple of years ago. All of the yards had shrubs and plants threatening to bloom and there were even a few scraggly and ancient cherry trees already in bloom. Spring was threatening to return to Five Points. I knew I was going back one sunny spring day armed with my appetite and my camera.

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.