Betrayal

Notes to self:

a. Do NOT come home early from work on a Friday afternoon.
b. Sticks can swim.
c. More to follow.


Notes to all: No other way to put it - Chester and family rule. They gave us a great laugh this weekend, and Truffles has taken notice of a certain handsome chocolate Lab from Pennsylvania.

Sola is back to 100%, and thanks you all for asking about her.

Mrs. Author celebrates a birthday this week. Entries will be short, because the greatest gift we share is time.

Let me know if you spot Mr. Stick. I have plans for him.

Best Served Cold

Get over it. Take a time out. Don't go to bed angry. Take deep breaths. Don't bear grudges.

By the time we are old enough to read, we have heard it so many ways, and in so many words - don't retain anger. Not bad advice at all. Anger is toxic. It raises our blood pressure, speeds the aging process, and causes otherwise ordinary people to do extraordinary things. The term "going postal" was borne from the ultimate expression of anger. The news is loaded with stories of scorned lovers, disputing neighbors, disgruntled coworkers: each committing a more heinous act than the next, all in the name of anger.

Fortunately, this sage advice to choose peace has stayed with me, and I am not one to bear a grudge. Life is too short, time far too valuable to devote to an angered state. This is easier said than done of course. My lack of patience is well known to those around me. I am always in a rush to get somewhere or get something done, and the days are too short for me to accomplish all that I would like. I cut to the heart of the matter in discussions, and some are turned off by my brevity. Yet I am able to control my temper as required, and I think most people would find me agreeable enough. On most days.

I was walking the yard last week - feeling rather agreeable, listening to the river sing its song of spring; water nearing the top of the banks in a torrent of leaves and branches shed by surrounding mountains. Its murky waters spoke to me, and warned of danger ahead. I did not heed that warning, my thoughts consumed with spring projects, my back to the river as I considered a new spot for our garden shed. Once I had that location mentally mapped, I turned to the river and started to walk back across the front of the house, where I was forced to freeze in my tracks.






Son of a bitch, it's Mr. Stick. Not just any stick, but a very special, three hundred dollar stick. The stick that injured Sola, scared us silly and kept me up at night with guilt. The stick that has us hand feeding Sola to this day, soft foods only thank you very much. One little stick, so much joy. My favorite pickup line.

The stick appeared to be frozen, but I managed to dislodge it from the snow with my boot. I dragged it across the yard, my face reddening by the step. An unfamiliar feeling washed over me, a feeling quite unlike any other I had known. After years of turning the other cheek and suppressing my anger, something in me snapped...like a stick. I was glowing hot and muttering jibberish until the gates of hell opened wide to let forth my fury, countless episodes of being Mr. Too Nice Guy fighting their way out of me in a constant stream of obscenities that would make a sailor blush. I was off the rails.

One would expect that in my rage I would have just snapped the stick and been done with it. That would not suffice. I had dedicated hours of work to pay the vet bill; lost countless hours of sleep staying up with Sola, and watched Mrs. Author spend her days stressing out over Sola's condition. We were just putting the incident behind us when d-bag appeared at my feet.

I needed to show my appreciation for Mr. Stick. In my own time, and in my own way. Before I even made it to the house I thought it best to let him hang out in the wood pile with the big boys for a few hours, just to be sure he felt a bit inadequate.





There were still a couple of hours of daylight left when strong wind gusts whipped up and threatened to blow Mr. Stick to freedom. I secured my prisoner.







A nagging sensation told me to bring him in when darkness fell. After all, he was a conniving bastard, and was not to be trusted. I put the truck back in the garage and brought Mr. Stick in to our humble abode. The nearest vase secured him as I paced the kitchen, talking to myself. I laughed hysterically in a brief moment of clarity as it occurred to me what it was that I was doing.






I was exacting revenge. And I was liking it.


After dinner I Chris Brown'd him, my fists pumping with delicious rage. He was looking pretty rough. Not rough enough to prevent me from making him wear a hideous sweater vest, assuring him a spot on at least one worst dressed list.







It was only unnatural that he spend the night in a pair of panties, so he did. I threatened to take pictures and put them on the internet once I had him hung up in the sunporch for all to see.








I had not given proper consideration to what the outside world saw.






The sun rose as I answered complaint calls from neighborhood parents. Mrs. Author realized the error of my ways and ran for Mr. Stick.

*Ring Ring*

Author: "Hello."

Neighbor: "WTF?"

Author: "WTF RU talking about?"

Neighbor: "Window panties freak boy. Take 'em down."


Mrs. Author did. I was far from done.

Many years ago, when Mrs. Author and I were dating and became serious, our CD collections intermingled. I am an ardent music lover, so it took me some time to allow those little jewel boxes to hang with strangers. I flipped through her CD collection, and one particular title grabbed my attention. I quietly pushed it to the bottom of the pile, where it languished in dust and obscurity for years. I remembered that horrid musical selection as Mrs. Author pulled her underwear off Mr. Stick and handed it to me. She stormed out of the living room as I set up our friend for an extended listening session with the stereo blasting Ace of Base.






I don't know about you, but an hour of that crap would have a shotgun looking pretty tasty to me. He endured.

Mrs. Author yelled down the hall to me. "Turn that garbage down!"

Author: "It's your CD. I thought you would like it."

Mrs Author: "I have no idea what you are talking about, or where that came from."

I could feel her blushing from the next room. We were eighties children after all, guilty of supporting some interesting musical movements. I just don't see anything like Cameo making a dollar today, but I digress.

I noticed Mr. Stick running down the hall, away from the truly torturous music pumping from the speakers. The dogs stopped him in his tracks.

Truffles: "Where you headed Woody?"

Sola: "You're momma's so skinny, Nigel wouldn't do her."

Nigel: "Hehe, yeah....hey wait a minute!"


I snatched Mr. Stick from the jaws of death. We had all had enough nineties music torture, so I found a better way to help him pass the time. I selected an uninterrupted showing of Hope Floats - the cinematic equivalent of waterboarding. Even the tagline is vomitous: When life fell apart, love fell into place. I don't know if you've witnessed this gem first hand, but if you do it will remind you of another item that floats. It's a double flusher.






While he squirmed and tried to close his stupid little googly eyes I filed a small claims court suit against him for three hundred dollars, plus an additional thirty five bucks for the filing fees. I shoved the paperwork in the mailbox, raised the flag, and returned to the living room to find Mr. Stick catatonic on the carpet. I was starting to wear on him.






It was time to catch the news, so I let Mr. Stick clear his sinuses hanging at the bottom of the hamper while we settled in for the evening.






I was distracted from the sportscast when I heard him stirring, the hamper smacking the wall as he tried to jump out. I decided it best to tuck, or should I say clamp him in for the evening. I introduced him to our woodstove, latched the door, and turned off the basement lights. He remained silent until 1 A.M., when I woke him by turning all the lights on high and giving a very convincing reading of Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God by Jonathon Edwards. He was speechless.





When I woke the following morning I noticed a slight change. I felt better. The sun shone a bit brighter. I was calming. But not too soon. Sola had made only one request throughout this bizarre process. She had whispered it to me during the Ace of Base debacle. I gladly honored her wishes.






"Make him run around the yard with a stick in his mouth" she'd implored. I was powerless to deny her. He ran all day, and was tripped frequently by a certain Labrador Retriever.


When I was certain he was too tired to run I introduced him to the resident woodchuck and let them become acquainted while I collected myself.





At this point I felt that we had made our peace, had taken our pound of flesh (or bark, really), and manged to put the entire Mr. Stick chapter behind us as a family. All that was left was the actual disposal of said Stick. I considered Craigslist...




Something told me I was not likely to find a taker so I canned the ad. I was pondering possibilities when the answer came to me from the television that evening. I knocked over the coffee table running for the phone. My hands trembled as I dialed, excitement overtaking me.

*Ring Ring*

Lady on the other end: "America's Most Wanted, how may I assist you?"

Author: "That bank robbery you were just talking about in New Hampshire. I saw the suspect."

Lady on the other end: "Ok. Could you tell me where you saw this person and offer a description?"

Author: "You bet. He's in the side yard with Chuck. He's a short skinny little bugger with dirty grey hair and googly eyes and he likes Ace of Base and he wears panties when the mood strikes him and he stabbed my dog in the throat!"

Lady on the other end: "Well, your description does not remotely match the picture of the three hundred pound suspect with brown hair. But Ace of Base is a serious matter. I'll send an officer right away."

Meanwhile, Mr. Stick had recovered, and he'd made a run for it. The police caught up to him a few miles down the road as he attempted to make a phone call from a convenience store payphone.





I don't know how he pulled it off, but within twenty four hours he was released on his own recognizance. When I heard the news I jumped in the car and flew to the police station. I managed to catch Mr. Stick just as he ran out the back door of the holding tank. He nearly made it to the woods, and I shudder to think what might have become of me had I been a few seconds later. I would not have stood a chance had I encountered him among his own kind.

Mr. Stick secured in the trunk, I found a twisty stretch of road and dug in to the accelerator, invoking the punch of the turbo charger and sending him flying with each turn of the steering wheel. Ryan Adams serenaded us from the CD changer as I turned in to our road, the long climb up the mountain complete, wheels kicking up dirt in my crazy wake.

So he drank like a river when their wedding bells rang
Watched from the steeple as the choir girls sang.

There it was. My final answer.

Our story ends where it began, our visit with Mr. Stick drawing to a close as we crossed the yard yet again, my boots crunching through the last frozen remnants of snow. I made haste to outrun the sunset as the events of the previous week replayed in my head. I had met a new side of me, and was more than a little frightened. I had alienated my neighbors, played horrendous movies, and I was pretty sure I had a splinter. I swore I'd never let myself get to this place again as the river sang a new song: no longer a harbinger of unfortunate things to come, but instead a messenger of hope - reminding me of the limitless happiness that exists - for one who is able to put aside grievances, to let the past be, to just let go.

Phonejacking

Wordless Wednesday 10

Wordless Wednesday 9

Sinker

Locked. Loaded. Loser.

A man's home is his castle. A hackneyed cliche no doubt, but what one sentence better conveys the relationship between home and home owner? It is (for most of us) the single largest purchase we will make. We develop emotional attachments to our homes, and the memories we make in them. We agonize over renovations, save for improvements, and watch our families grow in our homes. When it comes time to sell and move on some of us struggle with letting go.

We also expect safety at home. Many are content to draw the curtains and throw a deadbolt and call it a day. Less brave souls, the wealthy, and those challenged with making a home in a high crime area are likely to install a security system. On the fringes, people throw up no trespassing signs every ten feet, cameras in the trees, and set booby traps filled with assorted unpleasantries distributed at underground meetings in basements. If that last statement sounds at all familiar to you, please locate the "stop following" button at the top of this page.

After the workday has had its way with me, and another commute is behind me, all I desire is the quiet and safety of home. It takes a bit to unwind, but once settled in for the evening I do my best to relax and leave some stress behind. Time spent with family is the best time I know, and I relish it accordingly. Between work and play, every day is a full day.

When my head finally hits the pillow I crash hard. I am lucky if I can grab five to six hours of sleep on weeknights. Every hour counts, and I sleep deeply - perhaps too much so. Get Mrs. Author on the subject and she'll have a hundred stories about trying to wake me with little or no luck. Short of telling me the house is on fire, or that one of the dogs are sick, it's tough to get my attention.





As I espoused the virtues of life with dogs in Vermont last week, I was reminded of an event that occurred just prior to our move last October.

Mrs. Author woke me with ease.

Tell a man there is an intruder in his home and you're likely to see a strong response. It was from the deepest slumber that these words came to me in the middle of the night and jolted me back to consciousness. Mrs. Author woke me, screaming about someone being in the house. I had zero doubt that she was correct. Ours was an open concept apartment, the bedroom separated from the living room by walls only: there was no ceiling. Two distinct pieces of evidence cemented our belief that someone was in the house. Nigel barked deeply, aggressively. He never barks. More troubling: the lights came on in the living room just as Nigel erupted, his first hellhound volley of howls breaking the dead silence of night.

I was raised a hunter. I stopped hunting decades ago, trading flesh for clay pigeons as my target. Skeet shooting is fun, and offers all of the challenge I need. I never really cared about hunting that much in the first place; but I lived in small town Alabama in the seventies as a child, and if you didn't know how to shoot something by the time you were seven or eight, then you didn't like girls or didn't have arms, eyes and fingers. I hunted, and hunted well.

It was only natural that I leapt for my gun when I believed there was a stranger among us. I'm no NRA card carrier, but I do believe in the right to protect my family, and I was fully convinced that we were in grave danger. I was without my glasses, but the light from the living room left me enough to work with. Mrs. Author leaned on the door and held the knob as the first shell clicked in to the chamber, two more clenched in my teeth for good measure. I ushered her aside, the gun cold in my seemingly burning hands. I was ready to engage our enemy.

I brought the gun to my shoulder and ripped the door open, the hinges rattling as it met the opposing wall with a bang. My eyes scanned the room for a burglar, my finger twitching on the trigger. There were none to be found. Nigel had gone silent - he and our cat Boo were eying me suspiciously from the couch. Sola was behind me, and I'm not sure that she wasn't waiting to see what the outcome would be before advancing.

It always amazes me that our minds have the ability to take in and process so much data simultaneously. In a matter of seconds I knew the following things to be true:

1. There was no stranger in the house. Just the regulars.
2. I was not going to have the chance to bust a cap.
3. I was stone cold naked.

I figured all of this out with astounding speed and clarity. Making this task easier was my reflection in the picture window opposite the bedroom door. Fifteen feet away, it allowed me to take in this sad situation in duplicate. I stared back at me, both barrels seeking targets that would not materialize, dangling bits still flapping slightly from the wind of the thrown-open bedroom door. Nigel looked at the floor as Boo walked along the top of the couch, itching his rump on the wall, then the light switch, turning the light off.

From the darkness he created I cursed myself. I had been utterly pussified. Had I a moment of awareness prior to the false alarm I would have known exactly what was happening. Nigel can't stand having cats above him. I don't know if it actually rained cats on him at some point prior to his adoption, but if a cat meets eye level anywhere in his vicinity he get his panties in a knot. He was barking at Cracker (I apologize - his name is Boo, but we all call him Cracker: he's as white as they get) to beat the band because the cat had broken the horizon rule.

Nigel: Right on. Stay below, go with the flow. Rise above, lose the love.

That sorted out the noise issue. The rest was up to Cracker, who handled illumination duty with aplomb. I fumed as he worked his way back and forth across the light switch, itching himself, turning the light on, off, on again. I was ready to kill that little formerly unidentified combatant, (or f.u.c., if you will). I had nearly discharged a firearm while marshmallow fat f.u.c. Cracker jacked up my electricity bill scratching his dingleberries.

Nigel: I feel you one hundred percent. I never much liked that Cracker f.u.c. myself.

Author: I swept him (the f.u.c.) off the sofa, unloaded the gun after much internal debate, and called it a night.

In order to avoid attack by legions of ladies in cat sweaters, I'll not share all of the discussions Nigel and I had that week, but let's just say that the microwave was suggested by a black and white dog on more than one occasion. I was checking e-mail when a paw tugged at my sleeve one afternoon.

Nigel: "You know, when they make crackers they come out of the oven hot. Don't you want to nuke a Cracker?"






I ignored him, but not easily. My mind wandered to subjects like Cracker and cheese, Cracker crumbs, hunters yelling "pull!" as Crackers were launched from clay pigeon slingers.


Nigel took things a step further.





Not acceptable.


I did make a call to our landlord to attempt to rectify the situation.

*Ring* *Ring*

Landlord: "Hello."

Author: "Hello Mr. Landlord, I was wondering of you could help me with something."

Landlord: "Shoot."

Author: "I did consider that. Anyway, I was hoping you were aware of the new county electrical codes."

Landlord: "Can't say that I am."

Author: "It's kind of odd, but the new code calls for all light switches to be installed at six feet or higher, some safety thing."

Landlord: "Yeah sure, like the whole county is going to be rewired. I'll wait this one out."

Author: "Fine, but did you have to put a light switch right next to the couch?"

Landlord: "I think you're losing it. Get your head checked. "

Author: "Fair enough, but could you please at least take this little f.u.c off my hands-
CLICK


I may never live all of this down - the unfounded fear, the chuckle of the dogs when they think I cannot hear, my naked self in the window bearing arms. But rest assured, I know where the f.u.c. Cracker is headed: to the land of Kung Pao...

Wordless Wednesday 8

A Green Mountain State

Vermont is a remarkable place. If you have not visited, I can't recommend it highly enough. The quality of life is stellar. Most of what you have heard is true. I brag to anybody who asks about the fact that there is no traffic, very little crime, no billboards, good schools. My daily commute takes me through the kind scenery that most folks only get to visit - pristine winding rivers, mountains jutting up about me, rolling hills and farm fields separating the mountain range we reside in from Lake Champlain and the surrounding valley where my office is located.

It has taken me years to uncover all that Vermont has to offer. Like many before me, my early years here were spent going to the real tourist spots - Ben & Jerry's, The Vermont Teddy Bear Factory, Stowe - all heavily trafficked and well enjoyed destinations. Subsequent years found me exploring the natural wonders of the state: mountain biking, hiking, days at the lake. Wildlife is often available in abundance for observation.

The benefits of this beautiful environment are not lost on Vermont residents. People just love the place. The lifestyle is laid back, with endless possibilities just beyond your door. It really doesn't suck.

But much like an onion, there are layers to be peeled from the surface of a community before one truly becomes aware of, and familiar with the subtle nuances that tell the entire story. Stick around long enough, keep the peeler working and you just might discover why Vermont is referred to as the Green Mountain state. Use Google to search for Vermont's second largest cash crop and you'll save yourself the years I invested in discovery.

The place is loaded with weed. If you ever wondered what happened to all the hippies, wonder no longer. I've found them, and I'm convinced that they are hiding in the hills, poised to rise again to glory. There is a plethora of Birkenstocks, VW vans, and peace signs to behold. The town of Woodstock, Vermont is just fifty miles from our home. People sit around campfires and talk about their feelings. Interpretive dance involving unshaven female armpits occurs with merciless frequency. The hills glow in a series of very small fires every night, and potato chips are consumed in mass quantity.

It stands to reason, therefore, that it was only a matter of time before I had a close encounter with a Mary Jane fan. In order to unwittingly further my education in things green, I moved in right down the street from one. An ardent fan, his days were spent researching all things marijuana. His appearance was part hippie, part mad scientist, long hair and bloodshot eyes bearing testament to his pursuit of, well...nothing, as is the case with most burners. Since he almost never left the house, I considered him relatively harmless.

This consideration was proven quite wrong in a series of events that I will try my best to remember, a series set in motion by a phone call I received one autumn night not too long ago.

*Ring**Ring*

Hello.

Neighbor: "Dude you need to come to my house right now, this is not cool!"

Author: "What is not cool?"

Neighbor: "I don't have time to explain just come NOW."


I did. I grabbed Sola and a flashlight and ran down the street to see what had peace corps all wound up. As we made our way up the driveway I shined turned the light to the house, and what I saw had me running as fast as I could to get to the occupants. I was convinced the house was ablaze, and Sola picked up her pace to match mine as we landed on the front porch. I half expected the doorknob to burn me as I burst through the front door, Sola still at my heels.

We forged ahead through the haze and found our neighbor and his Golden Retriever despondent on the living room floor. I was without my cell phone and could not see my way through the house to find a landline. Plumes of smoke bellowed from the kitchen as I shook the two of them, desperate to see any sign of life. I dropped the flashlight, and Sola took a step back as both my neighbor and his dog opened their eyes and started laughing. It took forty minutes to stop them.

Once their gigglefest subsided, I forced an explanation from my less than present neighbor. He had taken a shot at horticulture over the summer, and as the days shortened and frosty nights approached, he had harvested his his baby. He explained to me how he had dried his plant, and stripped the leaves from it for the purpose of making brownies and cookies of a different kind. He layered these leaves on baking sheets and placed them in both of the dutch ovens in the kitchen (without turning them on) and left them there to dry for more than a week while he tended to the buds and stripped away the stems.

Experts say that pot impacts your short term memory, and here was a man on a mission to prove them right with a bullet. He had imbibed, and was hanging out with his dog while playing online poker. He was in the midst of a moderate winning streak when the hunger bug bit. He placed his laptop on the kitchen counter and scrounged for food between poker plays. Once he decided on his dinner he fired up the oven and returned to the living room to give the ongoing poker match his undivided attention.

Cheech and Chong had nothing on this guy. In a matter of minutes his cooking stash was incinerated, and the house was bursting at the seams with smoke. It was this disquieting scene that Sola and I found ourselves in the middle of - for just a little too long. As neighbor Chong surveyed the damage in the kitchen I started to become lightheaded. A quick look at Sola confirmed my fear- her eyes were drooping and she kept asking me where the water bowl was, which was odd considering that dogs don't talk. I wished my neighbor luck in my newly discovered slow motion voice, and Sola and I stubmbled home in the dark, purple elephants and unicorns in hot pursuit.

Both of us passed out. Mrs. Author and I shared a laugh over coffee the next morning as I conveyed the details of the previous evening's smoke show. The cobwebs cleared from my head as the day wore on. I ate like a horse. Our routine resumed.

Sola was changed.

I had not considered the risk, but it was becoming clear that some of that flower power had rubbed off. The first ominous sign: the attack of the bead curtains. Every doorway was adorned with noisy strands, some strung with seashells, coconut shells, heart shaped glass beads. Entry and exit to and from each room was announced with a loud rattle. My tacky radar was lit up like my neighbor's brain.



It went downhill quickly from there. I returned from work one evening to find the stereo on 10, Led Zeppelin rocking the house to it's foundation, Sola waving to and fro with the wall of guitar noise. Nigel and Truffles observed, nonplussed. They had pulled pillows from the couch to their ears and were nursing substantial headaches by the time I found the volume knob. As the music silenced, all that remained was the methodical tap of Sola's paws on the floor as she continued her dance, the music still playing in her head. I ushered her in to the dog room and closed her in for a bit to let her sober up.


I was baffled. I'd never heard of dogs spending time at the Betty Ford clinic, but I knew that I'd better figure out a solution rather quickly. Sola was embracing the culture too readily. I had kept her away from the Golden down the street to eliminate peer pressure. Mrs. Author and I had shown her scared straight videos from the pound - the images of Rotties being hauled out of Cadillac Escalades in cuffs, and Bulldogs doing time for possession apparently having little effect.

I asked Nigel to go check on Sola, but he came flying back to the couch, Sola angrily screaming "I can quit any time I want, stop snooping Magnum P.I.!" The dog room door slammed shut with a bang.


Nigel: There were piles of cash everywhere and it reeked of incense.


I waited a few hours for her to calm down. I continued the mental struggle for an appropriate course of treatment as I cracked the dog room door open to check on my little wayward corn nut.






Not good.




A truly terrifying poster adorned the walls.







Sola rattled her way through the bead curtain again, passing me and running down the hall, out of sight. I made my way back to the living room to find her playing Rock Band on the Wii, singing White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane at the top of her lungs. "Feed your head!" she bellowed, and I truly believe she was in the song. It was all wrong, and remained so for months.


My car was the last straw. I walked out of the office the other day, laptop and keys in hand, twenty minutes late as always. I hadn't been punk'd as much as I'd been "pimped."






Fearing serious hooker traffic, I made a commitment at that moment to end the fierce addiction and reclaim my little girl. I was dangling dangerously from the end of my rope, and I needed to save her at any cost. That night Mrs. Author and I huddled with Nigel and Truffles and share our plan. Once all had it memorized we dispersed - Truffles to the kitchen, Mrs. Author keeping an eye on Sola in the back yard as Nigel produced her rolling papers. We were done in less than five minutes, and Sola was none the wiser as she returned to her spot on the couch.

At seven that evening we were watching news of the financial meltdown when Sola had a meltdown of her own. We heard the flick of a lighter in the dog room followed by a series of coughs that evolved in to a consistent dry hack. Sola came rattling back at us through the bead curtain, demanding an explanation. "Someone raided my stash. This isn't my stash, someone replaced it with garbage, where is MINE?" We tried to talk her down, but addiction is as strong as it is ugly, and she wanted no part of it.

I explained that we loved her and that we all needed her to be healthy and well, and free of her demons. Mrs. Author told her that we missed the Sola we knew. She held up a defiant paw and ignored us. I asked Nigel to produce the evidence. He handed it over and I threw it on the table in front of her angrily.









Sola: I quit I quit I quit I quit!!!!!!!!!!



Mission accomplished.



Nigel: You smoked catnip, you'll never live this down in the dog community.


Truffles: Anyone seen my Joaquin Phoenix beard and glasses?


Sola: I have quit, but as you may have noticed, corn nut is one of my nicknames. You all should really click this button to help me with the transition back to reality. Just keep on clicking into oblivion...feed your head!

Wordless Wednesday #7

I'll be quiet today.



Not so tomorrow...

Please Don't Litter

Mrs. Author and I are food snobs. We all have our faults - may as well throw that one out there. It's a serious affliction when you consider that we both hate to cook. We just don't like junk food. It's not like our kitchen is dripping with saffron encrusted lobster tails and vials of truffle oil, but you won't find nukeable pockets of any sort in the freezer.

We follow the same approach to our life with dogs, and buy them all natural, high quality food. Sola has allergies that rule out most of the cheap foods. No chicken lips and gristle kibble for her. Our monthly budget for dog food is not insubstantial, but we believe that our dogs benefit from a healthy, balanced diet.

Sola: Tell Fudgepants that.

Author: Truffles has a little issue. Far too often, her smile matches her coat. If you happen to stop by for a visit and Fudgepants wants to plant one on you take a quick gander at her gums. Run at the first sign of brownies. Don't ask why: Just put down the fat dog and run.





Ours is a house of love, and that is apparent in the behavior of our dogs. They are unfailingly affectionate. Smooches are distributed with regularity and with no regard for circumstance. I'll be mid-sentence in a discussion and Nigel will walk by and get in a zip with that lizard quick tongue of his. Sola will tackle me and try to have her way if I'm not careful. Truffles has thrived in this environment, and regularly joins the love fest, fluttering about the family room, tail slicing arcs through the air, rump shaking, kisses flying.

Considering the caring environment we foster, you'd expect us to embrace her affection. Reality paints a substantially different picture. When Fudgepants peels back those lips and moves in for a steamy pucker, family members are seemingly ejected from assorted windows of the house. Our expenditure for glass replacement in January alone was just under nine thousand dollars. I'd bet a fiver that on more than a dozen occasions the neighbors must have thought the damn house was on fire.

It's as though the little pudgewagon has a built in kiss forcefield. If only that were the case.

Nigel: Stop dragging this out and spill the beans.

Author: The dog has elevated the act of turd chomping to an art form. Cat nuggets to be exact. I can't count the number of times that Truffles has emerged from the guest bathroom with a stench ridden smile, her snout encrusted in gray matter. This elicits much profanity as we scramble for the bathroom to clean up her post-picnic mess. Mrs. Author sweeps up the sprinkles. I put away the butter and the napkins.

We have devised numerous schemes to discourage her. Leaving the door open to grant the cat access is necessary, so the past few months have found us testing a variety of objects to achieve poo pursuit blockage. We vastly underestimated her determination. Her heft and hunger foiled our every move. Chairs, hampers, SUVs: all were waylaid in her pursuit of crunchy culinary delights. The dog is nasty.

Just the other day I sat down at the table with the paper to find Truffles looking back at me, obviously unhappy at being interrupted.






A lascivious litter lover, she's not content to eat from the box. All means and methods of preparation are employed, much to our chagrin. A recent movie viewing was interrupted when I noticed the microwave running after I had already retrieved a bag of popcorn from it. Returning to the kitchen, I was immediately forced to pull my shirt over my head in order to avoid being engulfed by a humid, gray smog that filled the room. I used a kitchen towel to wave about my face and clear a path to the nuker, hit the stop button and swung the door open.





An oven mitt was employed to launch the molten poo kiln abomination in to a snowbank by the garage. The nearest pine tree sagged a bit, needles browning. I watched the clay smolder as the snowbank melted and swore that I would put a stop to her less than pleasant habit. I had an idea.


Our cat gained thirty-four pounds the following week. I fed Boo no less than seven full boxes of Imodium in the course of as many days. He swelled up like a Limbaugh.

Boo: You just suck.

Author: Hey, if Truffles wouldn't stop coming to poo, then poo was going to stop coming to Truffles. At least I didn't starve you.

Yet I failed miserably. The following week the cat exploded - flying to and fro on a river of fudge; Truffles with paddle in hot pursuit, bib flapping behind her. Something had "popped the cork" so to speak, and I was determined to locate and eliminate the source of my angst. The obvious had escaped me until yesterday, when I tripped over this interesting piece of evidence:









Count me all the way out. And bid with confidence.





Nigel: Turn that frown something other than brown.

Truffles: I found a Milky Way in the couch loser. If it is not sh*t, you must acquit.