So Dear, and Also, So Thoroughly Disgusting

Over the weekend I was in my backyard mowing the lawn when I came across an empty hole in the ground, about the diameter of a Coke can. Next to the hole was a little pile of dried grass and grayish tufts of fur, a clear sign that this hole had once been home to a litter of baby rabbits.

Our neighborhood is thick with rabbits, and my dog has caught several in our backyard. One time I opened the back door to let her in the house, and she came trotting merrily up the deck steps with the freshly eviscerated remains of a full-grown rabbit hanging out of her mouth. I could see that she had plans to bring her prize inside to finish snacking on, on the living room carpet no doubt. After some prying, I got her to drop the carcass into a garbage bag, and when I let her in the door, sans carnage, she flashed me a look that I would later see many times on my thirteen-year-old daughter, a look which clearly said, “Why do you have to be so MEAN? Gawd!”

So on Saturday, as I kicked loose dirt into that hole to fill it in, I tried not to think about what probably had happened to the baby rabbits. I hoped really, really hard that I would not have to find out for certain what had happened to those baby rabbits.

Then, last night, it was dark outside and starting to rain, so I opened the door to let the dog in. As I was admiring the little yellow flowers that have sprouted on the tomato plants in the pots just outside on the deck, the corner of my eye caught something dangling from her muzzle. Before I could say, “NononononoNONONOOOOOOOOO,” she had strolled past me and dropped her dangling something onto the kitchen floor. It was a dark, wet, shapeless little pile, which had tiny pink rabbit feet attached. Based on the smell, these remains were decidedly un-fresh.

Another plastic bag later, the offending pile was out of the house, but its aroma was not. Disgusted, I put the dog into her kennel and latched the door shut.

I watch plenty of “The Dog Whisperer.” I understand that my dog is an animal, and she was only doing what she, as a dog, is hard-wired to do. But at the same time, I was so appalled that I could not even look at her.

This morning when I went to let her out again, I thought I still smelled that smell. Maybe it was only the memory of it that I was detecting. Or, more likely, my darling hound probably took a nice, long roll in her stinky pile before picking it up to bring in the house, and I am going to have to give her a serious scrubbing in deodorizing shampoo tonight.

I am choosing not to wonder exactly how many baby rabbits were once in that hole.

I am also choosing not to wonder where exactly my dog might have others stashed away for later.

Mmmmmm... Rabbits...

People I Am Thankful For

I am thankful for my daughters, for the things they teach me every day and for giving me a reason to keep on keepin’ on, even when I really, really don’t want to at all.

I am thankful for my niece, Madge, for being my excuse to shop for toys this Christmas, which she is going to get lots and lots of because she now knows my name and runs to give me hugs and kisses whenever I come over. What color pony would you like, my little munchkin?

For my smart, funny, gorgeous sisters and sister-cousins, whose e-mails make me laugh out loud, and who are not afraid to dance entirely without inhibitions whenever Neil Diamond is on. Even when they have not been drinking alcoholic beverages beforehand.

For my parents, and my aunts and uncles and second cousins and first-cousins-once-removed and all the rest of my giant, noisy, often dysfunctional extended family. For my Aunt Linda, who remembered to call me on my birthday, even though she and my Uncle Dave divorced when I was eight years old and she now lives in Louisiana. And for my brother-in-law, Jim, who will soon be helping me hang drywall in my sunroom, although he doesn’t know it yet.

I am thankful for the family members who will attend Thanksgiving dinner in spirit. My Grandma Devoy through her creamed onions recipe, which I wrote down shortly before she celebrated her 90th birthday, and my Grandma Townsend by way of her Fire King casserole dish with the fruit painted on the side, which I will be serving the creamed onions in on Thursday.

I am thankful for My Ho, who is kind and thoughtful and loving and trustworthy, even when I don’t feel very deserving of any of those things. And patient. I am thankful that he is very, very patient. And also that he is bringing pie.

I am thankful for the babies on the way—Batgirl’s Baby Boof, and my cousin Kerry’s new little girl, because it will certainly not be a boy THIS time around.

I am thankful for my friend Liz, who keeps me sane. For my friend Dr. Dave, who makes my brain hurt (but in a good way). For my friend Batgirl, who continues to prove that baseball, good writing and sass make an awesome combination. For Mother Bear Amy, who provides an ongoing example that one person with an idea and a little passion can make a big difference in the world. For Leah, who doesn't care that my dog jumps over the fence to poop in her yard (I seriously am going to clean that up). And for my friend Daniel, who souped up my PC so DemiGoddess the Younger can watch Degrassi episodes online, and so I can now play the latest Age of Empires games, and he did it all for only the price of the hardware and a sandwich from Jimmy John's.

I am thankful for that handful of blog browsers who kept coming here when I was silent for an entire month with no explanation. I don't know who most of who you are, and I don't know why you stuck around, but because of the miracle of StatCounter, I know you were here, and I thank you.

I am thankful for all the Demis’ terrific teachers and Girl Scouts troop leaders and the other adults who are helping them become amazing young women.

I am thankful for doctors and nurses, for police officers and sanitation workers, and all those people who do the jobs that I would never in a million years want to do.

I am thankful for Nancy Pelosi and all the new blue congresspeople. (Please, please don’t f*ck it up in the next two years. PLEASE.)

I am thankful for my dog, who is not a person, exactly, but she still counts as a family member.

And, of course, I am thankful for the Minnesota Twins. All of them. But especially Johan Santana.

Oh, Just Go Watch TV, Then.

DemiGoddess the Younger: I'm bored.

EverydaySuperGoddess: It's a beautiful day. Go outside and play.

DY: But... I don't have any friends.

ESG: How very unfortunate. But that's exactly why we have a dog. Play with her.

DY: She bites me. She's full of violent rage.

A Glimpse Inside the Mind of My Dog

Fucking Rabbits!
FUCKING rabbits!
Fucking RABBITS!!

Fucking SQUIRRELS!!

FUCKING RABBITS!!

She got out yesterday afternoon. I forgot I had left the deck door open, to help dry the primer in the kitchen. Through the sliding glass door I glimpsed a pale gray arc streaking over the chain link fence and I knew, too late, she was gone.

It’s hard to begrudge her when she escapes. She lives to run, and up at the lake, where I can set her free to roam in the woods, she is in dog heaven. At home in the suburbs, though, there are laws against that sort of thing. Every time she gets out, I worry that she’ll get hit by a car, or pester a neighbor, or, worse, happen upon another unsuspecting poodle. I have bailed her out of dog jail twice, and have resolved loudly on many occasions to give her away to someone who has a farm where she can run and run and run and run. It’s the humane thing to do. But I don't. Because I adore her.

She tears in and out between the houses, under hedges and over fences, a flashing, fluid torment to the neighborhood wildlife which, truth be told, is really getting out of hand anyway. She doesn't usually go far, and she runs out of steam before too long. After a while, if I'm lucky, I'll hold open the door for her and she'll trot cheerfully back inside, proudly sporting her latest fragrance, "eau de rotting carcass."

She goes directly to her bowl for a long, sloppy drink before collapsing onto the kitchen floor, thumping her tail on the linoleum and grinning gratefully.

Fucking rabbits.

Doggie Karma

Karma (Sanskrit: from the root kri, "to do", meaning deed) or Kamma (Pali: meaning action, effect, destiny). In Hinduism and, later, Buddhism, it is the sum of a person's actions, regarded as determining that person's future states of existence.

Yesterday afternoon I was in the Cub Foods parking lot, loading groceries into my car, when my cell phone rang. It was Demigoddess the Younger, and she was most upset.

“There’s a dog in our yard and it got in a fight with Emmylou and she’s bleeding!”

“Bring her inside,” I said.

“We CAN’T, the dog is on the deck and he keeps trying to come inside! Lou is in the bushes and she’s whining! What should we do?”

“I don’t know. Don’t do anything. I’ll be home in a minute.”

Adrenaline overload makes following the rules of the road a real challenge. I had visions of a crazed, rabid cur mutilating my dog and then trying to eat my children. (WHY do there have to be so damn many people out driving around on Sunday afternoons??)

When I arrived home a few minutes later, I left the groceries in the car and ran to the backyard. My dog was still on her tie-out, which was tangled in the bushes, so she couldn’t go anywhere. She was bleeding from one small scrape on her shoulder, but didn’t seem to be damaged too badly.

The attacker was still on our deck. He was the thickest, meatiest example of a dog I have ever seen in my life. Set low and nothing but muscle, with cropped ears and yellowish eyes, I’m quite sure he was at least part pit bull. He looked like he had been hacked from a slab of granite, with a head like a cinder block. He sat there and looked at me, grinning a mouthful of scary-ass teeth and wagging his tail. The Demigoddesses were sitting on either side of him.

“He’s actually really nice!” Demi the Younger chirped.

The dog continued wagging as I checked his tag, wrote down the number listed on it, tied him up and then called the owners. A few minutes later an enormous guy in a red Mustang pulled up. I told him that his dog and mine had gotten into a little bit of a scrap, and confirmed that beefy dog had had all of his shots, which he had, because, apparently, beefy dog escapes a LOT. Then the guy leaned over the dog, put his arms under the its forelegs and hoisted the animal into the air from behind. He toted him to the car like that, threw him in, and drove away.

I guess I could have given the guy an earful. I probably should have. But as I was writing down the man’s name and phone number, just in case I should need it later, I couldn’t help but remember our little poodle incident from last month.

I guess it just goes to show that, just when you think you’re a real badass, there’s always a bigger dog not far down the road who’ll be happy to show you otherwise.

Poodle lady never did call me, and I guess maybe that’s why I couldn’t bring myself to give Mustang guy a hard time.

Karma, you know.

Reason #931 That There Will Be Lots of Expensive Therapy

4:27 a.m.
My Bed

Me: Hey.

Demigoddess The Younger: What?

Me: Why are you in my bed and why are you kicking me?

DGY: The dog. She’s too wiggly.

Me: Well then put her in her kennel and let me sleep. Jee-zus.

(Guilt)

(Guilt)

(Guilt)

Please Step Away From the Poodle

We’re back from our annual Fourth of July trip to the cabin. I’ll share about the actual trip later. At the moment, I’m still traumatized by what happened on the way home yesterday.

The Demigoddesses and I had just finished our traditional halfway-point lunch, and were stopped for gas at a Holiday station outside of Duluth. While I filled the tank for the remainder of the drive home, the Demis were inside the station hunting for Tangy Taffy, and EmmyLou, my much-loved pointer, was in the front passenger seat.

Before I go any further, I must point out that Lou is a very sweet, friendly, affectionate dog. She is wonderful with the Demis, and had just spent five days at the lake playing with my parents’ sheltie without any incident. But Lou loves to run, especially after rabbits and squirrels, and has, on occasion, been known to catch small rodents and… er… liquidate them. She also has a tendency to escape, so to ensure that she stayed put during our road trip, she was wearing her Gentle Leader, which was attached to her extension leash, which I had secured to the car by fastening the passenger-side seatbelt through the handle. And just to be safe, when she was buckled in securely, I even locked the leash's extension function.

By the time we arrived in Duluth and I could pick it up on the radio, the Twins game was in its third inning. The fuel was filling, and as I started cleaning the dead bugs off the windshield, I noticed that I couldn’t hear the play-by-play because I had left the power windows rolled all the way up. Not wanting to re-start the car to lower the windows, I opened the driver’s side door a crack, so I could listen while I squeegeed. For a few minutes, everything was fine. The Twins were ahead by two runs, Santana was on the mound, traffic was light, the weather was good, and we would be home in a couple of hours.

I wish I could view a surveillance video of what happened next, because it all went down so fast that I’m not even sure exactly what happened. I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye, and then a woman was screaming, and I spun around to see my dog, two pumps over, muzzle to the ground, with a bitty, yelping poodle head sticking out one side, and eensy poodle hind legs wiggling out the other side. Of my dog's MOUTH.

Lou was still attached to my car’s seatbelt via the leash, which was apparently not so much locked after all. I dropped the squeegee and yanked the leash as hard as I could with both hands, yelling at the dog at the same time. She immediately backed off, leaving a tiny, wounded mass of grayish poodle flopping around on the pavement.

After an initial bit of yelling, everyone calmed down fairly quickly as we tried to assess the damage. It turned out that the poodle did not even belong to no-longer-screaming lady, she was only taking care of it, and although her remarkably calm male companion insisted that the wet stuff in the poodle’s fur was only drool from Lou’s mouth (or, froth from her rabid maw, whichever you prefer...), I could see that it was, in fact, blood. Not a lot of blood, but definitely some, and the poor little dog was so terrified that it wouldn’t let me or anyone else touch it to see how deep the wounds were. It was all in a rage now, snapping at the man’s hands as he picked it up and tried to calm it down.

A super-helpful bystander came over and said that the poodle was definitely going to need antibiotics. "Because the only thing dirtier than an animal mouth is a human mouth." Thanks for sharing, super-helpful bystander. Now please shut up before I send Cujo after you, too.

No-longer-screaming lady and her man friend were also on their way back to Minneapolis. She talked about trying to find an emergency vet in Duluth, and although I kept quiet, I silently prayed that I wasn’t going to end up stuck with a multiple-hundred-dollar emergency vet bill. She finally decided to wait and bring the poodle home, and then take it to its regular vet. So we exchanged phone numbers and went on our respective ways.

My hands shook on the steering wheel for most of the rest of the drive home. In my mind, I went over and over every event of the day up to that point, considering all the variables that had to be in place for that moment to have happened exactly the way it did. I wished we had left the cabin just a few minutes earlier, or had taken just a few minutes longer to eat lunch. I wished I had left the car door closed, or had double-checked that the extension leash was, in fact, locked. But, like most regrettable events, it’s hard to pinpoint a single moment at which the poodle’s fate was sealed.

Even after we got home and unpacked the car, I couldn’t get out of my head the image of my cheerful, lovable dog crouched on the ground with an entire poodle writhing in her foaming jaws of death. For a few desperate moments, I even tried to come up with ways in which that poodle had somehow earned it--reasons why it wasn’t really my dog’s fault, and, by extension, my fault. But in the end, the best explanation I could come up with was that the little dog, it simply looked a bit too much like a bunny. Or, maybe a squirrel.

I know I should call and find out if the poodle is all right. But at the moment, the thought of it still makes me nauseous. So, for now, we’re going to be purchasing an old-fashioned, non-extension leash very soon. And, in the future, we’ll be steering the foaming jaws of death way clear of tiny dogs who look like rodents.

(And the baseball game went into the crapper shortly after this all happened, too. Naturally.)