dogs

musings about my dogs

I Love My Dogs (In a Totally Non-Creepy Way)

3 Comments

It’s probably more stressful for me to take my dogs to the Vet than it is for them to go.  Clara doesn’t even notice when she gets shots.  Lilo can be fidgety but usually isn’t too weird about it as long as I hold her head against my chest so she can’t get snippy.  Both of the girls (Sheena is on a different schedule than the other two) were as good as dogs can be last night.

Granted both Clara and Lilo are edging up into “senior” territory which is a difficult reality for me to get through my head.  Clara is 9, Lilo is 8, almost 9.  I have had dogs live almost 16 years- Kayla would probably have lived even longer had we not decided to put her down when her DM (Degenerative Myelopathy) got so bad she was having trouble controlling her bowels and bladder.  That really sucked, especially for a dog whose healthy weight was about 90#.  I couldn’t carry her out, and eventually it got to the point where she didn’t know when she needed to go and then she’d  just let fly which was humiliating to her and difficult for us.  Kayla was otherwise healthy- except for the damned DM keeping her from being able to control her bathroom functions and use her rear legs.  Unfortunately dogs don’t die from DM- but if they are left to die a “natural death,” they die from the pneumonia and heart failure brought on by inactivity.

Because Clara and Lilo both are crossbreeds and not purebred GSDs, it’s unlikely they will get DM like Kayla and Heidi both did.  I am generally not a believer in “hybrid vigor,” but the likelihood of genetic disease is lower in mixed breed dogs.  Heidi had other issues besides DM, though nine years of very poor care before we got her didn’t help.  I doubt if I will ever have another purebred GSD for that reason- the American bloodlines are repositories for every wicked genetic disease under the sun- but who knows.  I love the protection breeds.

In this pic, Clara (top) was a thin and lanky two year old- Kayla (bottom) was a healthy and active 14 year old.   Kayla did wonders developing Clara’s confidence.

Lilo I know has hip dysplasia, but hers is mild, which is a workable condition for most dogs.  Lilo and Clara both have allergies that seem to get worse as they age. Lilo has seborrhea,  and Clara is prone to lick granulomas which are generally not life-threatening but are aesthetically unpleasant.    Sheena has severe hip dysplasia and she has completely destroyed her canine teeth and incisors from cage biting.  Both of these conditions  will probably cause issues as she ages.

Sheena does have issues, but she’s a sweet dog.

The sad truth of having dogs is that they age a lot faster than we do.  I love senior dogs as they are usually a lot more laid back than their younger counterparts and they are confident in their routines.  I was thrilled to take Heidi in at the age of 9- partially because we had just lost Kayla, but also because I enjoy senior dogs and their mellowness.  I was thankful that Heidi had a good three years with us, but it broke my heart to see her go at the relatively young age of  12.

Heidi was always grateful for everything.

I can take Clara anywhere.  She and I have an understanding which is hard to describe, but I know I have a deeper appreciation for her and her gentle, intuitive nature, especially after she was hit by a truck and almost killed two and a half years ago.

When Clara had the stitches- and the seroma- after she was hit by a truck, she had to wear t-shirts to keep from messing with it.  She was not amused.

Lilo is also very mellow and easy to handle, especially for a dreaded “Chow mix,” but that mellowness has taken years to cultivate.  Sheena (about 4 years old now) is not as confident or as obedient as the other two are now.  But Clara had a lot of “puppiness” to her when I got her as a thin and somewhat spooked two year old, and Lilo had her special little “Chowtude” and didn’t want to trust anyone when she first came to us.  Kayla scared her, and Clara just wanted to kick her ass.

Lilo is strange in one regard- she actually enjoys wearing clothes.

Perhaps it’s a bit twisted that I hold my dogs in higher esteem than most people, but at the end of the day- there they are.

Humor Me, Breathing is Fundamental, and Anytime is Naptime

5 Comments

I love it.  My granddaughter is already learning the art of the stink-eye.

I think gradually, ever so painfully slowly, my sorry carcass is beginning to get the picture that drowning me in snot is rather counterproductive.  I’ve been on the Allegras for a little over a week and they do seem to help- that along with the saline rinses (now there’s a really fun activity- spraying salt water up your nose to rinse out your sinuses) and the homeopathic nasal spray made from capsaicin (capsaicin is what makes hot peppers hot) that burns like hell right after you spray it-  but it is effective, and at $11 a bottle, I can afford that. So far it’s working better than the steroid sprays that cost $100 + per script and as an added bonus, can give you glaucoma.  I’ve used the steroid sprays before, and they are effective, but I can’t afford them, and since I’m already at risk for glaucoma, I think I’ll steer clear.

Of course, as always, I have a sick sense of humor, even though it has been temporarily stifled by misery and fatigue.  I hate being so tired, but the word “tired” does not capture the depth of the sloggingly slow, painfully apathetic state I’ve been in.  The snots have subsided enough to allow me at least some sleep- but no matter how much sleep I manage to get I feel like I can always use more.  I hate dragging my ass through life.  I would love to wake up hyper- in a good way- with something fun to do that I actually have the energy for.  Maybe I’ve just been sleep deprived for so long that there’s no possible way for me to catch up. 

I do have to go next week and get my blood drawn for labs.  I wonder if yet again something is out of line with my funky-assed body chemistry. In the past I’ve had fatigue caused by low iron (that shouldn’t be an issue since the hysterectomy,) and low potassium (I have to take a supplement for that.)  I’ve had my thyroid stuff checked in the past and it’s been normal, but Grandpa had low thyroid, and he was virtually narcoleptic over it until the Drs found it and started medicating him for it.  Maybe my thyroid has gone south.  It would not surprise me.  I am the repository for most of my family’s genetically transmitted diseases after all.  I can only hope that if that is what’s making me want to sleep 24/7 that they actually run a thyroid test on my blood.  I have no idea which blood panels my new Dr. is going to run.  If I were him I would run everything known to man, because Murphy’s Law would indicate that I have a greater chance than most of having obscure and bizarre anomalies and diseases, especially if they are inherited. 

As a kid it always pissed me off that the world “wastes” so much time sleeping.  Back in the day I could run on four or five hours’ sleep and be wide awake and ready to go.  Now I can sleep on and off for 10-12 hours and still be dead tired.   Perhaps it is a bit of cosmic justice for being so wired as a kid, or punishment for all those years of chugging coffee, chain-smoking and taking all that mail order speed.  Pseudoephedrine and caffeine pills were easily obtained back in the 80’s and 90’s.  I could stay awake for days. Now I wish I could sleep for days, but even then I’d still wake up dead tired.

Maybe I don’t have enough excitement in my life.  Maybe I had too much excitement earlier on, and I’m so jaded I can’t get enthused about very much.  Then again, the odds of waking up with a hot young stud in my bed are next to none.  I wake up with dogs in my bed, but that’s not quite the same.

Clara manages to get herself in the smallest of spaces to sleep- while the other two dogs like to take up as much surface area as possible.

Here’s Lilo- all stretched out as usual.

Sheena doesn’t even try to get into the beds with her bad hips- but she can sleep on the couch- and just about anywhere else.

I force myself to exercise- 30 minutes a day of strenuous cardio most days- and supposedly that’s supposed to make one more energetic.  It’s done wonders for my upper and lower body strength- but not a damned thing for my energy level.  I can go through a workout and then turn right around and go back to sleep.  I don’t think it’s supposed to work that way but it does for me, and some days it takes everything I have to get through 30 minutes.

I think someone could make a killing if they could find a way for people to workout while they sleep.  Just hook me up to the marathon running machine while I’m sleeping.  If I could sleep and run a marathon at the same time, then I would be well on my way to a buff bod.

I’ve always liked the idea of stealth exercise.  Swimming is the closest I’ve ever gotten to it.  You feel great while you’re swimming laps, but don’t realize how much energy you’ve burned up until you get out of the pool.  Unfortunately I don’t have easy access to an indoor pool.  It was nice when I had the “Y” membership but Jerry whined and cried about it every time I went to the “Y,” because every minute I was at the pool was a minute I wasn’t available to fetch beer or otherwise cater to His Nibs. 

To hear him talk about it, I think somewhere back in the reptilian part of his brain he might have thought that other guys were “looking at” me in a bathing suit.  I think it’s funny he assumes that because I’m female that my partially clad body would cause other males to lust, (??? I’m not really lustworthy material by any standard????!!!!) but he fails to realize two very important truths- 1.) I purchase swim attire that affords me the most coverage I can get,  because 2.) there are laws in this country against cruel and unusual punishment.  Subjecting others to the visual of my incredibly pale, scarred skin is just plain nasty- nobody wants to see my stretch marks, surgical scars, varicose veins, burn marks, etc.  If I could find a swim top with sleeves I’d wear that too, so nobody would have to get an eyeful of my meaty arms.  As far as I can see, the visual of me in a bathing suit would motivate projectile vomiting rather than provide fodder for a hand party.

 

 

Bacon Flavored Man Chow, Headlines We’ll Never See, and Sarcastic?- Me?

2 Comments

I don’t understand the male fascination with bacon.  Bacon is one of those things that I can eat- in small quantities- but I generally don’t because it is always greasy, and generally always disgustingly salty.  It’s fine crumbled up in potato soup but that’s about it.  Salt and grease are generally not items one wants in the diet in any kind of quantity.  Dogs like bacon too, but they are generally not known for having great culinary requirements.  Any creature who will dine on carrion and dumpster droppings generally is not reliable as a food critic.  George Carlin once questioned, (in reference to cats and “gourmet” cat food, but the principle still applies,)  “How many gourmets lick their own ass?”

When Steve-o, the illustrious Precious Only Male Child, was about four or five he went through an extreme picky eater stage.  No meat, no eggs, no vegetables.  Of course he would eat bacon – perhaps not realizing that “meat candy” is actually made of meat, or what was meat at one time.  I could only get milk down him by putting Hershey’s syrup in it.  The only vitamins he got are whatever vitamins lurk in Pop Tarts, Domino’s Pizza, Mountain Dew, and if I was lucky, ramen noodles.   It was also just my luck that the POMC was tall and large framed- and his picky eating habits were making him “thin for his height” which I got to hear incessantly at every Dr. visit from the time he was four until he was about eleven.  Most people get read the riot act because their kids are lard asses, but I never had that problem.

I got mixed messages from the Dr.s though.  Yes he was thin, yes, he needed more calories to avoid looking like a very white starving African child, but I shouldn’t cater to his demands.  “If he’s hungry enough he’ll eat eventually,” was one response.  Then I was warned, “Do you know how many men I see in my practice who will only eat hot dogs and hamburgers because their mothers fixed them special meals and didn’t make them eat a variety of foods?”

Calling raw broccoli “little trees,” and even dunking them in ranch dressing didn’t work.  He would just suck the ranch dressing off them.  I did get him to the point where he will eat a few meats- the value brand turkey lunch meat from Kroger’s, chicken wings (atomic sauce with plenty of ranch dressing,) medium-rare steak, and Arby’s roast beef.  I don’t think I’ve seen him eat a vegetable- at least not of his own volition- other than fries and ketchup. 

Steve-o was smarter than all that noise.  If he didn’t like something he wasn’t going to eat it, and no one was going to make him.  He would just wait until he was at school or at the sitter’s and then he would either mooch, or trade things for the food he wanted.   He learned the negotiatory arts at a very early age.   There were too many kids at school and at his sitter’s willing to procure him whatever goodies he wanted.  Never mind that Mom- who made us eat granola that resembled dog food in more ways than one for breakfast while other kids sucked down their Froot Loops and Cocoa Krispies-would buy him boxes and boxes of Pop Tarts and then let him free forage in the kitchen for chow.  I am not sure if spray cheese has any nutritional value but I quit buying it when I discovered why the cans turned up empty as soon as they landed in the cabinet.  Spray cheese is just too easy a man food.  Just tilt back your head, spray and swallow.  Steve-o would snarf down the whole can.

Jerry is just as bad if not worse about being a fussy eater.  He will eat vegetables and meat, but for him it’s more about the method of preparation and the spices (or hopeless lack thereof) involved.  Jerry prefers fried food with lots of salt and grease.  He does not like healthy things such as brown bread, baked meats, or anything with red sauce.  He does not like garlic or spicy things. 

But he adores bacon.  The Universal Man Food.

So if it works for the folks at Purina- “dogs don’t know it’s not bacon”- (technically that is a double negative, so apparently they do know it’s not bacon-but- the thing is they’re dogs, and a rotten possum ass will work just fine for them) then how can you expect a man with beer-addled brain cells to know the difference?

Why can’t Purina or some other food-type company come up with something sort of like the Beggin’ Strip, but the difference being it looks like bacon, smells like bacon, but is a completely nutritionally balanced food with all the vitamins and protein and fiber that men won’t eat voluntarily?  It would make my life a hell of a lot easier.

“What am I gonna eeeeeeat?’ (yes, Jerry does whine like this.)

“I got you Bacon-Flavored Man Chow- it’s in the cabinet!”

“Cool,” he replies as he rips open the bag and starts sucking down those bacon-flavored strips.

I’ve always wondered why I’ve never seen women’s sumo wrestling.  I’ve been to Newark, OH.  I used to work there, and one of the perks was the fact that  clothes in my size were always marked down in the local stores- because there was no demand for any women’s clothing smaller than a 4X.  I know women get big enough to sumo wrestle, but you never see Women’s Sumo Championship in the headlines.  If men will pay money to watch skinny bimbos roll around in the mud, then why not pay to watch fat chicks sumo wrestle?  I’m sure they can make those diapers in size 20 underwear size.

Another headline that will probably never appear in my lifetime: Asian Driver Wins NASCAR Race.  Asians are too smart for NASCAR, and typically they drive slow enough to make me look like something out of Smokey and the Bandit.  For those who don’t know how conservatively I drive, I can just imagine Wang commenting to his wife Lee, “Oh, horry clap, she’s goring 62 in a 65!”

I really try not to follow politics too closely because I know how riled up I can get when I do.   I really can’t stand the current POTUS for a number of reasons none of which have to do with his race.  First of all I am not convinced he is even eligible to hold the office of president (his birth certificate is about as convincing as the one I fabricated for Sheena) and even should he be deemed eligible, he’s the Worst President Since Jimmy Carter.

B.O. Must GO!  Here’s my new bumper sticker.

Then again I shouldn’t insult Jimmy Carter like that.  Jimmy at least was an American citizen, a war veteran, and a Christian.  Where he got some of his crazy ideas I’ll never know, but at least with Jimmy his heart was in the right place even if his head was up his ass.  Obama has no heart, and I don’t think even installing a glass belly button would help him see daylight.  Where the hell did the Dumb-o-crats find this asshole and how did they get that many people- other than dead people, illegal aliens and felons- to vote for him?  As much as I am not thrilled about Mitt Romney, I’d vote for him over Obama any day.  I’d vote for Sheena, even though she’s a mentally challenged dog, rather than Obama.   At least Sheena wouldn’t try to block the pipeline and/or keep the US from using our domestic resources.  She does lick her own ass, she’s not above eating out of the trash, and she refuses to wear clothing ,which might not be hot selling points in her bid to be elected- but compared to B. O., Sheena’s a shining star of virtue.

I knew better.  Talking about politics always gets me good and pissed off – and plenty sarcastic.  As if I need help in that.

Greetings from Nattyvana- Wish You Were Here!- and Sometimes The Possum Really is Dead

2 Comments

 

Nattyvana: That drunk-and-stupid state of mind one reaches after consuming a 12 pack or more of Jerry’s favorite Anheuser-Busch product- Natural Lite.

Never mind that Natty is only 4.2% alcohol. Never mind, but I can only imagine that horse piss has more flavor.  It is a “value priced” beer after all.  It takes persistence, but if you drink enough of it, you can get shitfaced.   Personally if my aim were to get shitfaced, I’d go for something with a lot more punch, like Jägermeister (35%- 70 proof)- if you can get past the fact it tastes just like Formula 44-  or just plain straight vodka (Stolichnaya is 40% or 80 proof.) 

To me drinking beer to get drunk is like driving through the ghetto to get to work.  You’ll get there eventually, but it takes longer, smells worse, and carries a higher element of danger than taking the freeway.  I don’t like the taste of beer anyway.  Natty isn’t the worst beer out there (take it from someone who used to party with people who drank Schaefer Light) but it’s pretty nasty even for beer.   It’s chock full of all-natural formaldehyde, with a wispy aroma vaguely reminscent of onion-tainted sweat socks and a despondent resignation to a life of obscurity and ignominy.  Whether or not Natural Lite is derived from anything “natural” I don’t know.  I do know that “all-natural” does not always mean “beneficial” or “healthy.”

All-Natural Ways to Die (for instance)

*Arsenic is an all-natural heavy-metal poison. (not to be confused with the 80’s heavy-metal band, Poison, though I can cite far better examples of that music genre)

*Ebola is an all-natural deadly virus.

*Black Mamba venom is an all-natural venomous poison.

*You can be eaten by an all-natural shark, should you choose to go into the water.

*You can be mauled and partially devoured by an all-natural grizzly bear.

*You can fall off of an all-natural cliff, or asphyxiate on all-natural bat guano fumes in an all-natural bat cave.

If you’re a possum, you can have the (mostly) all-natural Lilo the GSD/Chow mix snap your neck for you.

I’m glad I don’t get drunk anymore, if only because I have to be somewhat aware and sane to handle stuff like this.  The dogs do occasionally bring home some rather grisly finds. 

I really do feel sorry for the woodland creatures who dare to venture into our back yard.  This I think is probably Possum #4 for Lilo.  Her possum kill rate is rather surprising given that Lilo is 1. crosseyed, 2. bow-legged, and 3. slow.  Yet Lilo (unlike most dogs) is primarily an ambush hunter.  She lies in wait and then springs on her prey when they are unaware.  Clara and Sheena hunt like regular dogs- flushing and chasing.  Perhaps Lilo has had success with possums because they too are slow and low to the ground and can’t see that well.  I still feel sorry for the critters, though.

This poor unfortunate beast was immobile but still appeared to be breathing when Lilo deposited it in front of the kitchen door.  Jerry assumed that it was simply “playing possum” and acting dead so he scooped it up and put it back outside.  Sadly I found it the following morning, deader than a doornail.  Apparently it wasn’t just an act, or it was too badly injured to recover.  I tried to tell Jerry that I thought Lilo had snapped its neck, but hope springs eternal.  I was hoping she hadn’t mortally wounded it. If it did wake up I wanted it to be outside in its natural habitat, so if it were just stunned or playing possum it wouldn’t be waking up out in the foyer.  That’s all I need, some wild critter staring up at me with a mouthful (possums have 50 teeth- 8 more than dogs- which is a scary thought) of razor sharp teeth snarling at me as I’m trying to let the dogs out for their morning constitutional.

I very seldom drink anyway, and when I do, I drink wine, because I like the taste of wine.  Just a small glass will take me on a trip to mellow town. I don’t need to get shitfaced on it.  The last time I was truly shitfaced was almost 20 years ago, and I have no desire to wake up submerged in freezing water in a motel room bathtub with a half-eaten Domino’s pizza sitting on the ledge. 

It’s good that my health pretty much forbids me from doing much drinking.  I’m on enough blood pressure meds to kill most people outright, so I usually fall asleep before I can really start pounding ’em.  When I did drink to excess, back in the day, I was a forget-it-all drunk.  All I remember about one drinking party I went to in college was that yes- I did finish the whole fifth of MD 20/20, but I couldn’t remember whether or not I had slept with one of my friends’ skanky, geeky twin brother.  Nobody would enlighten me as to whether or not he had gotten lucky either- not until after I knew the coast was clear.  Since I had given up hope and let my birth control pill script run out, I had a rather harrowing two weeks of “waiting for Aunt Flo.”  Once everyone knew I was “safe”-then they told me what really happened- that he had passed out before I did, so I was never even subjected to the possibility of actually contributing to passing on that particular freakazoid’s genes.  Thanks, guys.  But at least they didn’t leave me passed out with my drawers down and my butt hanging out of the bathtub like what happened to one of my other friends.  When you weigh over 300# it is never a good thing to pass out on the toilet, especially if that’s the only toilet in the house.  Just saying.

It’s a lot safer to observe and let everyone else get drunk and stupid.  If only there had been such a thing as YouTube in the mid-80’s.  It’s probably a good thing that we were too poor for video cameras back then.

Happy Lupercalia!, (Remember Our Lupine Friends) and Staying Off the Beaten Path

2 Comments

Ok , so Clara is a dog.  So why am I talking about an ancient Roman pagan holiday that celebrates the wolf?  The Latin word for wolf is lupus (yes, this is where the horrible disease, lupus, got its name, because it ravages those afflicted much as a wolf ravages its prey.) The taxonomic name for dog is canis lupus familiaris.  – loosely translated- the house wolf.  Canis lupus lupus (if you want to discern between sub-species) is the grey wolf.

Most people are blissfully unaware that domestic dogs and grey wolves are the same species.  Same DNA.  Though humans have done some pretty damned bizarre things with the dog in the 15,000 or so years that they have been domesticated, the DNA is still there.  Because dogs have a large number of chromosomes (78) and a tendency toward frequent mutations due to the phenomenon of  tandem repeats, there is a tremendous amount of variation in appearance and body characteristics- from the 1# ankle-biter to the 250# Mastiff.  But dogs are dogs (are also wolves…) which is useful knowledge.  We live with genetically engineered wolves.  In my alternatively wired way of thinking, that’s pretty effing cool. (Science, history and vocabulary lessons today- I’m on a roll!)

Obviously, we humans aren’t terribly good at determining who should and should NOT breed, even outside our own species.

Granted, humans have really screwed up a lot of things, but that’s just Murphy’s Law in action.   As far as dogs go, canine husbandry has both successes and tragic failures.  It’s sad that certain dog breeds are so modified that some can only give birth by c-section (many of the brachycephalic breeds) and others are prone to orthopedic issues (many of the large and giant breeds) while others are prone to devastating cancers.  Inbreeding, as well as breeding dogs that really aren’t suitable to be bred, have only contributed to the plethora of genetic diseases today’s dogs are subject to.

Even with all the fascinating scientific information available on genetics- and dogs are one of the most heavily studied animals in this regard- there are still infinite unknowns.   Breeding is simply setting the wheels in motion for a cosmic crap shoot.   The genetic difference between a Grand Champion, the neighborhood trash-snarfing cur, and the wild wolf out in the woods is infinitesimal.  So eugenics for our canine friends really is what it is for everything else- some science, some art, and a whole lot of blind luck.  Some of us do well in the genetic lottery (and a good breeder has strategies to sweeten the odds) but at the end of the day some of us do well, and others not so much.

 To quote Forrest Gump, “Life is a box of chocolates.  You never know which one you’re going to get.” 

I know Murphy’s Law, and it works pretty well with Newton’s Laws.  “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.” (Newton)  Of course, Murphy’s Law can’t leave that one alone without adding a few corollaries such as:  “If nature makes you beautiful, nature will almost inevitably make you stupid,”  “Brains and coordination cannot inhabit the same body,” and, “If you expect him to use the laundry chute, be prepared to use the lawn mower.”

As much as I hate to admit it, (and as much as I really don’t like  touching the skanky Natty-splattered whitey-tighties that would end up lying all over the house) undies vs. lawn care is a pretty fair trade, at least in the summer.  I spend a good chunk of time playing seek and wash with Jerry’s clothes.  He will strip and drop clothing just about everywhere in the house, especially when he’s besnookered, making my laundry adventures begin with a maze!   It’s sort of like an Easter egg hunt only there’s no eggs- just soiled man-clothes. The process of retrieving Jerry’s clothes for wash-time also is reminiscent of searching through the Cracker Jack box.  There’s often a “prize” inside, such as cigarette butts and/or cellophanes, or massive skidmarks – living proof that sharting is real.  You want to be really careful which part of the garment you touch when picking it up.  Usually- though not every time- the waistbands escape unscathed.

Just an FYI: sharting shouldn’t be attempted whilst wearing any sort of garment, and shouldn’t be attempted at all unless your drawers are down and your butt is firmly planted on the commode.

Of course there are a number of things one should really think twice about doing.  Such as this:

“A” for creativity, but “F” for future opportunities to fornicate.  There’s something about a visual of a cat’s ass on your lover’s front area (with the belly button serving a dual purpose as the bunghole no less!) that might just be a little off-putting.

I guess for me it is easier to celebrate a holiday dedicated to the canines (and lupines- same thing) of the world than to ruminate on and on about sappy romantic platitudes. 

I get to go home and hug the dogs!  As I told a friend of mine, I do have something to look forward to tonight.  Jerry’s out of Natties- and if there is any justice in this world he should be good and miserable from last night’s drunk and stupid foray into Nattyvana, and I have three beautiful dogs waiting for me to get home.

Sheena for President, Felon of the Week, and Bizarre Holidays

3 Comments

I have ruminated on it before. Even though she is a tad bit mentally challenged, and she has yet to be nominated, Sheena should run for President.  Nothing in the Constitution specifically forbids dogs from holding office, although I could see two sticky points.  She is not 35 years old (not even in dog years, though I don’t know exactly how old she is,) and she doesn’t have a birth certificate.  But other than not being able to prove her age or citizenship status (the nebulous origins of the current POTUS’ vital documentation didn’t seem to stop him) Sheena is supremely qualified to hold public office.  She is free of sordid scandals, but is expert in digging up others’ trash.  She does have a current Franklin County dog license,  and a current rabies tag, which ought to count for something. 

As I was trolling the Marion (OH) news station’s website seeking Buckeye Chuck’s latest weather prediction, (I was sort of bored this morning) I entertained myself by checking out the other features on the site and came upon the Featured Felon of the Week page.  Sort of like TruTV, but closer to home, with fuglier mug shots.  Since I spent the first 25 years of my life in Marion, I was pleasantly surprised not to have known any of the felons pictured.

I still have to ask, who smiles for a mug shot?  Are you stoned, or have you confused jail with the BMV?  I know driver’s license pics generally resemble mug shots, but come on.  Maybe you’re just happy to have three hots and a cot for ten days and a bit of time away from your drunken old man, but I can’t see  felony charges and/or jail time as “things to smile about.”  I just don’t have that kind of optimism.

Even in this “enlightened” 21st century we entertain some pretty bizarre traditions.  Groundhog Day is one of my favorite holidays – because you don’t have to buy anything or do anything other than inquire on the prognostications of a large rodent that puts me in mind of a hairy armadillo.  Buckeye Chuck didn’t see his shadow this time around, so in theory this means we are in for an early spring.  Or not.  Who really gives a rat’s ass- or should I say a groundhog’s ass? Central Ohio doesn’t really get spring anyway.  The weather goes straight from Snowbooger Grey to Monsoon to Stygian Heat.

I also have to wonder about another February holiday- Valentine’s Day.  St. Valentine supposedly was a martyr sacrificed by the Romans back in the third century.  The tradition is that he was martyred for marrying young Christian couples – therefore the hoo-hah about celebrating love and all that.  I have to wonder, since tradition also holds that he was beheaded, where we came up with the heart business for Valentine’s Day.  Why not a dismembered head?  Maybe decapitated heads are too closely associated with Halloween, but so are disembodied hearts, and the Aztecs and Mayans had the jump on pulling hearts out of live bodies even before the Romans discovered decapitation.  I can, however, see the connection between love and decapitation and/or evisceration.  So it works in a weird kind of way, though I can’t figure chocolate into it at all.

The old Roman holiday, Lupercalia, that was once celebrated on February 14 is rather interesting.  Let’s all worship the Wolf God?  Dog sacrifice?  I don’t think so.

St. Patrick’s day is the next weird holiday that I don’t completely get.  What does green beer have to do with converting people to Catholicism? Do I really want to know?  I know the Irish like to drink, but whiskey would make more sense.

Oversight at the BMV, Avoiding Attracting the Attention of Law Enforcement, and “Sexy Time”

5 Comments

 

Just when you thought you’d seen it all, it appears that my Mom, or someone else at the same level of naiveté, got a job at the BMV approving vanity plates.  For some reason the Central Ohio area is notorious for not only the number of but the rather “saucy” variety of vanity plates one sees every day.  I’ve seen some good ones, but this one takes the prize.  I don’t think that the registered owner of this vehicle was talking about Boysenberry Jam. (the quality of this video isn’t the greatest, and the scene I’m talking about begins at 3:59- Granny and her boysenberry jam…right…but it’s funny as hell.)  I can’t see any clean reference that would go with these plates.  They remind me of Borat and the “sexy time” reference.  Now I’m stuck with the Borat in his singlet bathing suit thing image in my head.

Not such a sexy time after all, eh?

I’ve never really been tempted by the whole vanity plate thing.  In my opinion the only thing that having a vanity plate does for you is help to make you cop bait, and I strive not to attract the attention of law enforcement.  I really don’t want my vehicle to be memorable or easily identifiable.  Granted, no one is ever going to mistake a Yaris sedan for a race car, and I’m enjoying the bland anonymity that is one of the perks of middle age.  When I was a young punk I really would have enjoyed having my VW Rabbits painted hot pink, but Dad never let me do that.    I did enjoy- much to Dad’s disdain- affixing every bumper sticker I could find to my distressed old Subaru. 

I don’t think pithy pro-conservative, pro-America tidbits on bumper stickers would raise a cop’s eyebrow any more than an FOP booster sticker would, so I have no qualms about displaying my political commentary for all to see.

One of the nice things about cougardom is that the world at large regards you as harmless.   I can sit back and stare at the young stud muffins as much as I want and fantasize about their hot bods with impunity and no one’s the wiser.  I blend right into the wall.  That reminds me how necessary a pool membership just might be this year.  I enjoyed the cougar pool last summer, but the scenery wasn’t exactly stunning.  Perhaps I will compromise and take a couple of day trips to the lake, or to the indoor waterpark, which I have been meaning to do and haven’t yet.   There is something to be said for going down a waterslide in the middle of winter.

Last night I had to take poor Lilo back to the Vet for her stinking allergies.  I know, she’s part Chow and they are horribly prone to skin allergies, but I’ve tried everything I know to keep her cleared up.  The dogs’ food is corn free.  They are clean and don’t have fleas and crud on them.  It’s winter so there’s no pollen.  The only thing I can think of now that could be bothering her is cigarette smoke.  The other two dogs beat feet when Jerry lights up, but Lilo doesn’t leave the room.  So Lilo is stuck with another month’s worth of Keflex (so she doesn’t get another inner ear infection) and prednisone to clear up her ass crusties and keep her from gnawing her hide to pieces.  The only good thing about all the pills is that Lilo (also known as “Lilo the Inhaler,”  the “Food Ho,” or just plain “Ho,”)  is easy to pill.  She will take anything if it’s sitting on top of a spoonful of cottage cheese, or mashed potatoes, or gravy, or ice cream, whatever, as long as it’s food.  Sheena is the same way about meds- it’s as easy as sticking a pill in or on a bite of anything she likes to eat.  Clara is exactly the opposite.  She will find and spit out the pill regardless of what you try to put it in- even peanut butter.  By the time Clara finished the 30 day course of Keflex she had to have when she was hit by a car and had the seroma where the skin over her armpit was torn open, I was burying pills inside a melty warm cheese sandwich to get her to take them.  I never thought dogs were picky eaters until I got Clara.  Unlike most dogs, she actually inspects and chews her food.  I wonder if all Belgian Malinois are that funky about food.  Ironically, she’s not nearly as fussy about sticking her nose in our friends’ crotches (her nose is right at about crotch level on an average sized person) or up the other dogs’ butts.  But she is a dog after all.

It’s hard to believe that my granddaughter’s arrival is merely days away.  If I had to speculate I would say give it a week or two.  I think she will be a bit early, but who knows?  The baby shower is Sunday.  I have a boatload of stuff for her.  I wish they would come up with a name for her, or I might just have to do it.  I don’t think they will appreciate me calling their little girl “Princess” for very long.

The Year of the Apocalypse? Wasn’t That 1984,or 1986, or 1999, or 2001?

Leave a comment

I have to say that I am somewhat amused by the plethora of 2012 doomsday predictions that are scattered all over the Internet, TV and pretty much everywhere else.  The whole bit about the Mayan calendar ending, as if people who were into human sacrifice (by yanking out the victim’s still-beating heart) were some kind of infallible authorities on scientific and/or eschatological issues, seems more than a bit nebulous to me.  I understand that the Mayans had a lot going for them in matters of astrology and astronomy, but even the modern understanding of either of these studies is incomplete and likely not as accurate as we would like to believe. 

Of course, this year we are offered the sublime public imperative to get Obama the freak out of the White House before he does even more damage. 

I am no fan of Mitt Romney either, but for comparison’s sake I would rather see Sheena elected president if only because she would do a lot less damage than Obama.

I can see it now: Sheena for President: At least I’m housebroken,and the only ass I lick is my own!  But I don’t think dogs are eligible to run.  Pity.  But they don’t go rambling on about global warming myths, and they don’t make pacts with terrorists either.

As recently as 1975 the scientific community was seriously concerned about another impending ice age- and that was back when the air was dirty and sex was clean.  If pollution was going to cause global warming, then why wasn’t Ohio a tropical paradise back in the 1970’s?   Today’s wisdom is to go from a couple decades’ (if that) worth of weather reports as sufficient evidence to claim “global warming” and blame “apocalyptic climate change” on the use of internal combustion, frequent bathing, and the Western world’s use of toilet paper to wipe our behinds.  OK.  If the use of internal combustion, frequent showers, scrupulous wiping and the inevitable pollution those luxuries supposedly generate is causing global warming, then I would like to know how the same creature comforts that supposedly are making the earth a stygian hell were paving the way for us to die on a frozen planet less than forty years ago.  It seems a bit fishy to me.

What do the tree huggers have to gain?  A world of people who smell like ass and can’t drive?  I can show you a whole room full of them down at the BMV waiting to take their driver’s tests, and it’s not a pleasant experience. 

Just because something is synthetic doesn’t necessarily mean it’s bad.  Plastic, spandex (*on hot, buff dudes, I must clarify), computer chips, acrylic nails and McDonald’s cheeseburgers all come to mind as man-made items that are pretty damn handy.  On the other hand “all-natural” doesn’t necessarily mean “good.”  Arsenic is an all natural poison.  Ebola virus is an all natural disease-causing agent too.  So let’s all go snacking on arsenic-and-Ebola and see how those all natural goodies treat us?

I have to look at the end of the world with a pretty pragmatic eye.  No human being is more than a minute electrical charge away from the Dirt Nap.  Death is inevitable, whether it’s all at once with the rest of the world, or all by myself  at some random time when that little electrical switch in my heart decides to stop working. 

Like the Serenity Prayer says: Accept the things you can’t change.

Life is a lot easier that way.

Smells Like a Man Cave, Return of the Prodigal Fanny, and Feral Cats

2 Comments

I don’t have much of a sense of smell.  Even as a child I had really bad sinuses and constant upper respiratory infections.  After years of working in and around noxious chemicals, smoking two packs a day and then some for years, and the fire extinguisher incident, I was told not to be surprised if I was never able to smell anything.

What sense of smell I regained after having sinus surgery a few years ago is vestigial at best and not terribly reliable.  The only odors I can detect are strong- I have to be really careful with perfume, for instance,  and the scents I can detect fairly well are usually offensive.  I seldom can smell the peonies in May for instance, but I can always smell cigarettes, man-funk,  puke or shit.  Go figure.  Sometimes I smell things that I know aren’t there, which is really bizarre.  I guess one could call that phenomenon “olfactory hallucinations,”  if there is such a thing. 

I didn’t realize why non-smokers are so militant about people smoking in their airspace until I had not smoked for a few years.  After I had sinus surgery I especially noticed how noxious cig smoke is.  I might not be able to smell Chanel No.5 unless I take a bath in it, but I can smell cig smoke just getting close to a smoker.  Go figure that if I can smell anything, it’s almost always going to be nasty.

I have to be really careful with my use of perfume.  I love the stuff, but in order for me to smell it I pretty much have to marinate in it, and others around me might not appreciate that so much. 

If I go with the “poison toad” mentality(bright colors, bold patterns being nature’s warning signal) regarding personal odor, then maybe I should marinate in Chanel No.5.  I would if I could afford it.  The dollar store knock off stuff is not the same, and I want to smell good to me.  I’ve always liked bold, brassy fragrances- I’m one of the few people who really likes Estee Lauder’s Youth Dew- probably because they’re the only ones I can truly smell.  Jerry hates just about every kind of fragrance (odd because he’s a hard core smoker) so I am lucky to get away with Sand and Sable or Inner Realm (which is hard to find but lovely.)  Chanel No.5 or Liz Taylor’s Passion (another wonderfully strong, bold perfume) completely gross him out.  He thinks the body lotions from Bath and Body Works are too strong.  Puh-leeze!

Mom always hated Youth Dew, and if I wore it around her it would give her migraines.  I have encountered not a few people who have had the same reaction, so I don’t wear Youth Dew any more.  Pity.  I like it.  Grandma (Mom’s  Mom) liked it too, (she wore it often, and presumably, by the gallon) and anytime I smell Youth Dew it reminds me of her.  The irony in that is if she were still alive, she’d be 95.

I just don’t want to smell offensive to others as in smelling like bad breath, skanky hair, pit funk,  nasty feet, or butt crusty.  I’d rather smell too fresh and flowery than not enough.

Fanny is the big silver and white tabby cat in the foreground.  Those who are familiar with the song “Fat Bottom Girls” by Queen will get the “Big Fat Fanny” reference.  Fanny is a large cat by any standard, and there’s some big meat on those big bones.  She’s about 15#. 

Sunday night Fanny got out which terrified me as she is an indoor cat, she’s declawed, and she’s slow.  Yesterday morning I think she finally got hungry enough and realized that I would be doling out wet food to Fluffy Butt (the normal sized, long haired cat in the background) and Isabel (the 5# all black cat not pictured here.)   So as I went to the back door yesterday (Tuesday) morning, I heard the pitiful cries of a very large cat who likely hadn’t eaten much in the past 36 hours.  Though she didn’t look any worse for wear and certainly didn’t appear to have lost any weight, she snarfed most of the can of wet food (Isabel didn’t get much) and crashed out on the bathroom floor most of the rest of the day. 

All three of the cats like to watch the ferals that live out in the back yard and on the body shop lot, but Fanny is the only one who takes any sort of interest in wanting to socialize with them.   She’s three times the size of the males- and the ferals want absolutely nothing to do with her lard ass.  I am sure she probably was greeted with a cold shoulder when she decided to sneak out the back door.  When she made her way back she seemed to be quite delighted to be back in the house sucking up 9Lives and spreading out to sleep on the bath mat.

I am thankful she came back and is safe.  Even though she is a lard ass, and she likes to chew on my fingers and ears when the cat food bowl is empty, I have to love Big Fat Fanny Cat. 

I am one of those strange people who likes cats equally as well as dogs.  For a long time I only had cats, because I will only have dogs if I can have big dogs.  Our household is a bit unusual also in that the cats and dogs get along very well together.  Sheena can be mildly annoying to the cats at times but they know how to get away from her when she gets too rough.  Isabel likes to sleep on the dogs and clean out their ears.

I made the mistake of picking up one of the feral kittens out back.  They are about 12 weeks old now and are delightfully cute.  Unfortunately for me, even though grabbing him was easy (the kittens were all munching on some food we left out back) keeping hold of him was not.  This adorable grey and white kitten turned into a raging razorball of teeth and claws.  I guess these little ones are too old to be socialized now.  On the bright side, my puncture wounds are already starting to heal.

Sins of Omission, Synchronicity, and There’s No Escaping Murphy’s Law

2 Comments

I am sure the tome from the 1950’s advertised above has long been out of print, but I bet it’s most informative.  I can only imagine how quaint and tame the descriptions of sex acts in this book might sound when compared to some of the crazy things people do today.  I am sure this book does not contain terms such as, “dominatrix,” “golden shower,” “dirty Sanchez,” or “fisting.”   It may come as news to some, but there was actually sex before the 1960’s.   It was just kept behind closed doors, for the same reason most people keep the vacuum cleaner in the closet.  You know someone vacuums the floors from time to time, but you don’t necessarily want to keep the vacuum cleaner on display. 

In my case, the vacuum cleaner has been in the closet a very long time, but that’s my problem.  Involuntary celibacy is not for the faint of heart.  It is for the troll-like of body, and too soft of heart, however.

Speaking of vacuum cleaners, sometimes that’s the only thing in my life that doesn’t suck…which sucks because the vacuum cleaner is the one thing that’s supposed to suck.  No matter what I do (and I am sure that having three cats, three large dogs, and an incessant smoker doesn’t help here,) keeping the damned thing unclogged takes more time than the actual act of vacuuming.   I would like to pose a challenge to any vacuum cleaner manufacturer.  If you can provide me a vacuum cleaner (that I don’t  have to unclog, replace the belt, or completely rework every three minutes of use) that will actually suck up dog hair and the various other detritus- especially those damned cigarette pack cellophanes that Jerry trails behind him- that ends up on my floors, then you will actually have a decent product that is that is worth the $100-$500 one has to pay for it.  So far I have not been able to find any vacuum cleaner from any price range, manufacturer or design that I deem to be effective.  Let me do your product testing! 

I highly doubt that any vacuum cleaner manufacturer would be able to build a vacuum cleaner that would work for any length of time in my house.  There are just too many opportunities for Murphy’s Law to manifest itself.  First of all there’s the dog hair, most notably Sheena hair.  Sheena is a Husky/GSD crossbreed- with the horrific perennially shedding thick double coat found in both of those breeds.  To make it worse, Sheena’s hair is predominately white, so it doesn’t blend in.  So at any given time, save for right after I’ve vacuumed, you will find tufts of white fluff pretty much everywhere.  The house has been Sheenatized. Lilo also has a dense double coat, but the bulk of her shedding is in spring and fall (or the Central Ohio seasons of Monsoon and Fall Monsoon) so hers isn’t usually as bad.  Clara is the lightest shedder, with the sparser Malinois coat- but during the twice a year blowouts even she can drop some serious hair.

Dog hair is lethal enough to vacuum cleaners, but then you have Mr. Cig Pack Cellophane dropping those nasty bits of clear (and therefore almost impossible to see) plastic all over creation to clog up the works along with the hair.  One may pose the question, “Why doesn’t he throw them away in the trash can?,” to which I must reply, he was raised by wolves.  I am doing good for him to get a daily change of clothes and a  daily shower.  Beyond that, he pretty well leaves a trail of wrappers, cig butts, pop and/or beer cans, wherever he goes.  There is a laundry chute in the bathroom and the whitey-tighties still end up on the floor.  His mother did not train her POMC very well.  I hope I did better with mine.

My favorite Rube Goldberg machine is in the “Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure” movie- the machine that serves up Pee-Wee’s breakfast, including his smiley face pancake and Mr. T Cereal.

To me, the Rube Goldberg machine provides a wonderful illustration of logical progression- what led up to this and that and finally the final result.   It also is a wonderful illustration of what happens if a step in the progression fails.

For the want of a nail the shoe was lost.
For the want of a shoe the horse was lost.
For the want of a horse the rider was lost.
For the want of a rider the battle was lost.
For the want of a battle the kingdom was lost.
And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.
I remember these verses from an old book of children’s stories my Grandma had- all instructional tales with a moral to the story, similar to (and included some of) Aesop’s Fables.  Today when I think about these verses it makes me wonder how history would have been different had Operation Valkyrie succeeded, or even more dramatically, had the elaborate chain of events that led to WWI fallen apart somewhere. 
 
Yes, it may sound cheeky, but I wonder what my life had been like had I actually had the proper bait to go trolling for men.  🙂   
 
Then again one cannot forget the condition of synchronicity- all things working in parallel, or what I see to be the overwhelming tide of the will of God that makes the events of history plod onward and forward in ways we can neither control nor fully understand, no matter what  individual human effort is made to prevent or change them. 
 
Personally, I thought killing Hitler was a pretty freaking good idea- but as sadistic as it might sound, apparently there was a reason he lived as long as he did, and a reason why he wasn’t killed by the many assassination attempts against him.  I don’t understand why despots and sleazeballs are allowed to keep on truckin’ and those who really could be a benefit to society either die in what seems an untimely manner, or live out their days in impotent obscurity.  I can’t see the entire picture and I don’t pretend to.  But God is behind it all, whether we see things to be good or evil or incomprehensible.  One of the hardest things for me to do- being a rational type and all- is to stop trying to understand and just believe God has a purpose.
 
Far be it from me to claim to have more wisdom than Solomon, or to question the sovereignty of God like Job. 
 
It can be entertaining to play the history “what if” game- but ultimately there’s no escaping Murphy’s Law.  Humanity has been drowning in its grandiosity and hubris ever since the tower of Babel.  I can’t say Obama is the only human to get caught up in his own hubris, but he’s a good example of it.  I can only hope and pray that by the grace and mercy of God this blathering fool is booted out of the Oval Office- and that the American people have learned a lesson not only about the ways of petty tyrants, but of the folly of “sympathy voting.”  Isn’t it just as racist to vote FOR someone just because he’s black (or half-black) but clearly unqualified to hold the office as it is to vote AGAINST a qualified man simply because he’s white?

I don’t wish even someone as misguided as Obama eternity with Beezelbub, or even scathing, humiliating defeat,  but the way he’s going now it seems like scathing, humiliating defeat might just be what he wants.