Of Mice and Men and Goggies

Before I go any further, I should tell you that I had no idea that the word goggy was a derogatory term for a certain part of anatomy. No, I'm not going to tell you what part... you have to google that yourself. And to you who googled goggy in hopes to find what I think you may have wanted to find... shame on you! This is a family site. So go away.

This baby girl needs a home!

Tonight, John and I will discuss whether or not we will get a puppy when we get back from cruise. This is an ongoing discussion in the Jennings household.

It’s been an exciting week. Sunday, I learned a friend from my father-in-law’s church in Newfane has taken up breeding shelties, a brand of goggy that has a special place in my heart.

My mom grew up with a sheltie and bought us one when I was fifteen. We named him Calvin (of Calvin and Hobbes fame) and we loved him and snuggled him and spoiled him rotten.

Over the years it turned out that Calvin, as dogs go, was kind of a jerk. It might have had something to do with the spoiling. He would bite if provoked and was almost snobbish in his mannerisms. When I would home from college, I would call him to me and he would stare straight at me and then turn and walk the other way. At the time, we rationalized his behavior.

“Ohhh, how sweet! He’s upset with you for going away to college! He misses you!” And I would run after him and pet his fuzzy head and dote on him until he left my arms in a huff.

He wasn’t mad at me. He was just a jerk. But he was very good looking.

Things changed after Caleb was born. Calvin was no longer the #1 cutie-pie in my life. I watched him like a hawk around my little boy and felt no sympathy when I kicked him into the backyard in order to keep Caleb safe.

Calvin lived to the ripe old age of fourteen. I went with my mother when she decided to put him down; he could no longer walk. (The decision to accompany her to the vet was one of the most grown-up decisions I’ve ever made.) It was the most heart-wrenching few minutes of my life and remains one of the reasons I don’t want to get a dog. I don’t want to do that again. If it was so hard to say goodbye to a jerk dog, how much harder will it be to say goodbye to a loving, loyal dog?

I remain devoted to the sheltie breed, because as a group, they are incredibly intelligent, sweet, and beautiful dogs. The puppies we visited on Sunday are very used to children, having played and jumped all over my friend’s three young daughters. As I read this, I see that I sound delusional, but it’s true! Shelties have great qualities and are very people-oriented. We just got a dud. (We loved him just the same.)

This past week, things have been moving so fast that I haven’t had time to consider this new idea, a little sheltie in our home.

On Monday, I went to my friend’s house to go swimming. Caleb had told me beforehand that he was going to attempt to swim without his life-jacket. Honest to God I didn’t know he was going to run and jump in first-thing, before anyone else got into the pool. It did not go well. There was flailing and choking and desperate calls for help. What could I do? I jumped in after him, fully clothed, shoes on, and fished him out.

Tuesday, I walked through a crowd of protestors, so that was exciting, and yesterday, I hunted and caught a mouse in my house. I think it scurried in when one of the boys left the sliding door open. It was running along the wall toward the television when I first spotted it.

I wish I could say I didn’t flap my arms scream and run about like a looney-bird. I wish. I eventually gained my composure (only to lose it several times later) and got a large mixing bowl with which to capture the mouse. All I could think about was that it would chew the wires behind the television which would, in turn, cause a fire. This is irrational thinking from a completely irrational person.

I cornered the mouse in the playroom. Daniel and Ella were laughing and clapping their hands like it was Christmas morning. This is the most excitement we’ve had in our house since I forgot to shut the windows during a thunderstorm. I was making a daring move to get the mouse when it came straight at me, which is totally against mouse-running protocol, by the way, and it RAN OVER MY FEET. Daniel nearly passed out with delight.

I, on the other hand, know that if I had had any liquid in my bladder at that time, I would have totally peed my pants.

Eventually I did capture the mouse by expertly covering it with the mixing bowl. I had no idea what to do with it after I contained it. Even with a plate, I didn’t see how I could flip the mixing bowl without risking the mouse falling out and running away and becoming mayor of and propogating its own mouse colony in the walls of my home. So I dragged the bowl across the floor slowly, making my way to the sliding glass doors in the playroom. The mouse pooped in bowl, and so as I dragged it, a tiny brown trail followed behind us. We made it to the door where it ran out and under the deck and is, I heard, in therapy because of the traumatic experience it had to endure.

Ben will also be going into therapy because he believes his mommy purposefully and maliciously ridded the house of his beloved pet mouse. Apparently, they got very attached the five minutes in which it was scurrying about the living room.

That was the excitement yesterday.

Today? Today Daniel had a tantrum of cosmic proportions. He had a “Jack-Jack-from-The-Incredibles” tantrum. He screamed so loud he turned red like a turnip.

So that was somewhat exciting. And tiring. I’m still tired from the ordeal. (Why the conniption fit? Because, apparently, he wanted to wear his THOMAS shirt, not his baseball shirt. Buddy, if you could talk, we wouldn’t run into these little miscommunications.)

Excitement keeps you on your toes. It sharpens the mind and, occasionally, your reflexes. So why not throw a goggy into the mix? An expensive goggy who sheds and isn’t potty-trained? Who needs shots and so on and so forth? Maybe? Maybe not....