Loss

For months, Ella has been telling me she wants long hair, like her friend Riley’s. “I want a bun at dance class,” she said. Yesterday, I put it in two little piggy-tails for church. Later that day, Ella took kitchen shears and hacked off those piggy-tails. You can imagine how baffled I am at her 1)desire for long hair and 2) this rather violent action. My friend-the-amazing-hairdresser fixed it the best she could, and we both agreed Ella looks like a chemo patient. Her preschool graduation pictures are going to be precious.


Upstairs in her room, I picked up long blond tresses to throw away in the garbage. The day before, I went around the living room picking up tufts of black and grey Kiah hair. Kiah was shedding, and clumps of her hair would roll through the kitchen like tumbleweed. We’d spent a lot of time brushing her recently, ogling the amount of hair that we threw away. How is it that hair on the dog is sleek and beautiful, but the moment it comes off the dog, it’s just gross?

We lost Kiah on Saturday. I don’t want to get into the details. Earlier that morning, she was bounding around our backyard throwing her Angry Bird stuffed animal into the air and catching it, and that afternoon, she was rushed off to the emergency vet care. It was an accident- nobody’s fault. That night, we told the kids she wasn’t coming home. Outside, neighbors congregated at a barbecue, purple flowers bloomed atop the chives in my garden, the phone rang, and my children wept. I wept. We stared into the empty backyard and our hearts hurt at the sight of a bone in the corner of the living room, her crate in the library, those tufts of hair in corners and between cushions on the couch, her paw prints on the sliding glass doors, her nose smudges on the windows, a leash coiled at the bottom of the stairs.

God, she was such a pain in the ass! She was a jumper. She liked to run into my bathtub and just stand there, smirking at me: “Yeah, I’m in your tub, and I’m going to leave my hair in it and maybe some mud. And I’ll probably do it again tomorrow, too.” She ruined my carpets, my hanging blinds, the window screens, and my sanity. She stole my kids’ stuffed animals and ripped them to shreds. She ate off the table and licked water out of the sink. She chewed the furniture. She had diarrhea all over the laundry room floor. She could clear the entire couch with one swift jump. She pulled on her leash during walks. She dug up my tulips. She had horrible breath and she got poop stuck in her butt fur.

Yet, I don’t know that I’ll ever meet anyone again in my whole life that will be as happy to see me when I walk through the door. She loved me even after I stuck her in her crate. She played well with others and was content just to lie on top of our picnic table and stare at me through the window.

I look out the window and there’s nothing there. Just an unkempt lawn and my tearstained reflection in the glass.

We’ll be fine- it will take some time. Please pray for us. This- this is really, really hard.

301

It’s been, for the most part, a good week.

For the past three nights, I’ve dreamed that I am either starring in or auditioning for The Sound of Music. I’m not actually having the same dream over and over- there are different “plots” with different people and different settings each night. However, in every dream, I burst out of somewhere singing “Climb Every Mountain,” which is not even a Maria song, but is still pretty great. As you can imagine, it’s been difficult to get out of bed each morning, especially since the kids generally discourage me from singing to them as they’re getting ready for school. To quote Ella, “TOO LOUD.” Holly’s response: “Ella is four years, going on five years- she can be really mean…” Seriously. The other day, she sang the theme to the Smurfs 16 times in a row, and I didn’t say a word.

On September 29th, my baby brother had a little boy. Or rather, his wife did, but he was there. Then, this past Sunday, another nephew was born to John’s brother and his lovely wife. If baby Zavier was born to my brother Joshua, and baby Joshua was born to John’s brother Richie, then according to the laws of syllogism, Zavier was born to Richie. And this is why math is stupid.

When Zavier was born, I asked myself this hard question:  Do I love my baby nephew enough to spend $300 on a plane ticket to Norfolk?  The answer:  Yes.  Yes I do.  But I have stuff to give him, so I think I'll drive instead.

Now that I've pretty much raised my own children, I can devote myself to being a doting aunt, which is why I’ve gone and purchased myself the following t-shirt:



Zavier Paul (Picture brazenly stolen from his maternal grandmother's Facebook page.)



Joshua Thomas happily sleeping in his aunt Holly's arms.

Some sad news too.  My sister and her family said goodbye to their dog, Jefferson, adopted a year ago.  A tumor in his throat was restricting his breathing and he was slowly suffocating to death, so they made the difficult decision to let him go. 

I will miss Jefferson stories.  Jeff was part pointer, and would stand and, well, point when he spotted a squirrel or some other creature while walking.  Then, he would refuse to budge, making walks difficult.

Jefferson had a tough beginning and initially hated other dogs.  To this day, John holds a grudge against Jeff for trying to eat Kiah.  My husband is the kind of person who holds a grudge even in death.  (He has many other good qualities.)

Personally, I don't blame Jeff.  There are days when I want to not eat Kiah, but send her to darkest Peru or Siberia or somewhere.  However, Jeff excelled in his anger management classes, changed his ways, and ended up getting along nicely with his beagle housemate, Maizie. 

And, of course, my nephew and niece adored him.  And he adored them. 

Nate wrote this lovely poem commemorating the life of Jefferson the dog:


We loved you so much, we adopted you twice.



You hated other dogs, but to us you were nice.


At your anger management classes, you introduced us to Maizie;


Sometimes you managed to drive us all crazy.


Your boisterous, unconditional love we'll remember the most.


... And all the other things we'll miss can't fit in this post.


You were alone when you were born, but not when you died.


I hope we gave you the best year of your life.



Rest in peace, dear friend.


Jefferson the Dog: c. 2007 - 10/5/11
 

I never said he was Keats.  Still, it teared me up. 

Jeff is in a better place now- a place where the hills are alive with the sound of music, where silver white winters melt into springs, where he can follow every rainbow until he finds his dream. 

(Fact: you can always write a compelling eulogy based solely on songs from musicals.  Tomorrow, I will commemorate the life of Steve Jobs by using song lyrics from "Showboat.")

At this moment, my own 45 lb Aussie is curled up at my feet beneath my desk.  She makes my life so hard, but I think maybe I love her, because it's hard not to love someone who truly adores you. 

And how blessed my new nephews are, because they are already so very loved by so many people. 

A good week.

(This is my 301st post.)

Obedience School

Holly's Turn

Dog obedience training at the local community center was postponed a week due to inclement weather conditions. Last week, I went to an informational session without Kiah, which was nice because there were no children or dogs there. Just a bunch of harried looking dog parents with questions like “How can I get my dog to stop chasing my cat?” and “How can I get my dog to stop chasing the mailman?” and “How can I get my dog to stop chasing me?” The girl next to me was the frazzled owner of a young golden retriever. As I looked over our training materials, I commented that my dog was going to be the worst dog in the class. The girl next to me insisted her dog was going to be the worst dog in the class. The argument escalated from there, both of us stubbornly insisting we had the worst-trained dogs in the entire world. There was arm crossing and glaring. When your dog’s bad manners become a point of pride, something is wrong. It’s like bragging to New Yorkers that Rochester’s crime rate is higher than New York’s.

Anyway, yesterday was the big day. I dragged Caleb along. Walking into a room with nine other dogs, quite frankly, filled me with a lot of anxiety. Kiah used to be really good on the leash, but this past spring, she went rogue. It has become impossible to walk her. Last week, I had two elderly gentlemen say, “Who’s taking who for a walk? Ha ha ha.” Real original, guys. Real original.

Kiah pulled on her leash and started walking on her hind legs, as she is apt to do when I won’t allow her to just run up to a strange dog. Caleb grinned as I pleaded with Kiah to behave herself.

All in all, the session went pretty well. Our first lesson was to teach the dog not to pull on the leash. Then we worked on sit and topped if off with the more advanced sit/stay combination. Kiah is a smart girl and catches on quick; I just need to be more consistent. One thing I’m really good at is the high-pitched gushing that dogs respond so well to. I was praised for my dog-praising technique, which consists of baby-talk and lots of scratching behind the ears. I say things like, “She’s such a good shmooki lovey boo boo doggie woggy yes her is and I loves her! Yes I do! I loves her!” Caleb rolls his eyes at me when I talk like that.

“That’s kind of embarrassing, mom.”

“Yeah, well, you loved it when you were four months old.”

“I doubt it,” he says.

The last ten minutes are dedicated to free play, which means the owners let their dogs off their leashes and allow them to run around the gym to sniff one another’s butts. I’m a little surprised this is legal in the state of New York. The trainer explained the rules for free play. She called the most submissive dogs to the center of the gym first, followed by more friendly dogs, followed by the most dominant dogs.

Molly, a meek black lab, went first. After she was let off her leash, Molly ran with her tail between her legs to a corner, cowered, and shook like a leaf. Next went Jenny, a yippy terrier. She stood in the middle of the gym and, well, yipped. Brody the chocolate lab went next. The two Codys were called, as well as the golden retriever puppy.

Kiah was called last.

Last.

The alpha dog went last.

We have a lot of work to do these next few months.

Kiah’s Turn

Last night, my non-fuzzy adopted mother and my non-fuzzy adopted brother accompanied me to a special program that trains adults to perform tricks while we canines watch them with amusement. Watching my non-fuzzy mother jumping up and down like an imbecile because I sit is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen. Yes, I can sit! I’ve always been able to sit. Why we’re celebrating this now is beyond me, but okay. It seems to make her happy, so I acquiesce.

There were so many other dogs there! I sniffed everyone’s butt. Every single one. There was this little tiny dog there; I’ve never seen anything like her. I took my paw and pushed her and sure enough, she kind of fell on her side. So I stepped on her, you know, just to let her know I was big and important and she was small and insignificant. Holly was mortified. She pulled me away and said, “No Kiah. Play nice.” The funny thing is, even though Holly’s bigger than I am, and I mean big- the woman is enormous- she has never pushed me over and stepped on me.

She is an inferior being.

We did a lot of walking around in circles. I’ve always been a proficient circle walker, but Holly felt she needed the practice, so we trotted around and the trainer scrutinized Holly to make sure she was performing well. She wasn’t. She was pretty much the worst walker in the class. It was kind of sad.

Then, the canines were taught how to train our non-fuzzy parents to jump up and down and make ridiculous noises when we sat and stayed. If you have the opportunity to try this at home, I highly recommend it. Watching grown men and women say things like, “She’s such a good shmooki lovey boo boo doggie woggy yes her is and I loves her! Yes I do! I loves her!” is a good time. It’s hard to believe this is the species that created the wheel, modern medicine, and those wonderful chew toys they call Nerf.

Before we left, everyone went leash-free and we had an official butt-sniffing convention. Brody peed on the side of the wall. I think he was trying to prove something, so I knocked him over and stepped on him. Holly kept trying to make me act in a manner to which I am not accustomed, and she knows I hate that. I think she’s jealous because I am social and loved by everyone, and she’s kind of shy and awkward and let’s face it, ridiculous with that high-pitched voice. I don’t know why she was even there. She did not sniff one butt. It was kind of rude.

We have a lot of work to do these next few months.

The Best Picture in the History of Pictures

My sister has a serious serious problem.  She goes online, looks at pictures of dogs in need of adoption, and then runs out and rescues them from imminent doom. 

She has gone from 0 to 2 dogs in the last 4 months.

That's like a 200% increase in dogs. 

Having recently gone through a 100% increase in dogs myself, I think she is off her nutter. 

She has a pointer who suffers from separation anxiety.  His name is Jeff.  Now, she has a beagle-type dog who is apparently female.  Her name is Maize. 

She also runs a food pantry, goes to school part-time, and has two precocious children.  I love them very much, but they are precocious.  Mary would be the first to admit this, because their precociousness is quite obviously hereditary. 

Nevertheless, the sudden whirlwind of canine activity in my sister's household has provided the world with the best picture in the history of pictures:



  I told you.

A Special Guest Post from Kiah the Wonder Dog

I'm Kiah the Wonder Dog.  Here I am again, with my head tilted the other way:

I could be a model.

I am the leader and protector of my family.  This is not understood by everyone, but they will learn.

My family's two greatest nemeses are the vacuum cleaner and the fat cat who lives next door.  The broom comes in at a close third. 

My adopted mother, Holly, who is pale and not fuzzy at all, does not understand how incredibly dangerous the vacuum cleaner is.  In fact, she loves it.  She calls it her best friend.  I think she does this just to irk me.  I have tried repeatedly to warn her that her so-called "best friend" is probably a fat cat disguised as a high-end cleaning device.  I bite my adopted mom's calves and growl and attack the thing with an intensity that rivals a lion tearing a gazelle to bits. 

I do this out of love. 

My non-fuzzy adopted mother always puts me in my crate when she gets the thing out.  She says she can't deal with "The Sound AND the Fury."  I think I am the Fury.  

I worry about her.

I used to be afraid of the fat cat next door.  Now, I am a big girl who fears NOTHING.   I wait for it to cross our yard.  Just try it, I say, while staring it down.  The adopted mother has expressed concern that I will catch it and tear it to pieces like a lion eating a gazelle.  She doesn't understand that the fat cat is a horrible, manipulative, and cruel animal that must be kept away from my family.

When I am not busy protecting my family from the many evils of this world, which do not include other dogs or people, I like to chew on things. 

I love nerf.  Nerf is a substance made specifically for chewing.  My non-fuzzy adopted brothers and sisters get so mad when I chew on nerf.  I don't understand this.  They NEVER chew on nerf, so what, exactly, is their problem?  I would gladly share.  They've taken to hiding it from me.  I always find it, though.  I'm an excellent finder.

Man I love to chew.  I have chewed up those ridiculously fun hanging blinds in the sun room.  The adopted mother is getting new ones, because she loves for me to have fresh things to chew on.  She really cares about me.  That's why she leaves food, sometimes, on the counter for me get.  I love to jump up on the counter!  The adopted mother calls me a "horrible, horrible counter surfer."  She has a number of wonderful terms of endearment for me.

I am an excellent jumper.  I can jump up and pull down the mini-blinds.  Then I chew them up. 

I chewed the white knobs off of the Etch-a-Sketch.  My adopted brothers and sisters were so impressed, they went and showed their mother right away. 

I chew cookbooks, milk containers, shoes, my little adopted sister's play food, legos, and much more. 

I rip apart stuffed animals like a lion tearing a gazelle to bits. 

I'm a social animal.  I have a friend in the neighborhood.  We've never seen one another, but we talk constantly.  I bark, then he barks, then I bark, then he barks.  This can go on and on and on.  We have riveting conversations.

"I'm a dog!" I say.

"I'm a dog!" he responds.

"I'm a dog!"  I say.

"I'm a dog!" he responds.

We talk like this for a while.  It's so good to be able have meaningful conversation with another dog. 

The adopted mother is nice, but she doesn't feed me enough.  While the human brothers and sisters get three meals and two snacks a day, I get two paltry helpings of puppy chow and an occasional treat.  I have to sit down and roll over for the treat.  It's strange, but my human brothers and sisters do NOT have to work for their snacks.  This bothers me, so sometimes I steal their teddy grahams or cut up apples.  Then they squeal and tell my non-fuzzy adopted mother, who chases me and pries the food from my mouth.  If she actually gets the food, which isn't often, she throws it in the garbage.  She would rather throw the food in the garbage than let me eat it, which is a level of cruelty I hope you never become familiar with. 

No matter.  I can knock over the garbage can, no problem.

The adopted father, who is by far the fuzziest in the family, loves me the most.  I can't help it; whenever I see him, I wiggle my stumpy tail and jump up and down. 

Sometimes, he shares his lime chips with me.  He doesn't shriek and carry on when he finds one of my baby canine teeth on the floor, like my adopted mother does. 

Somtimes, I wonder if she is part cat.  It would explain her irrational loyalty to the vacuum cleaner.

It is exhausting being me.  I am always vigilant, and rarely rest.  There is so much to explore and steal and chew.  By 9 pm, I crash.  Then, suddenly, the non-fuzzy adopted mother loves me.

She pets me, coddles me, and gives me a good massage.  She coos and puts her feet under my belly to keep them warm.  And I oblige  her, because it is my job.

I am her leader and her protector.  One day, she will accept this, and we will all be better for it.

A December Post with a Wintery Song

Kiah got spayed today. It had to be done. There’s a male beagle down the road with a nefarious reputation. Kiah doesn’t seem to mind that we took her lady parts away, though it is a strange feeling to have completely removed a beloved member of the family’s right to reproduce. I guess she lost that right when we, well, paid for her. I don’t think she’d be a good mother, anyway. I mean, who am I to judge, but she is a compulsive thief. I’m concerned she may have sociopathic tendencies. Last night she stole my bagel as I was holding it. I suspect she ate the remainder of my sandwich the other day, too. It’s quite possible I finished it, but one can’t be certain. It was turkey and as I recall, it was quite delicious.

I am so not ready for Christmas. We just got our tree. I mean, like a half hour ago. It smells so good. Before John and the boys left to get it, I told Daniel to make sure they chose a tree that didn’t have any birds in it. He took his mission seriously, I think. When they came in, he announced it was a bird-free balsam. No nests or anything.

We caught the mouse, finally. I was sick at the beginning of the week, violently ill as a matter of fact, and had not been diligently checking the mouse traps. Yesterday, a repugnant smell emanated from beneath the stairs, and sure enough, it was a very dead mouse rotting away in a trap. There was great rejoicing in the land, followed by an onslaught of Febreze.

I feel off. Not quite with it. Christmas shopping? Haven’t begun. Christmas cookies? One batch. Christmas cards? Not so much. I left my camera at my in-law’s and have been taking lousy pictures with my cell phone. We will have little photographic record of the Christmas of 2010. Visit to Santa? Nope. Snow? Oh yes. Tons of snow. In fact, I thought it was time to teach the twins an important informational snow song:

Snow is pretty
When it’s white
It falls down
A graceful flight.


I catch snowflakes
On my tongue
It tastes like sugar
When you’re young.


But there is one thing
Mom said I should know
I should never ever ever
Eat the yellow snow.


OHHHHH!
We don’t eat yellow snow!
No we don’t eat yellow snow!
I want you all to know
That you don't eat yellow snow!


The song's message is all that more pertinent when you have a dog.

Please tell me there’s someone else out there who hasn’t gotten much Christmas shopping done. Please. Someone. Out. There.

The Walk

Australian Shepherds are quite variable in temperament. Some lines are extremely energetic, quick moving, and hyperactive, while others tend toward a milder, calmer manner.

It may be too early to tell, but I suspect that Kiah falls in the former category. I suspect this because of the number of times a week I say the following: “THIS IS WHY WE CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS!” I might yell it a little bit. I definitely say it twice as often as I did before Kiah came into our home and started decimating it.

So, I’ve begun taking her for long walks. It’s the only way to settle her down a bit. I put the twins in the double stroller and the three of us take a merry jaunt through and out of our neighborhood. I like to stroll down a nearby country road to a very old, small cemetery. The twins get out and stretch their legs while I flap my arms and implore them not to climb the tombstones. After that, we head back. It’s a charming time.

Today’s walk didn’t get off to a good start. I could not find Kiah’s leash anywhere- it wasn’t where I left it and the twins weren’t talking- so I fashioned a leash out of a jump rope. Then, Ella managed to fall out of her seat onto the coarse pavement, which she was not happy about. The cemetery is not even a mile away, but it feels so much longer when you’re pushing twins, picking up stray twins and putting them back in their seats, all while corralling an extremely energetic, quick moving, and hyperactive puppy. There are grates to be avoided, cars not to swerve into, and large teethy dogs to steer clear of.

Today, we made it to the cemetery and I sat with Kiah under a large Hickory tree. Daniel soon broke the tranquility with a “Look mom! A little Daniel chair!” I went over to remove him from the low-to-the-ground tombstone. It was right then that Kiah decided to defecate beside the grave of one Robert Danworth, deceased in February of 1868 at the age of 89. Someone had recently stuck a small American flag by his grave, so I have to assume he was a veteran. Of the Mexican-American War. Or the War of 1812. Maybe even the Quasi-War with France. Who knows. (I think it’s lovely someone out there knows.)

Immediately after she finished her business, Kiah trotted off, bent over, ate a Hickory nut, began choking, and spit the thing up. I stared at her, somewhat dazed. She stared back.

It was then I became irritated; however, always willing to do my duty as a responsible pet owner, I reached into my pocket for a baggie. (This whole carrying your dog’s poop in a baggie thing, by the way, is quite possibly the worst part of dog ownership. Even if it’s triple-bagged, you are still always profoundly aware that you are walking around with sh&# in your pocket. I generally gravitate toward someone’s garbage tote on the curb and sneak Kiah’s waste into it, even though I have heard that some people don’t like their garbage mingling with other people’s garbage- hence the sneaking.)

There was no baggie in my pocket. We’ve only had Kiah a little over a month, so I have not yet developed that “never leave the house without a baggie” mindset.

You can imagine my predicament. I had several options:

1) Turn around and never ever visit the little cemetery again. Pray for forgiveness.
2) Find large leaves, pick up poop, and fling it into the woods behind cemetery. (This was my least favorite option.)
3) Go home and return later to clean up the mess.
4) Ask the woman who was staring at me the next house over if she had a baggie.

I went with option 4 and unloaded the baggie in someone’s garbage tote about six houses down.

The walk took longer than I imagined it would, and as I approached our development, Caleb's  and Ben’s school bus sped by me. And thus a race of epic proportions- think Ben-Hur- commenced. Kiah and I sprinted to the house and arrived 30 seconds before the bus did.

When we got home, Kiah raced to her water bowl. After an incredibly long and sloppy drink, she did something she’s never done before. She went into her crate and laid her head on her paws, looking very beleaguered, and went to sleep. Just like that.

Score one for Holly.

Kiah the Wonder Dog

Obamacare. You’ve been waiting to hear what I think. My position may shock you. I believe that Obama’s healthcare plan doesn’t go far enough. I will NOT REST until every dog, regardless of its breed or its owner’s income, race, creed, etc., has full health coverage. I see absolutely no good reason why your tax dollars shouldn’t pay for the health and wellbeing of all dogs when so many pet owners simply can’t afford to pay themselves.

You may say- if a person is already strapped for cash, perhaps they should not get a dog.

To which I say- how dare you.

Kiah the Wonder Dog had a little oops on Sunday. We made it almost three whole weeks without an incident. Kiah, who is 70% stomach and 30% fluff, ate another dog’s thyroid medicine. This is something the dog books don’t warn you about. They don’t say, “when socializing your puppy with another dog, make sure the older dog does not offer your puppy its thyroid medicine because he doesn’t want to take it himself.” (That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.)

John, of course, was beside himself. We found an emergency pet center and John sped Kiah there to expel all poisonous contents from her stomach. Kiah is fine and has suffered no side effects. John is now in therapy.

The cost of taking a puppy to the vet on a Sunday? Aye carumba.

Health coverage for all dogs! And maybe partial dental coverage, too.

Back when she was really little. A whole week ago.

"Waiting for mom to wipe my muddy feet."

Jumping up to say hello.

Where she lays when I am cooking dinner.


It's hard to be this good looking.


This is not your room.

Best in Show

If we don't win the pet costume contest on Monday at the Garden Factory, well. I may act like the Parker Posey character in the film Best in Show. For those who haven't seen the film, she is a most unpleasant human being.

Escapism

So, my house kind of smells like a barn. I didn’t realize this until I left and came back in. Not a horrible smell- just like hay. That’s been peed on.

It’s absolute chaos here. Our puppy, an Australian Shepherd, is a herding breed, and herd she does. She does this by chasing the children relentlessly about the yard, nipping at their feet. Aside from the screaming, it's pretty hilarious. And Ella, poor Ella… Ella is small enough that the dog’s mouth fits snugly about her small calf. She's taken to perching atop the couch and tables and other high places, out of the dog's reach.

But, my word, this puppy is cute. She has two modes of being: manic and dead to the world. And she switches from one to the other in a blink of the eye. Which I completely understand. When I spend a good fifteen minutes wrestling a soda can and barking at it, working myself into an absolute frenzy, I pretty much pass out afterwards, too.

Daniel, possibly inspired by the puppy’s potty-training progress, has completely potty-trained himself in 24 hours. Pee and poo. There hasn’t been ONE accident since he first sat upon the porcelain throne. In his pants, anyway. I can’t say that the pee and poo always hit the prospective target, which has definitely contributed to the barn smell in the home.

The house is a wreck. If you are planning on visiting in the next couple of days, please go to the bathroom beforehand as I cannot promise that the condition of my own water closets will be amenable to guests. I simply can’t keep up. I’m constantly doing laundry, extricating my dog’s mouth from my daughter’s leg, making completely non-nutritious foods, cleaning up pee and poo, helping Caleb with his homework, and daydreaming. Lots of daydreaming. I daydream about having a nicely decorated house like this:


Serene blue and white, light and airy, a touch of French country. I look at rooms like this in magazines and scoff, saying, "How impractical!" But a room like this would make me feel calm. Though I could do without the dead zebra carcass on the floor.

I love blue and white. I am inspired by Monet's kitchen (I don't mean to brag, but I've been here):

Cookware as decoration! A marvelous idea. I wouldn't feel like I was being so wasteful with my pots and pans.

Or, I could be quite content with a room like this:

Looks like it would be cozy in the winter. And John would probably fit in better here. We'd call this the library. We would also have a parlor and a drawing room. I don't know what a drawing room is. I read about them in Victorian novels a lot, and I think there might be one in the game Clue.

They all did it. But if you wanna know who killed Mr. Boddy, I did. In the hall. With the revolver. Okay, Chief, take 'em away. I'm gonna go home and sleep with my wife.

In this room, I could easily draw Caleb hanging from the chandelier, Daniel taking a ride down the spiral staircase, Ben being Spiderman on the wrong side of the balcony, and Ella throwing all of the books on the floor. (She threw all of our Ayn Rand books on the floor the other day. Sometimes, she seems so very intelligent.)

I was feeling kind of guilty about my escapist daydreaming. After all, there are people in the world who have to live in yurts. Then I saw this picture:

Holy crap, that's a nice yurt. I've gotta find time to clean my house but good. Did I mention it kind of smells like a barn?

Dog People

The other night I found myself in Rite Aid with my arms full of diapers, puppy chow, and vitamins. I felt like a grown up.

Want to know what I never dreamed I’d be doing? Not in a million years? Potty-training twins and a puppy. At the same time. Three creatures. And guess who’s doing the best? She is fuzzy, she is almost nine weeks old, and she is of canine descent.

We have been dog people for one week today. We are all adjusting. I’ve steeped myself in dog literature and could probably lead a seminar on raising puppies. Some worthwhile tidbits you might be interested to know:

- If a dog pees on your carpet, do not use an ammonia-based cleaner to clean it. Because ammonia is a component of urine, to the dog it’s like you’re washing urine with urine. You might as well put up a sign that says “this spot on the carpet is for your peeing pleasure.”

- Dogs will do anything for bacon-flavored treats. My husband took one whiff of the treats and was sorely tempted. Bacon does make everything better. Like omelets.

- I keep reading it is bad to give your dog rawhide bones. Apparently, the rawhide can splinter off and rupture a dog’s stomach or appendix or something. “They” say there are good chewing-toy alternatives. This is a lie. There is nothing a dog loves to chew more than a rawhide bone. We like to live dangerously in our household, anyway.

Some pics from the past week:

Picture's a bit fuzzy, dog's a bit fuzzy.

Kiah and her grandma.

Caleb is really that excited about having a puppy.

The collar's not a big hit.

Ella likes to cover her up. Actually, this is a problem. "Smothering" is a concern.

I want that life.

To sleep perchance to dream... of bacon.

Pretty girl.

Sometimes Kiah sleeps splayed out like a Thanksgiving turkey.

Kiah's a big hit with almost everyone. (Was not a big hit with Daniel when she pulled down his pants with her teeth.) John is more in love with this dog than I've ever seen him in love with anyone. More than with me when we first met, more than his newborn children, more than Dan Marino, more than that girl who loves hockey on How I Met Your Mother.

How to capture what John is like around this dog? Perhaps through song... This one is from the musical The Music Man and was popularized by

the Beatles.

There were bells

On the hill

But I never heard them ringing...

No I never heard them at all

'Til there was you!

Etc., etc.

We're having fun. It's a little tiring.

The comment section below is for you to tell me how adorable my dog is. Don't be shy, now.

Hello Kiah, Goodbye hollygoeslightly.net

1. We picked out a puppy, who will be coming home in approximately four weeks. Her name is Kiah.

It is hard to pick out a puppy! I wanted a girl, so that made it significantly easier. There were only three females out of nine puppies.

As we were watching them stumble about and sleep and just be absolutely adorable, I said, for what I hope is the last time I EVER say such a thing:

"I can't tell them apart! They're all black!"

Kiah is a docile, fluffy little thing. What really drew me to her, I think, was the way she sticks her nose in corners when she sleeps. She burrows. In a pen of nine puppies, I knew which one she was because she would lay flat on her belly, nose tucked into the corner, with her hind legs splayed out behind her.

I have a perpetually cold nose, too, so I can totally relate.

Kiah

2) Thank you for voting on my new blog design. After some consideration, I ditched the chandeliers. They were just too busy. I'm keeping the header for a while but I'm sure I'll change it back sometime. I do this with the furniture at home, too.

3) I went to try and buy my domain back but someone else- someone I'm having a hard time forgiving- swooped in and bought it. Hollygoeslightly.net is now for sale. I made what I felt was a generous offer. You know what the minimum bid was? $480!!!!! I paid $10 for it a year ago! That's a lot of percentage increase there, my good man. It definitely exceeds the rate of inflation.

I was a little upset. I may have teared up. I'm almost over it. Such is capitalism, after all.

I purchased Hollygoeslightly.us which will hopefully be up and running in a day or two.

Am I the first person in the history of personal blogging who has had three domain names for the same blog within 1 1/2 years? I am a disgrace. Truly a disgrace.

To my lovely domain, hollygoeslightly.net: It was my fault. I didn't treat you as good as I should. Maybe I didn't love you quite as often as I could. Those little things- like updating my credit card- I should have said and done, I just never took the time.

If I made you feel second best, I'm so sorry. I tried.

You were always on my mind. You were always on my mind.

Goodbye.

Names

The twins were going to be named Jack and Lucy, but John and I could not agree on the name Jack.

He insisted that Jack is a derivative of John, and is solely a nick-name. I suggested that might be the case for uppity politicians from Massachussetts, but not for western New Yorkers. Or kick-a#@ CTU agents. However, to appease his sense of propriety, I offered up the name Jackson. He became absolutely disgusted. I think Jackson is a perfectly acceptable, nay, lovely name.

A normal person knows that Jack can be “Just Jack,” but my husband is weird.

Because we could not agree on Jack, and because the name Lucy had become inextricably tied to the name Jack, we ended up with two different names altogether. When Caleb came to the hospital to meet his new little brother and sister, we introduced him to “Daniel” and “Ella.” He looked at us, confused, and asked:

“Where’s Jack and Lucy?”

We’ve made the final decision to get a puppy and so this whole name-choosing process has reared its ugly head once again. Here was John’s suggestion:

“We both really liked the name Lucy, so why don’t we just called the dog Lucy?”

“No!” I said.

“Why?”

“Because. We can’t name the dog after my grandmother.”

“But your grandmother’s name isn’t Lucy. It’s Lucille.”

“Same thing! People called her Lucy when she was younger.”

“Not the same thing, but we can just not tell her the dog’s name, if that would make you feel better.”

This from a person who insisted Jack is the same name as John.

Sometimes I want to jump off a bridge.

I’ve actually put more thought into naming this dog than I did any of my kids, which is probably odd, but oh well. I tried to get the kids' input, but they are utter failures in the name-selecting department. Here were their picks:

Ella: Ella.
Daniel: Ella.
Caleb: Fluffy.
Ben: Albert Pujols.

“Ben,” I said, “we’re getting a GIRL doggy.”

“Oh.” He pauses. He thinks. “Ella?”

John had been kicked off the name-selecting committee after the Lucy debacle, so it was up to me. I began to think about how each of my friend Lydia’s pets’ names are a reflection of the places she has lived. The two cats have Japanese and Samoan words for names, and her new puppy is called Edelweiss, a German word.

Our puppy-to-be’s mom’s name is a Kenyan word, because her family lived in Switzerland for a year. (No. They lived in Kenya. Just wanted to see if anyone was paying attention.)

I wanted to give my dog a name that symbolized her own ethnic heritage. We are getting an Australian Shepherd, so I began looking up Australian words. I found a lovely Aboriginal word that means “from the beautiful place:” Kiah. Pronounced K-eye-uh. Not Kia like the car dealership.

All excited, I went to tell John. This is what he had to say:

“The breed’s name is actually a misnomer. Though originally believed to have hailed from Australia, the Australian Shepherd breed was actually developed in the western states.”

Long, long pause. I respond:

“Well. Crap.” (A dirty look commences.) “I don’t like you.”

There’s good news. Kiah is ALSO an African word that means “start of the season.” So, we can say we’re paying homage to her mother’s, um, African roots. Plus, we’re getting her at the beginning of fall, so that works too.

I think getting a dog will be a good thing. I really do. Writing a defense of our decision to get a dog would just take too long, so I’ll save it for another post.

My friend Lydia's puppy, Edelweiss. She's trying to eat my deck! (The puppy, not Lydia. Obviously. LYDIA DOES NOT EAT DECKS!) Lydia, btw, is 4'9". THAT is a Bull Mastiff. They are going to look really funny together in just a couple months.

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....

The One Thing I Do Better than James Bond

Do not watch Mamma Mia the movie. If you have already, then you understand the horrible trauma I have endured.

Let me first say that I am pro-musical. I love musicals! John and I nearly broke up because of his disdain for singing gangsters in Westside Story. (This is a very true, sad story.) I even love goofy musicals where the plot makes no sense. Top Hat with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers is one of my favorite movies of all time! I remember showing it to a girlfriend in high school, and she was disgusted. "The stupidest movie I've ever seen," she balked.

Yes, it's stupid! Of course it's stupid! One doesn't watch a musical or even see a musical for the plot. One watches it for the production: the great music, the costumes, the dancing.

(And I protest. Though the plotline of Top Hat is indeed ridiculous, it had some incredibly witty dialogue.)

If you want to see a movie where Meryl Streep, who has a sub-par voice at best, jumps around like a looney-bird in overalls for an hour and a half straight, this is the movie for you.

Meryl Streep: looney-bird

I am not ashamed to admit that I love ABBA. I even like musicals written by ABBA members. (Yay Chess!!!) It is a TRAVESTY that Pierce Brosnan gets to sing SOS while I sit on my butt at home in a jealous, resentful rage.

And let me just tell you that James Bond didn't have to use fancy gadgets and weapons to get rid of his enemies. He could have just burst out in song. No one within a 50-mile radius would stick
around to listen to this man's nasal crooning.

And Colin Firth, my beloved Colin Firth... WHY WHY WHY WHY?

I didn't watch the whole movie. I fast-forwarded through most of it. It gave me a migraine.

On the home-front, I'm about to tuck my two older boys into bed. Every night is a production, as I'm sure it is in your house it you have small children. I just witnessed Ben dragging his mesh vinyl play hut up the stairs to his room. Why, in God's name, does he want to sleep with his next to his bed? .

I just asked him, and the answer is that his stuffed animals want their OWN house to sleep in. He also insists that the play hut will make sure his animals don't get lost in the night.

"I will twap them in there," he says, ominously.

Caleb has a stuffed pig entourage. Included are Piggy, Wilbur, Oinky, Curly, and Earl.

Daniel has a blue goggy. He also takes to bed whatever toys he has been playing with throughout the day. At first, I didn't allow this, because he was likely to chuck said toys into Ella's crib, subsequently injuring or waking her (or both.) He has since learned. He lines his toys up neatly on one side of his crib, curls up with the blue goggy, and pulls his fuzzy blanket over his head. (That used to scare me somewhat, but I'm used to this behavior now. Somehow, he continues to breathe.)

Ella doesn't require anything specific. She does, however, like a book to read before drifting to sleep. Her favorite was, as I mentioned in a previous post, Where is Baby's Bellybutton? These days, her favorite book is entitled Anna Karenina. Really!

After everyone is tucked in, I must pray with them and then sing Jesus Loves Me. I thought singing Jesus Loves Me would be a lovely ritual that would help calm them and lull them to sleep. I have probably, at this point, sung Jesus Loves me over 500 times. It's gotten to the point where I sing it different way each night: Jesus Loves Me the opera piece , Jesus Loves Me the rap version, Jesus Loves Me with scat, Jesus Loves Me the dirge: no matter how I sing it, I will tell you this:

It sounds 1000 times better than Pierce Brosnan does singing anything.

To Get a Goggy or not to get a Goggy... This is the Question!

I think I have made myself abundantly clear on the matter. NO DOG until the twins are potty-trained. And I have gotten FLACK for this position. Namely, from my husband and his shifty co-conspirator, his own father, the honorable pastor, who IN FRONT OF THE CHILDREN has suggested we get a dog.

Of course the children would love a dog. When we pull into my in-laws' driveway, Daniel waves his chubby arms up and down and says "goggy goggy goggy goggy!!!" (Did I mention he is in speech therapy?) If we are in the backyard and he hears a dog barking in the distance, he perks his little ears like a deer being hunted and makes a short little gasping sound followed by a quiet... "goggy?"

John called me on the phone yesterday and said, "You're going to say no at first, but hear me out." Then I had to get the door or something and I completely forgot about him. TWENTY MINUTES LATER I heard his voice coming from the phone receiver. What a weirdo. I totally would have hung up on me.

Since I had forgotten about him, I felt obligated to listen to his tale of woe. The short story is that there's a goggy, a pure-bred Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, in need of a home. Apparently, this is the world's perfect dog for children (of course it is!) and has a little pooky cute face that you just want to love on. Against my better judgment, I am posting her picture. Her name is Ginger...

Reasons I don't want a dog:

• Poop. Poop. Poop. I have been dealing in the s-word for the past six years without a break. I don't want to pick up poop out of the yard every day. Even if it's small spaniel poop. I just don't.
• Poop.
• Cost- the thing needs to be groomed, fed, watered, taken to the vet. Expensive!
• Do you want to babysit my dog when we go away on vacation? I didn't think so.
• Poop.
• You're going to die. I'm going to die. We're all going to die. The dog is going to die, sooner rather than later. This is sad. I hate sad. I avoid it when possible.
• The s-word.

Reasons to get a dog:

• Daniel
• Caleb
• Ben
• Ella
• John

John says, "At least meet the dog." Really? That's fair? I make a definitive statement about my position and now you're dragging me to look at the little furball pooky face?

Your input would be appreciated.