Shear Luck

Up until three days ago I trusted Jesse to be the best dog in the universe, no question.  To be clear, my definition of 'best dog' is probably different from yours.  The best dog in the universe sleeps on my couch but only gets up when she's invited.  The best dog in the universe doesn't bother me for scraps when I am cooking but watches me from a reasonable distance, just in case her taste testing services are required.  The best dog in the universe takes the fall for all family flatulence, including her own, which can melt the paint off the ceiling.  

The best dog in the universe does not eat sheep.  

I wouldn't have thought I needed to include that last one but it turns out my list needs to be very specific.  Jesse joined us at a bonfire on Friday night and had a wonderful time with all of the other dogs who came to the party.  She sniffed and romped and explored the tiny hobby farm; noted all the piles of sheep droppings, spotted every hole in the fence, planned her route of entry, then settled down by the lawn chairs to wait the two hours until nightfall before disappearing into the sheep paddock to corner a sheep and attempt to shear it with her teeth. 

The sheep is fine. The owner was extremely reasonable about the whole affair.  After inspecting the animal in the morning he assured us that we would not have to worry about vet bills, or worse, lose Jesse to The Place Where Bad Dogs Go.

So, in an effort to be more specific, the best dog in the universe does not counter surf for loaves of bread. She does not jump up.  She does not pick fights.  She does not tunnel out of the yard.  She does not lay on my tulips and she certainly does not disappear into the night to chase livestock and force me to lay awake, sick with dread, worrying that the shepherd will demand the worst price in payment.

The best dog in the universe: has some work to do.

List of Things it is Impossible to Remain Sane While Waiting For

1. Santa
2. Test results
3. Ketchup
4. To exhale
5. The last bus
6. Godot
7. The coffee maker to finish

It is at this point in Paychecks' Interactive Blog that I encourage you to guess which one currently has me holding myself tight and rocking.

A Fistful of Personality

I went to a self defense class at a local Kenpo dojo.  Kenpo is literally translated as: ken - 'the art' and po - 'of booting your opponent's testicles out through his sinuses.'


It was a fantastic experience.  Our sensei taught us quite a bit about pain and how to inflict it on our attacker or 'coward'.  Husband won't let me show him but I now know three nerve bundles to use as submission holds, which opens up a whole new range of possibilities when he hogs the remote.


Six women mirror-sparred for two hours and I feel as though I could now safely get from the Starbucks to my Volvo without worrying about thugs and jack-a-napes.  But if one of them were so foolish as to waylay me, that cutpurse would soon find themselves on the receiving end of my favourite kata, from the many I learned... 


"Immobilize the hand - tiger fist to windpipe - break nose with elbow - twist arm  - dislocate his shoulder - bend him backwards - hammer fist to his 'personality' - allow attacker to drop to ground - have a cigarette."

When his 'personality' is within kicking range, you will have his full attention

Creemore Springs Eternal

Husband and I have loved several large, slobbery dogs in our time together and we understand the challenges associated with traveling when you have a big fella who needs care.  So naturally we said yes when friends of ours asked if we would help look after their Boxer pooch, Creemore, for a few days.


Thursday, 4:00 PM
When the weekend arrived, I picked Creemore up from another friend with whom we were sharing responsibility.  Now, I am not blaming this dear friend for what happened.  She was suffering from a bout of cold, is a busy student and has a household of her own to manage, and to her credit she did warn me about Creemore's 'uniqueness'.  I dismissed her shell-shocked expression as a symptom of her cold medication and waived away her suggestion to grab Creemore's kennel from his house.  If she hadn't needed it, then I probably I wouldn't.


I am going to look sternly in her direction and shake my head in disappointment, the next time we meet.


Creemore and Jesse have spent loads of time together, we were confident that having a a doggie-sleepover for a few days would be good for Jess and keep them both well entertained. Fritti is a strong-willed puss and we were not worried for her at all. After all, Jesse outweighs her by nearly 90 pounds and won't even glance in her direction.  What Husband and I had failed to consider was that Creemore, who lives in a home with two cats and a turtle, is an absolute basket case about strong-willed cats.   A fact which Fritti determined right away, the moment he 'treed' her on the bookcase, 45 seconds after he arrived.


Husband and I decided the best thing to do was let them figure each other out. After all, it had only taken Jesse a few minutes to discover Fritti's personal space extends to whatever piece of furniture she is occupying at the time. Unfortunately, Boxers aren't good with manners or physics and Creemore was never going to give up trying to occupy the same point in space as the cat.  


Friday, 2:30 AM
Creemore had been pacing for 4 hours by this point, unable to settle beside our bed. Instead he was completely focused on Fritti, who was watchful at our feet.  Creemore was so focused that I am certain he would occasionally forget to breathe and so every few minutes he would give a tremendous 'SNERRRRT' which effectively prevented me from ever going to sleep.


I finally had enough, sat up in the dark and said sternly, "Creemore, lay down."  (Husband: "Actually, she screeched like a banshee and woke me from a dead sleep.")


It turns out you can rest peacefully next to someone for nearly 10 years and never realize that they are a much heavier sleeper than you.  Huh.


The next 37 minutes are a bit of a blur but if memory serves, I decided that nothing was worse than the exhaustion I was already feeling, not even the consequences of getting arrested for a suspected B&E, and so I donned rubber boots, pulled a coat over my jammies, and prepared to drive to Creemore's home to retrieve the scoffed-at kennel.  The moment I opened our door Creemore headed out into the night with all the innocence of an iceberg drifting into the shipping lanes of the north Atlantic.  Our marriage, while not exactly a luxury cruise ship, is at least a pleasant little schooner and it sailed full tilt into the path of destruction.

3:07 AM
Husband and I seldom argue and we never fight.  Fighting is what animals do, it's dirty and no holds are barred.  But for about 45 seconds, we de-evolved to a point where if we had been able to get our hands on poo, we would have flung it, screeching, into each others faces, fists pounding chests, teeth bared, pulses racing.


And then it was over.  We stood, on the front lawn, panting in shock.  Jesse helped to retrieve Creemore who was standing across the street, watching the show.  We gathered our animals back into the house, embraced each other with shaking arms and parted company for the rest of the night; he upstairs with our two to catch some rest before he headed out to work in a couple of hours; me downstairs to the computer room in an effort to calm Creemore who continued to pace and search for Fritti for the rest of the night.


The next day the kennel was retrieved and Creemore spent a few days learning the rhythms of our household and, not incidentally, sleeping soundly in his kennel at night.  We sent him home four days later convinced that he is a very nice doggie, indeed, if a little on the Boo Radley side about cats.  


Husband and I are still happily married.  The lid got lifted on Pandora's Box for just a few seconds and we caught a glimpse of what our lives might have been like had we not been blessed with mutual respect, patience and consideration.  So thank you Creemore, for the gift of perspective.  Both for Husband and I, and for Fritti, who now lets Jesse sleep on the sofa with her. 


But not on the same cushion.

Happy Birthday

The song in my heart is having a birthday today.  In honour of this I bought him a ukulele and I don't regret it for one moment, not even really early in the morning.   I am excited for all of the future ukulele shenanigans which I will be certain to blog about after the bleeding stops.

Speaking of music, I don't sing.  It's one of my better qualities actually. I think far too many people who shouldn't sing, do.  I'm looking at you, Peebo.  So for Husband I have transcribed below what I have always felt "Happy Birthday" conveys, despite the fact that it is always droned out with all the lilting energy of a death march.  And I promise not to sing it.

Happy Birthday, Handsome

The Literal Lyrics for Happy Birthday:

It's your birthday!  Hooray!

It's a day just for you! Hooray!

You still have to go to work, fill out reports, deal with coworkers, commute, walk the dog, probably take out the trash, maybe pay a few bills, call the cable guy, fold laundry, and wash the supper dishes,

But it's your day so there will be cake!

You wanted chocolate but Uncle Steve is allergic,

So we got vanilla which is just fine. Hooray!

Happy Birthday! (I forgot to buy you a card.)