Keeping Score

With few exceptions do I rarely answer my cell, should it happen to ring. The reasons for this are deeply rooted in my experience as a receptionist, for which position I seemed to be uniquely qualified in that, being a sociopath, I could, with little or no effort, generate a chipper persona I called Dealing With The Public Tam who could be relied upon at the mere ring of a phone, to blow sunshine up anyone's arse.

I also enjoyed wearing the pumps. 

However, as enjoyable as the pumps and the deep personal satisfaction I received from assisting a client while using my own pen which no one else was allowed to touch, were, the job did leave me with a strange sense of powerlessness when confronted with a ringing phone, one that must be answered at all costs.  There was no escaping it, it was my job, I accepted it and Dealing With The Public Tam excelled at it. 

And here we come to the root of it. I am no longer a receptionist, at the mercy of Alexander's shrill invention. Free to do as I wish, I have in my possession a phone which can follow me everywhere, can interrupt me at any time. It rings when I am watching Doctor Who, when I am walking my dogs, when I am at the beach, when I am in line to buy groceries. It rings and I, luxury of luxuries, ignore it. Bliss. 

Except.

Except for when Husband is out being dangled over wreckage or flinging himself into the ocean in the black of night, risking his life to save others from the grip of Death's cold fingers. Then, only then, do I answer this phone when it rings, should it ring. For what if the heart that was beating it's last was the one I can hear in my sleep? What if the breath that whispers my name in the darkness was calling one final time? When Husband is out risking that life more precious than my own to save someone else's one and only, I will always answer, will always respond. 

Which is why I was so thrilled to discover, upon answering my phone this morning, that I have been selected to receive a free trip to Las Vegas, Nevada. 

Well played, Mystery Caller. Well played. 

One Big Happy Family

Meeker joined our family about a year ago and things are going far more smoothly now than in the beginning.

It was last October when we spotted the add on a trading website, "Toby, retriever cross, 1 yr old" and there was a picture of a sweet face with ears back, shy of the camera. When we rolled up to the hobby farm, we were greeted by a boiling mess of fur, paws and slobber. We counted not less than 7 noses and 27 feet but, since one dog turned out to be named Lucky, the math is actually accurate if a bit cliched. From out this seething horde shot a muddy orange torpedo which proceeded to pin ball it's way off three fences, the barn, a goat, two cows, a chicken coop and a hay bale before stopping to roll in a cow pat. 

We were told he was "about a year old" and from a good home that could no longer keep up to his "special needs". Guesses were made about his breed but the best information placed him at a mix of Golden Retriever, Rhodesian Ridgeback and Atomic Weapon. 

 

"Great with cats," we were told, as he chased two up a tree.  "Easy going around other dogs," we were assured, as he catapulted over a horse jump and landed directly on top of a snoozing canine. "Loves to explore," as he disappeared into the distance, "and to swim," when he returned soaking wet and trailing duck weed. 

Standing in the middle of the chaos, watching chicken feathers drift to the ground, Husband looked at me with that big beautiful smile of his and said "He's perfect."

I watched Husband watch this insane orange dog wreak havoc in the farm yard with big tears in my eyes.  I knew he was looking 16 years into the past and seeing a yellower, goofier puppy, coated in mud and chasing chickens. And I knew that this bullet of a canine would never replace him but would go some distance towards healing the big sadness in our hearts left behind when JD's footsteps disappeared from our lives.

"You're right, honey," as we loaded the squirming puppy into the van and watched him shake mud and straw all over the inside, "he's perfect."

 

Husband's Hierarchy of Swears

Husband is the reason I wake up smiling every morning. He is the cheese on my Mac and  the extra whip on my pumpkin spice latte. He brings joy to my days and fills my world with music. He also swears like a sailor at inanimate objects, shattering the boreal stillness of an Albertan afternoon and it's usually at that point that the dogs and I make for the sofa and consult:

Husband's Hierarchy of Swears (ominous thunder)

From the bottom up we have:

"Dammit" - This is a DEFCON 4 situation.  Something has disturbed the zen master in his practice of the subtle art of trying to fix stuff/leave the house/find a tool.

Action: Spouse and canines may choose to ignore or investigate without risk of stepping on debris.

"Oh for f*ck sakes" -  DEFCON 3, examples of  which include things which beep, bounce back or "are stupid". May easily become a DEFCON 2 if the volume is anything above what one might use to call their loved one for dinner. 

Action: Canines mobilized for retreat to sub-couch territory in less that 15 seconds. Spouse continues with normal activities, locates first aid kid in readiness.

"You stupid (a word which, being a lady, I have never used. Ever. Rhymes with stunt.)" - Here we find ourselves at DEFCON 2. Something has catastrophically failed/exploded/jammed or remained lost despite desperate searching.

Action: Everyone is under the couch at this point, enjoying a quiet read and giving the dust bunnies names and  a back story.

"(Yosemite Sam-style regression into garbled snarling)" - Here at DEFCON 1 it is most likely that whatever broke, bounced back or took too long to be found is now either scattered in a million pieces across the driveway or flushed down the toilet.

We've all been here

 Action: Move the couch across the road and set up camp until the mushroom cloud dissipates. See also: The iPhone Incident

Nobody Home

Dear Mystery Caller, 

Still no.

Blow me,

Remote