Happy Howl-O-Ween

Will you all be sitting in your living rooms tonight, leaping to your feet every time the doorbell rings, and shoveling candy into pillow cases and plastic pumpkins being held by princesses, super heroes, monsters and cartoon characters?

Or will you be roaming your neighborhood with sub-adult human beings (in costume) and collecting enough loot to keep your entire household on a sugar high for a month?

Or will you be doing what I’ll be doing…

…hiding in my basement until all the little ghouls and ghosties are safely tucked in at home?

I used to do Halloween. If I think about it, it is actually my favorite holiday. The Pagan roots of Samhein, of course, led to the current custom of Halloween. The barriers between this world and the next are thinnest, allowing communication, and even passage, between the planes of existence. It’s half way between the Autumn Equinox and the Winter Solstice, and I like any nature-based celebration that is due to the cycles of the Earth and not an arbitrary day circled on a calendar.

When I was a kid, trick-or-treat was a bit of a chore. I lived in a very rural area. We’re talking “trailer on a dirt road,” people. Whereas most of you reading this could take a tot on a candy run and hit several dozen houses within a block or two, if I ventured a half mile from home, I’d encounter maybe a dozen houses.

I don’t remember most of my costumes, though. I know in kindergarten I was an Indian Princess. I had long, dark hair and a dark complexion, so it was a bit of an obvious stereotype. In fifth grade, I was Sarah Josepha Hale. (WHO?? OK, she was a Victorian-era American writer, who actually composed “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”) No, I wasn’t that huge a literary nerd at age 11, but I had portrayed her in the class play, and hence had the costume Mom had made me. I was a Gypsy in sixth grade, not only because I still had long, dark hair and a dark complexion, but also a yellow peasant blouse and lots of beads. In 9^th grade, the last year I went trick-or-treating, I was Paul Stanley, from Kiss. White face makeup, black star around my eye, dog collar. I already had the wildly curly dark hair.

Of course, when The Boy was little, we never missed a chance to dress him up and let him get the goods to rot his tiny teeth. He was a devil (prophetic?), a bunny, a bumble bee, a Ninja Turtle for about five years, and then progressed to things like the Grim Reaper. He was a really cute bunny.

When we lived in our house in Indianapolis, while The Boy was in elementary school, we had some pretty nice neighbors with three kids. We’d all get dressed up and take the kids out together. The adults had their “beverages of choice” in travel cups, making the evening much more festive for those over 21. Afterwards, the kids would be rolling in piles of candy, and we’d gather at one house or the other and drink mulled wine and play cards. (And embezzle candy from their bags when they weren’t looking. But don’t tell.)

I decorated when we lived there, too. We’re talking fake spider webs (complete with fake spiders) (mostly fake, anyway), elaborately carved pumpkins, cornstalks, you name it.

Once The Boy got too old to trick-or-treat, though, we gave it up. Not just because we figure that if we’re not raking in any processed sugar products from people to whom we never speak, we aren’t giving any out. Not even mostly because of that. We stopped doing trick-or-treat primarily because…

…it upsets the dogs.

(NOT my dogs. These are obviously well-trained, mannerly, pro-Halloween dogs.)

Imagine four straight hours of:

Door: Ding-dong
Dogs: BARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Me and/or Tom: Shut up, dammit!!! Get over here!!! I said shut up!!!
Ghost: Trick or treat!
Us: Here’s some candy, now get the hell away from our door.
Ghost: Thank you?
Door: Slam
(Brief pause)
Door: Ding-dong
Dogs: BARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Me and/or Tom: Shut up!!!! Quit running over Sprocket! Back! Get! Shut up!!!!!!
Dora the Explorer: Trick or treat!
Us: Here, here, now go away. Hurry! Go!
Dora: Thank you? (Possible dirty look from Dora’s mom, waiting just to the side of the front step.)
Door: Slam

Repeat, ad nauseum, substituting various costumed intruders, and increasingly more colorful swearing at the dogs. The door slam also gets louder.

This is why we don’t do Halloween anymore.

To summarize: Dogs with no manners + humans with no control (and less patience) = Kiddies with no candy.

Instead, our plan is to make some beverages that would have once gone very well in those travel cups back in the Indy trick-or-treat days, hide out down in the family room with the lights off, and watch the Back to Tulsa DVD. I might dress up, but it won’t be to answer the door.

The Denver Experience, Part Two

The Conference:

You’ll notice, I’m sure, that my primary recollections about the conference involve the food.

At first, I was miffed that they weren’t offering us even one dinner-type reception. Then, when I saw the lunches, I decided that was totally irrelevant.

The lunches were nothing short of spectacular. The first day had one of those fancy-pants salads with the baby greens and such wrapped in a strip of cucumber and set on end like a cylinder. There was a dish of grilled zucchini, eggplant and yellow squash topped with cheese and caramelized onions, and a variety of sandwiches, including a grilled Portobello one. Yum! (There was meat stuff, too, but I didn’t eat much of that.) Another day it was a Mediterranean theme, with a Greek salad, tabouli, kebabs of vegetables, chicken or salmon, pita with hummus, tomato and cucumber, and falafels with a cucumber sauce. Another day was Italian… and, well, you get the idea. We also had big continental breakfasts, with coffee, juice, soda, pastries, fruit, muffins… the works. And snacks! There were snacks! Chips, cookies, smoothies, breakfast fruit bars, nuts, yogurt, candy bars… my night table back in the room was well-stocked for evening snack attacks, thanks to my super large brief-bag!

And, oh, yeah… there was an actual conference. I learned stuff. I took many, many notes, and filled up about fifty lines of my “action plan” sheet with things I needed to do upon my return to the clinic. The sessions on medical records management, employment law, team management, and client service were my favorites. What I mainly learned in the accounting and finance session was that I need to get in the habit of reviewing all our financial statements and reports so I can (hopefully) start having a clue what all of it means. Inventory management was a snooze. I think it was a bad idea to have this as the last session on Saturday (and six hours of it) due to the boring nature of the topic, and all the math. Plus, I have an inventory manager. So I brought all this back to her, and we’ll develop some basic strategies together.

One presenter was totally outstanding. I won’t include his name, because I hate getting stealth-Googled, but if you want to know, email me. He was brilliant, funny, and had so much great information to share. He had the entire day on Friday, and I wished he could have just done the whole program, all four days.

During the course of the conference, I wrote on the group contact board that I’d be interested in talking with other holistic practice managers, but apparently I was the only one there. That was disappointing. I thought about leaving a note asking any Cross Canadian Ragweed fans to give me a call, because then I’d have had someone else to watch my DVD with me. (In the end, I gave it to Curt, since I have a new copy at home. If he’s going to see them in January, he should have that handy to get in a Ragweed frame of mind!) I did chat with a number of other managers, particularly the smokers, as we congregated outside at every break. But being the hermit that I am, and having my evenings largely filled by Curt and/or Duncan, I didn’t do any extra-conference socializing.

My two “off” evenings consisted of eating room service dinners, watching TV, and texting Tom at odd hours informing him of things such as (after watching Dogtown on the National Geographic channel) that we needed to move to Utah so I could work for Best Friends and we could save all the dogs in the whole, wide world. I have a friend who works there, so I figure I’d have an “in.” Knowing how I get when I watch dog-rescue programs, he replied that sure, we could move to Utah and save all the dogs. I doubt it’s ever going to happen, but it was nice of him to pretend for me.

The one annoying thing was that the hotel (and, apparently, every structure in Colorado – much like Minnesota) is non-smoking. This meant that early-morning and late-night trips downstairs were required. That is until Curt pointed out to me that the window in my room actually opened about seven or eight inches. Which, coincidentally, is the exact width of my head, including ears.

I soon developed an emergency strategy which involved taking off my glasses (if I had those on instead of my contacts) and sticking my head and right arm and shoulder out the window. If the wind was favorable, I could smoke a quick cigarette, then pull my head back in, extend my left arm – which bore a paper cup with a bit of water in the bottom – and extinguish the cigarette. The heavy drapes also helped keep the smoke from seeping into the room. I’d then flush the evidence and save myself a sweat suit-clad, makeup-free trip downstairs in the wee hours of the morning or night. I figure the smoke that clung to my clothes from outside (legal) smoking could be blamed if some tiny bit of cigarette smell were detected. Between coffee and hairspray, I figured I was pretty well protected, odor-wise.

I am such a rebel.

The Trip Home:

I never use an alarm clock. They annoy, and sometimes frighten me. On Saturday night, I kept Curt out later than I’d planned, and then decided to visit the bar for another glass of wine so I could time my last cigarette of the evening correctly, and wouldn’t have to either make another trip downstairs or risk a covert “head out the window” episode. (I could just picture my glasses lying on the ground three stories below the window.) I talked to Tom, making pithy comments about an arriving wedding party, and he suggested I might want to arrange a wake up call. Naaaaaaah, I always wake up at whatever time I tell myself.

Famous last words.

My shuttle was due at 5:30 AM. I’d planned to get up between 4-4:30, so I’d have plenty of time to finish packing, shower, consume large amounts of coffee, and get a bit of nicotine on board before meeting the shuttle at that hellacious hour.

I woke up a few minutes before 5:00. Uh-oh.

I ricocheted around the room, shoving belongings into random bags, only to discover that I still needed the items in question. I raced to transform my day-old makeup and bed-hair into something less resembling a Halloween costume, and get my bags ready to go. And the shuttle arrived early.

At 5:20, my cell phone rang, informing me that the shuttle was already downstairs waiting. Fortunately, I was just zipping up the last bag, but I had to leave my travel-cup of coffee behind when I realized I didn’t have a spare hand to carry it. While the nice shuttle guy was loading my bags, I sucked down a quick cigarette, and was soon on my way.

After that, it was all pretty routine. I got the ton of bags checked ($40 more to Northwest Airlines, the extorting bastards) and found my gate, before purchasing a large coffee and attempting to complete the wake-up process. I was semi-awake, but suffering from what felt like two dislocated shoulders, by the time Tom picked me up in cold, wet, flurrying Minneapolis.

It was good to be home, and see the doggy-boys – despite the subsequent bunny disaster. It was also kind of sad, knowing I’d left Curt and Duncan in far-away Denver. Level 2 of my course, which is in April, seems a long way off.

Next time, though, I’m definitely scheduling myself off work on the Monday following my return, because by Tuesday morning I was totally dragging ass. I realized it had been more than a week since I’d had anything resembling a day off, what with all the travel and seminars and such. I simply do not have the fortitude to endure that, and then plunge right back into a work week. I had an over-loaded brain and a broken-down body, and needed at least one day to recover.

I'd love to have Tom come with me in April. It would be awesome to have him meet Curt and Duncan, and to see Denver (since I harbor a notion that it might be really cool to actually move to Denver). It would be nice to have him there in the evenings, to go out to dinner with me and explore the city.

It would also be nice to get through the trip without two aching shoulders due to heavy, cumbersome bags. But that's not the main reason he should go with me. Really!

The Denver Experience, Part One

Having now shared the highly significant (and totally fun) story of my time with Curt and Duncan – which is what you really wanted to hear about – I think it’s time to launch into some other stories surrounding my trip.

Why It Sucks To Travel Without Tom:

The number one reason, of course, is I love him and enjoy his charming company. I mean, what do you do when you are looking, dumbfounded, at the parents with five children, all of whom appear to be 5 years old or less, trying to stack three strollers Tetris-style? And there’s nobody there to participate in your eye-rolling and whispered snarky comments? Is it even possible to get all that crap on the plane? What were they planning to do with all that cargo? Not to mention the kids, which I feared would be seated around me, surrounding me in a noisy, impenetrable wall of sippy-cups and snot. (Thankfully, they got on a different flight. Crisis averted.)

So, yes, I definitely missed Tom’s company during the trip. But the main reason I really, really wished he’d been along? Toter of baggage. As I mentioned in my pre-trip post, I had an ass-load of stuff to haul around. I am neither particularly strong nor especially coordinated. Dragging my enormous red wheelie-suitcase, with the duffel bag draped over the handle, my black brief-bag on one shoulder and my laptop on the other… I was a walking disaster. The suitcase refused to follow me in an even semi-obedient way (sort of like most of my dogs), and the duffel kept slipping around the suitcase handle and whacking me in the legs. The other bags kept falling off my shoulders, and the suitcase tended to tip over at inconvenient moments. My shoulders were complaining constantly.

I finally got the duffel and suitcase checked – to the tune of $40 in baggage charges to Northwest Airlines. Seriously. $15 for the first bag, and $25 for the second one. If my makeup and camera hadn’t been in the duffel, I’d have been tempted to just go barefoot all week and stick the bag in a storage locker at the airport.

Once through security (No strip-search – yay!) and settled at the gate, I soon discovered another problem. This part doesn’t specifically involve bag-carrying, but it is related. First of all, there was nobody available to fetch me juice, coffee, or breakfast pastries of any kind. Second, if I wanted said items, I not only had to get them myself, I had to haul my brief-bag and laptop along with me. I mentally added stuff-guarder as a secondary function associated with bag-carriers. The same thing held true when it became necessary to visit the restroom before boarding the plane – because I am totally not going into one of those tiny airport lavatories with the super-scary, high-pressure flush toilets with unnaturally blue water in them. The auto-flush toilets in the airport bathrooms are disturbing enough.

When I arrived in Denver, the bag-carrying situation got even worse. I almost popped a gasket trying to wrangle the big red suitcase off the baggage return carousel, and then had to try to balance everything in such a way as to be able to navigate my way a) outside so I could smoke, and b) to the shuttle counter to find out where to catch my ride to the hotel, and c) back outside to locate said shuttle. By this time, I was pretty worn out, and to be totally honest, I’m not used to so much physical exertion. Curt had warned me that Denver’s altitude might make some things a bit more difficult than usual at first, so maybe that had something to do with the huffing, puffing, sweating, and muscle strain, or maybe I’m just that pathetic.

First Impressions of Denver:

Several centuries later, I was situated on the shuttle bus and departing Denver International Airport. Our driver chose a somewhat circuitous route through a much more rural area than I’d expected, and the first thing I noticed was tumbleweeds. Did I screw up and get off the plane in Arizona? Who knew that Denver had tumbleweeds? But it does. A bunch. Some were little, bowling-ball sized objects, gently blowing across the fields and highways. Others were as big as my refrigerator. The driver didn’t seem concerned about them. I thought it looked strange seeing dozens of them rolling their ways across open fields like a herd of some alien plant-based life forms.

There was a big storm brewing off to what I think was the north, with clouds an inky purple-black, and you could see the entire storm complex because the sky seemed somehow larger on the plains east of Denver. We skirted the storm, but were caught by a smaller storm while passing through the Northglenn area. A few raindrops fell, and then a bolt of lightning hit alarmingly close to the van, but the following downpour quickly passed.

The terrain got a bit hillier as we approached the western suburbs, where my hotel was located, and finally I could see the foothills of the Rockies in the distance. NOW I felt like I was in Colorado.

The Hotel:

Two words – very nice. My room was one of the nicer ones I’ve had, except when Tom and I plan special getaways that involve a Jacuzzi tub. The bed was huge and had six fluffy white pillows and two more in the closet. At home, I sleep with 3-4 pillows, so this amenity was greatly appreciated. A pristine white down comforter and lovely duvet made the bed oh-so-inviting. The bedding alone prompted a late-night text to Tom, informing we needed to get all new bedding at home.

The workspace for my computer was nice, and instead of the standard tiny table and uncomfortable chair, this room had an upholstered chair and ottoman. Best of all, instead of just a shower, it had a tub, and the tub wasn’t teensy. It had a nice sloped back and was deep enough to get plenty of water to soak in. The windows were floor to ceiling, and looked out on a space between buildings that was full of pine trees.

Not bad.

(Next up, the conclusion, including The Conference and The Trip Home.)

The Long-Anticipated Walk

The Veterinary Management program I attended in Denver last week was fantastic, and advanced the knowledge and confidence I need to better perform my job… but the real highlight of the week was the time I got to spend with Curt and Duncan. It had a “meant to be” feeling. I’d never had anything lead me to Denver before, either work or family-related. Then back in January, my blog-path crossed with Curt’s. We took an immediate liking to each other, and the next thing you know, I learned about the management program in Denver while I was attending a conference in Las Vegas. Sometimes fate just lines things up for you.

As a general rule, I don’t like people. Well, OK, maybe that’s not completely accurate; I simply am not interested (at all) in 99.99% of the human race. I don’t seek out social interaction, and merely attempt to endure it when it is thrust upon me. I am highly selective regarding the people to whom I grant the dubious distinction of being counted among my friends.

But Curt is now so firmly in the “friend” category that it seems he has always been there.

The three evenings we spent together didn’t involve much silence, that’s for sure. We always had plenty to talk about, from Duncan and the kitties, to books, writing, food, friends, relationships, Denver, and everything in between. As for the writing, Curt allowed me to hear some bits of some of his work, and I was blown away. I want to write as well as he does when I grow up. He can evoke such vivid images and characters in just a few sentences, and it flows so beautifully that you would swear you were part of the story. He has the ability to write wholly in the voice of his character, which is something I don’t do well. I think that’s why I gravitate toward essays, and struggle with fiction. In my stalled novel, the main character is essentially a version of myself, which doesn’t take nearly as much refined talent as Curt exhibits.

I did learn from him that I need to improve my people-watching skills. People just don’t register on my radar very often. For example, while we were at the book store, I admitted I hadn’t so much as looked at another person the entire time we were there. He, on the other hand, had noticed and cataloged everybody in sight. So, acknowledging other members of the human race is clearly something I need to start doing if I want to become a better writer.

Late Saturday afternoon, when we went walking with Duncan in the park, it was sunny, 70 degrees, and absolutely beautiful. His apartment is located very near Columbine High School, and the park borders the school grounds, so a short, somber, reflective visit was made. I wondered about the negative energy generated on that awful day, and hoped that someone had been brought in to release it, and restore peace and harmony to the Columbine community. The memorial in the park is lovely, and I’m sure many people visit it to meditate or pray, whatever it is that they do to send out positive, healing energy.

(The Columbine Memorial)

Our walk took us past soccer and softball fields, up a hill and along a ridge overlooking the memorial and the lake, with a view of the distant mountains and the city of Littleton.

Descending the hill, we walked through a prairie dog colony, with literally hundreds and hundreds of mounds and countless hyper-alert, animated little critters. I was surprised they don’t have a problem with dogs getting loose and terrorizing the colony, but Curt pointed out that some prairie dogs have fleas that might carry bubonic plague, so people are pretty good about keeping their dogs under control. Plus, prairie dogs are speedy little varmints, and disappear down into their burrows in an instant if anyone, human or canine, ventures too close.

Throughout the walk, Duncan followed his nose, seeing the park in a way we never will, despite our best efforts. He’d stop to chomp on an enticing stick or leaf, and then catch a scent that drew him off in a different direction. Periodically, he’d flop down and roll in the grass, wriggling and snuffling in obvious delight. Curt admitted that he will sometimes join Duncan in his pure, spontaneous enjoyment of this simple pleasure.

After we passed by the lake and skate park, and turned back across the now-empty soccer field, we found a yellow soft rubber ball, and Dunc got to have some energetic rounds of “fetch.” Well, fetching generally involves actually bringing the ball back, but once we caught up with him, he’d relinquish it without too much fuss, as long as we promised to throw it again right away.

All too soon, the late afternoon shadows lengthening into evening, it was time to return to the apartment. I vowed to try to actually walk my own dogs from time to time (well, at least Ozark, who has some manners), and capture some of that doggie Zen myself. I have a big fenced yard – and four dogs – so I always have a “reason” for not taking time to take them for a walk. We have a beautiful park only a few blocks from home, and it’s a crime not to take advantage of it, and give my dogs the stimulation, interaction and enjoyment that Duncan experiences every day.

(Curt and Duncan atop the hill in the park; the Memorial is over the hill to the left, and the prairie dog village to the right.)

Curt tells me that April tends to be an extremely snowy month in his part of the world, so when I return I might need to bring my boots for any walks, but I know it would be worth it. I can picture Duncan now, snow on his nose after he finished rooting under the fluffy surface in pursuit of a particularly delicious scent, or shaking flakes from his coat after rolling around for the sheer joy of it. I could warm my chilly fingers and nose in the warmth of Duncan’s neck ruff, or maybe even join him in making “doggie snow angels.”

Sometimes walking our dogs is a chore. But Curt and Duncan know it can also be an experience, that there’s always something new to see – or smell – and that you should always keep your eyes open for the wonder.

(Curt and Pip. Winnie and Olive declined to pose before my batteries called it a day.)

Doggie Welcome Wagon

The first day back to work after a trip like the one I just made to Denver is exhausting. Not only do you have all the backlog of work that’s piled up in your absence, you have to start working on the plans to implement all the great ideas you came up with as a result of the conference. (Yes, Curt, I know that sentence is a grammatical nightmare, but I’m too tired to agonize over it tonight! If there’s an ounce of compassion in your body – and I know there is – you won’t flog me.) That first day back is exciting and rewarding, yet somehow also frustrating and daunting.

At any rate, you’ll have to wait just a bit longer for the report on my Saturday Walk With Duncan, because those pictures are on my laptop, which is still at work. I’m trying not to drag it back and forth every single evening; I’ve just been getting too dependent on it.

But I can tell you the story of the events which transpired upon my arrival in the Great State of Minnesota yesterday, as they have no accompanying pictures.

On Saturday, it was 70 and sunny in Denver. When I got off the plane in Minneapolis around noon on Sunday, it was 37 and featured snow flurries. The entire day, it alternated between flurries and that cold, miserable late autumn rain. Which, of course, hydrated Darwin’s bog nicely. The wind was stripping the leaves from the trees, which always depresses me, reminding me how long it will be until those bright green new leaves will next appear. (Answer: May. Seven months from now. Now, aren’t you depressed, too?)

I got home and was greeted quite enthusiastically by the boys. Darwin even jumped up, which he never does. Throughout the evening, Brody and Sprocket were on their best behavior. Brody was extra-affectionate and didn’t have any bark-attacks, but that could have been because it was so miserable outside that nobody was in their yards or on the street to get him agitated. Sprocket, on the other paw, is always sweet and well-behaved, so this wasn’t all that unusual.

It’s the other two who bear reporting.

At around 4:00, Darwin seemed pretty insistent that he needed to go out. It had been an hour since his dinner, so I had to believe him. Twenty minutes later, I’d had a snack and was feeling full and drowsy (travel is exhausting!), but one look at the D-Dog made it quite clear that my next activity was going to need to be hooking up the hose in the bathtub and washing my muddy little monster. Which, by the way, had the added consequence of leaving the tub a bit gritty for my soon-to-be-enjoyed bath. Regardless of how well you wipe and hose after he’s been cleaned up, some residue remains. I tried to think of it as exfoliation for my posterior, but somehow that wasn’t very comforting. (Or comfortable, either, for that matter.)

A bit later, after my bath and a nap, I returned to the Sofur to have a Jimmy Dean sausage, egg and cheese croissant, and to finish up some tidbits of two earlier snacks (twice baked potatoes and spinach/cheese puff pastries). Ozark was outside.

To properly set up this story, I should mention that Ozark is a digger. I don’t mean like a “shovel and pail” digger. I’m talking about a “Giant Earth Mover” (GEM) digger. Every so often, he gets fixated on whatever lives under the shed, and begins digging his own Minnesota version of the Chunnel. Seriously, the hole he’s digging to get under the shed looks like the entrance to a grizzly bear den. For whatever reason, he’s recently begun focusing on this excavation again.

So there I am on the Sofur, enjoying my snack, and Tom walks through the kitchen. “Lor,” he said, “you’ve got a dog on the porch.”

This was not said in a very positive, upbeat manner. This is how he sounds when he’s breaking the news to me that Darwin is there, dripping watery black mud on the deck, and I’d better go hook up the hose. But I’d already done that, and Darwin was currently lying nearby on the floor, clean but still awfully damp.

Tom continued, “And he’s got a rabbit.”

That can not possibly be good. “Ooooooooohhhhhh noooooo,” I moaned. Bunnies are not durable.

I got off the Sofur, placed my nearly empty plate on the kitchen counter, and finally turned my gaze to the sliding glass door. Yep, there stood Ozark, looking happily in at me, a half-grown bunny in his mouth. It was dangling equally on both sides of his muzzle, like a duck during a perfect retrieve.

Shit.

I opened the door and told Ozark to leave it, and he obediently dropped the bunny on the deck before coming inside. (He might be a murderer, but he’s a well-behaved one.)

This is the bad part. I understand that my four-legged fur-kids are dogs. I understand they have varying levels of prey instinct. I know sometimes they catch small critters.

But if they catch them, they’d damned well better kill them dead before I have to deal with them, because otherwise it’s just too upsetting.

Yep, sure enough. Bunny-baby wasn’t dead. He lay there by the door, on his side, twitching.

Shit, shit, shit. I had no idea what to do. He didn’t have visible signs of damage, other than the “lying on his side and twitching” thing, but he could’ve been squished. Ozark seemed to be holding him quite gently, like any Golden or Lab retrieving game, but if the bunny wiggled (and you can safely assume he at least considered it), Ozark might’ve held him just a little more firmly than is healthy for small, fragile bunnies.

There’s not much you can do for an injured bunny. They go into shock and literally die of fright, even in the absence of any mortal injuries. I knew bun-bun was almost certainly not long for this world, but my problem was he wasn’t dead yet. I hated to think of him suffering, but I also couldn’t even contemplate “helping him on his way.” Lacking euthanasia solution, which is not something in the typical medicine cabinet (not even mine), about the only option was to bash him with something – and of course I could never in a million years do that.

I wandered, distraught, into the bedroom and located a shoe box on the top shelf of my closet. I put some tissue paper and paper towels in it, and went out to get the poor little lagomorph. I tucked him into the box as gently as I could, and tried to arrange the padding for some comfort and protection. I knew I couldn’t keep him in the house because the dogs would freak out. I decided to put him in the side yard (to which the dogs do not have access) in as sheltered an area as possible. At least it wasn’t raining anymore.

My reasoning was that if he was going to recover from his shock and didn’t have any internal injuries, he might just hippity-hop on his way, which is why I didn’t put him in the garage. On the other paw, something might eat him, and while tragic, it at least represented the cycle of life. Rabbits are, after all, prey animals. I’d just rather my dogs not be the ones eating them. If bunny-boy was still alive in the morning, I’d take him to work either for treatment or euthanasia.

As I was about to go back inside, I hear Tom yelling, “Nooooooo! Bad dog!!!!!” I went in and gently (I thought) reminded him that we can’t yell at Zarky for doing what dogs do. He had been working so hard at his “digging under the shed” project, and he was undoubtedly very excited and proud to have finally reached his quarry. Maybe he was bringing me a special Welcome Home present.

Then Tom informed me that he had not, in fact, been yelling at Ozark for squishing the bunny. He had been yelling at Darwin for eating all the snacks off my plate, which I had left on the kitchen counter while I dealt with the Bunny Crisis.

Oh. Well, yeah, OK, you can yell at them for that. Throwing a shoe is also acceptable in certain situations, as long as you don’t hit them in the head.

I regret to report that the little bunny shuffled off this mortal coil sometime in the night. Not surprising in the least, but still sad.

I just really, really have to wonder about any rabbits who choose to set up housekeeping in our yard. I mean, come on; this has to be the wildlife equivalent of the ‘hood, with unprovoked violence likely to strike at any moment. My dogs are sweet, wonderful boys, but they are not going to be able to resist the temptation of a small fuzzy toy that runs, wiggles, and/or squeaks.

Happy trails, little cotton-tail friend. We’re sorry. (Well, I am. Ozark wonders if you have any brothers or sisters in the neighborhood.)

I’ll do my best to get the Curt and Duncan pictures edited and up tomorrow!

Home Again, Home Again

Sorry to disappoint everyone, but returning from a business/pleasure trip unfortunately leaves me with a whole bunch of stuff to dig myself out from under. It might be a day or two before I get my photos edited and have a chance to write in any detail about the fabulous time I had with Curt, Duncan, Olive, Pip and Winnie, or tell any of the stories about the travel, hotel and conference. I'll do it as soon as I can, though!

In the meantime, here's a Duncan picture to tide you over!

While Walking Duncan: Special Guest Star

While Walking Duncan: Special Guest Star

Why can't she hang out more often? Distance only. "('Cause otherwise I'd be with them about four days a week!) But I think Dunc wondered "where did they hide the treat bag???" ;-) I'm SO at ease with goldens, and I was loving on him, and snuggling, and rubbing him in spots that might be inappropriate for boys (dogs) you don't know well... but it felt natural to me (being a golden-girl) that I think Dunc recognized my special affinity for dogs in general and goldens in particular. WHAT an incredible dog. Curt is a very lucky dog-dad, and Dunc is lucky that his life gave him to Curt.

Met Duncan; Waiting For the Walk

I’ll write later about the trip, the hotel, the food (IN-CRED-I-BLE!!!), and the program (which is the reason I’m here)… but right now, I know you all want to know about Curt and Duncan. Curt already posted a picture and blog about my visit to their home on Thursday evening, so I’ll try not to be redundant.

Just let me say… you know, from reading While Walking Duncan, that Curt seems smart, sensitive, complex, interesting, and totally genuine. You know that Duncan seems adorable, bright, and the quintessential golden. I can now accurately report that these things are 100% accurate.

I’ll be blunt. I adore Curt. I’m normally a pretty giant social retard. I have a hard time with people I don’t know well, and meeting new people, even people I’ve “known” online for a while, is typically very awkward for me. Yet there wasn’t a single second of awkwardness when I met Curt.

He arrived at my hotel for dinner on Tuesday night, and I immediately felt like I’d known him forever. My social interactions are usually punctuated with long, awkward silences, because I am not very good at reading people or directing conversations. But I don’t think we shut up for five seconds the entire evening. After dinner, we came up to my room and continued talking (and talking and talking…).

I made persuaded him to watch most of my much-vaunted Cross Canadian Ragweed “Back To Tulsa” DVD, and he now understands my Cody obsession. In fact, the next day I discovered they will be playing in Denver on January 3, and there’s a pretty good chance that Curt will see his first Ragweed show that day. He was playing with my camera, and took the following picture:

Then yesterday he picked me up after my class sessions ended and I FINALLY got to meet Duncan. This petite red-golden-boy is everything you’ve seen on the blog and more. Smart? He’s brilliant. Curt has put so much work into training him (and I undid much of it in the first 15 minutes, I think), and every second with this boy was a joy.

Dunc is a kisser! I LOVE a kissy dog. My Ripley was a smoochy-dog, and so is Duncan. I was soon so sufficiently covered in golden-slobber that I was instantly at home. This is one awesome dog. Like all goldens, he’s very soft-toy-focused, but when you are interacting with him, his attention shifts to his person, 100%. Just look at the blog… look at that attentive, totally alert golden-face. Be anywhere near him and not kiss his nose or skritch his tummy. I dare you. You will not be able to resist.

The kitties, Olive, Winnie and Pip, also seemed to like me. This is not unusual, but always surprising, because while I don’t dislike cats, I don’t tend to “get” them. But they all accepted head-pats and skritchies from me, and Pip even ventured onto my lap a time or two.

Curt made me his famous white pizza for dinner (YUM… all my favorites, mushrooms, artichoke hearts, onions, olives…), and the conversation never slowed for a second. I’d planned to be back at the hotel and in bed by 10 PM, but the first time I really looked at the clock it was already 10:30! So I was very late getting back to the hotel, but it was worth it.

Tomorrow, I finish my final session at 3 PM, and will be spending the rest of the afternoon and evening with Curt and Duncan. I’ll finally get to take the OFFICIAL “Walk With Duncan!” This time, I’ll take my camera.

I feel like we should move to Denver. At the very least, my “Level 2” of this management course is in April, so I’ll probably get to visit again!

Sometimes Size DOES Matter

Over the past year, I've put on about 15 pounds. During that time, I've discovered that the world at large doesn't dish out heaping mounds of sympathy when you are whining because you've gone from a size 4 to a size 6.

For about 15 minutes five years ago, I was a size 2. It didn't last, but that was fine, because even I had to admit that a size 2 was just too small for me. A few weeks ago, I had to admit that I would never again fit into all the size 2 Victoria's Secret jeans I'd bought during that time, so I took them to work for some of my little worker bees to adopt. Four pairs of jeans, and three girls claimed them. Yes, three of the crew, approximately half, are a size 2. One girl couldn't adopt the jeans, because they were... too large.

But I'm not looking for sympathy because I have to wear larger size jeans. I'm looking for sympathy - pity, really - because this size change from 4 to 6 means something even more horrible than spongier hips and a thicker waist.

I had to shop.

After my successful trip last month to buy work clothes for the winter (that actually fit), I'd vowed not to go on another shopping trip until spring. My upcoming trip to Denver, though, along with the fact that most of my jeans seem to be reluctant to button, forced me to take action.

I tried to avoid going to Kohl's again. I really did. I've always been able to buy Victoria's Secret jeans, which are delightfully thin through the hips and actually fit people with no ass (i.e. me), on eBay, at a practically-free price, and always (always!) in a size 4. Admitting that there's a little more of me than there has been for a while, and that my size fours are no longer comfortable or attractive, what with my smushy, stretch-marked hips and tummy oozing out over the top of them like a loaf of bread left to rise too long, I figured the solution was to buy the same brand of jeans I've been buying, but in a size 6.

Great theory, no? Nice jeans, great price, and it would get me out of having to go out in public and shop. So I ordered a pair of VS button-fly jeans, in a 6.

And they didn't fit.

When I pulled them out of the package, I thought, "These look rather narrow. As in not wide. As in not likely to button around my hips." And I was right. I pulled them on, did my usual bounce-and-jiggle to settle all my surplus skin down into the waist of the jeans, and attempted to button them. It did not go well. I ended up lying on the bed - something I haven't done since I was a size 20 and refused to admit that I needed a size 22 - and buttoning them. When I stood up, the buttons were screaming, my skin was complaining, and large amounts of belly-flab had failed to make it into the jeans at all.

I struggled out of the jeans and checked the tags. Maybe they'd sent the wrong size by mistake, a hopeful, delusional, naive voice in the back of my mind suggested. No such luck. They were, in fact, a size 6.

Clearly these jeans were defective.

But since I need jeans to wear, I had to shop.

In the end, it didn't go that badly. I got three pairs of jeans, all Levi's, in different styles. Two were, for better or for worse, size 6. One was... a size 4! (Take that, defective button-fly jeans! Ha!)

Now I had jeans, but the other (and possibly even more terrifying) part of this trip was that I also needed to get bras. "Much leftover skin from the 44D days," combined with "not really all that much to fill it up" equals "shopping for bras totally sucks and is darned near impossible."

My bra-shopping method consists of grabbing several likely-looking styles in an assortment of sizes, entering the fitting room, and trying them on one after the other until I find something that sort of works. "Sort of works" is primarily defined as "no large parts of my chest region are likely to slither over or under the boundaries of the bra at random moments throughout the day."

That humbling (and somewhat depressing) task accomplished, I also got some socks and earrings, and then decided to console myself with a gorgeous turquoise and gray argyle cashmere sweater. I've never had a cashmere sweater, and this one was on sale for half off its $90 price tag. It is soooooooo soft. I think I love this sweater. Which means I'll undoubtedly ruin it the first time I wear it - if it survives even that long. My plan is to never sweat or shed dead skin cells while wearing it, because if I ever have to wash it, it's a definite goner.

(My beautiful - and ultimately doomed - new cashmere sweater.)

Now, I think I have everything I need for my almost-week in Denver. I am going on business, for the management training program for work, but I'll also have social-time, since I'll be meeting Curt, Duncan, the kitties... and maybe even the elusive Ken, if we go have a drink at the restaurant he manages.

Being Denver, and October, I've been advised to pack a variety of things so I can dress in layers. Since I have to pack both business and casual wardrobes, a selection of coats, and shoes to go with everything - not to mention the sweat suits, so I can go outside for smoke breaks, since the entire hotel is smoke-free - I'm starting to worry about suitcase capacity. Plus, I have to take makeup, hair care implements, all my conference-related materials, my laptop, and enough books to get through a week (at least four, in case you wondered), and my Back to Tulsa DVD (because Curt will watch it with me, especially if he wants me to watch classic movies), I'm hoping I can smush it all into our largest suitcase. Because checking two bags for a 6 day trip is nuts. And I think they charge tons extra for that now.

But if I ruin my cashmere sweater because I have to cram it in a stuffed suitcase, Northwest Airlines is going to suffer.

Unless sudden inspiration sneaks up on me tomorrow, this will probably be my last post until I get back from Denver next Sunday. Or maybe not, because I am taking my computer, and depending on how many evenings I spend playing with Curt and Duncan, I might have some time in the room after class to share the experience with FF readers. Since this is a program for veterinary practice managers, at least half of them are sure to be clinically insane, and therefore blog-worthy.

In the meantime, listen to lots of Cross Canadian Ragweed, and surf my archives! (Seriously, some of the stuff I wrote in the first couple months is probably my best stuff. I re-read them, and ask myself, "Who wrote this?? Whoever it was, she is both brilliant and hilarious!")

Keep the comments and emails coming, and I'll check back with all of you soon, Live from Denver!

5:45 PM Update: If I want to take shoes, makeup, a camera, or a hairbrush, I have to take a duffel bag in addition to the giant suitcase. This surprises me, because I am so not a fashion plate. Remember me? I live in furry sweatsuits. But I have to have business-y things, and "hang out with Curt" things, and "lie around the hotel" things, though I suppose those hotel things could be either a) nothing, or b) the robe the hotel thoughtfully provides. Still. A giant suitcase and a duffel bag (plus big brief-case-y type bag and laptop) for six days on the road. I am actually pretty disappointed in myself.

Can't I Just Pick One Or The Other?

I have two stories to share today. One covers why I am old, and the other one covers why I am stupid. It seems like I shouldn’t have to deal with being both on the same day, but once you’re old, you’re old all the time, and my “stupid” comes and goes. Maybe it all averages out.

We are getting old. Some of you might consider 43 to be old anyway, but we’re not usually like your typical 43-year-olds. (Tom will be 44 at the end of the month, though. Is that “old”?) I mean, what “old” person goes to a Cross Canadian Ragweed concert, stands – barefoot – right up against the stage, dancing, screaming and singing for three hours? I should clarify that I am the one who does that, not Tom. Well, he does the “up against the stage” part, but not so much the screaming part.

At any rate, old people don’t do that.

Maybe I need to reevaluate the whole concept, though. For the past month, we’ve been debating whether or not to go to a concert this Friday night. It’s Stoney LaRue with Micky & The Motorcars, both of which are good friends with the Ragweed bunch. We’ve seen Micky & The Motorcars before (with Ragweed), and like them a lot. We have all their CDs. (Plus, Micky Braun = super-hottie) We’ve never seen Stoney, other than in his guest appearances in Ragweed’s first live concert DVD, so we thought it would be fun.

Sounds good so far, right?

Problem #1 is that it is at a “sports bar & entertainment center” located nearly 50 miles from home. While technically in the metro Twin Cities area, we are way up at one end, and the bar is way the hell down at the other.

This leads to problem #1.1, namely that we’ve never been there before, and it’s in a very congested and confusing area, and possibly very hard to find. Problem #1.2 is that it would be on a Friday night, with a potentially higher than usual number of drunken idiots on the road, and after a Stoney LaRue show, we’d have to be supremely careful not to be two of them.

Problem #2 arose when I noticed what time the show starts. Usually, shows we attend bring on the opening act at maybe 7:00, 7:30, or – at the latest – 8:30PM. A lot of areas have ordinances about how late noisy concerts and such can take place, and since Ragweed usually plays a 2.5-3 hour show, do the math. But this particular bar starts the opening act at 9:30. Since 9:00 is usually bedtime, this concerns me. I mean, if the opening act starts at 9:30, and they play for an hour, then there’s a half hour between shows, the headliner doesn’t even step on stage till 11:00, and I’d like to be on my way home (and to my comfy bed) by then or shortly thereafter.

Given our propensity for arriving at shows very, very early, so we have time for dinner, to get a good spot to watch the show, and know where the best locations are for a potential “hi, how ya doin’” with the band, I must consider this to be Problem +/-3. Because although I’d get a nice dinner out of it, if I have that much time in a bar environment, I’m going to drink. Probably too much. And a concert is pretty worthless if you can’t remember it the next morning. (Please do not ask me how I know that.)

So we’ve decided to take a pass on Friday night’s show, even though it would undoubtedly be a great time.

Right now, I’m thinking that maybe we could just go spend the day in Stillwater on Saturday. We haven’t been there in several years, and it’s a beautiful St. Croix River Valley town. It’s very historic, picturesque, and has lots of great shops and restaurants. We could have a nice lunch, maybe find some interesting things in an antique store or gift shop. It’s supposed to be a nice day.

So maybe we’ll go walk around Stillwater. Because that’s what old people do.

And now for the “stupid” portion of today’s blog.

We had a staff team meeting today. (I have to remember to use the proper progressive business lingo. I guess.) It went well, and I gave an outstanding – if I do say so myself – PowerPoint presentation. During the meeting, I consumed two pieces of yummy feta, baby spinach and artichoke pizza, and squirreled a third piece away in my over-head storage compartment for later.

After the meeting, I was engrossed in some scheduling issues. Dr. Vet-Friend had asked me to block her off for two days late next week, because she just found out that she has to go to a “very important” meeting for the whole business coach thing. I got the schedule fixed, told the front desk who would need to be rescheduled, and adjusted the doctors’ Saturday rotation so that Associate Vet-Friend didn’t get stuck working every Saturday until Armageddon. Then we heard from the coach people, and the meeting was rescheduled. I had to put everything back the way it was. Essentially, I was being asked to turn back time.

It’s a good thing that I am an administrative management goddess.

That wasn’t the stupid part.

Dr. Vet-Friend thought we’d had such a good meeting, she sent someone out to Culver’s to get ice cream, or I guess it’s frozen custard. I almost took a pass, because the sugar/dairy combination wreaks havoc on my post-gastric-bypass digestion. But… I love chocolate malts. And somebody else was buying. So I decided to get a small one. And to be really, really careful, and sip, savor, and not guzzle, while being alert for signs of sugar overdose.

Brilliant plan. But they sent me a medium instead. Fine. I’ll just be carefuller. And? It was so much rich, creamy, sweet, chocolaty, malty deliciosity that I accidentally overindulged. I’d downed a bit less than half of it when I realized it might be a good idea to see how many grams of sugar were in it. Which you’d think I’d have done before I started slurping it up. Because, if you remember, I can only handle about 15 grams of processed sugar. More than that, and I get hot flashes, cold sweats, racing heartbeat, and possibly episodes of urgent digestive evacuation (if you know what I mean).

In that itty-bitty cup, which was perhaps 4 inches high, they had managed to cram 98 grams of sugar!!!! Which means I’d had maybe 40 grams. Way over my tolerance level. Once the sweats and heart palpitations hit, I knew that by the time they passed, it would be time to go home, so I decided to just go home and be near my own bathroom. You know – just in case.

The fact that I’m in the depths of PMS at the moment complicates the matter. When I got home, I felt a little bit better, and the PMS was demanding acknowledgment. In the form of food. Into the tummy that had just survived the equivalent of a nuclear sugar-strike.

Right now, I’m waiting for a microwave Mexican dinner to be done. And then I’m going to eat it. Because I must. The PMS is not giving me a choice. And it smells really good.

I guess I’ll worry about “stupid” after menopause.

Stealth Googling

No, the dogs haven't done anything else blog-worthy. Yet. Because ever since Darwin discovered that dirt doesn't stick to dry fur, requiring frequent sneaky trips onto the pool cover, followed by speed laps on his motocross track, that's been my life. Not worth blogging about anymore.

But I discovered something late this afternoon. I hadn't checked my hit counter lately, and happened to look to see what my most recent referrals were.

Remember in early September, when I wrote about an upcoming "team-building" day put on by our "bidness coaching firm?" (Note: I might be forced to misspell key words throughout this blog. You'll find out why in a minute.) And do you also recall that I was immediately "outed" in the comments by someone who was apparently on the inside of the coaching firm in question? Which, by the way, I will never, EVER mention by name again as long as I live?

Most of you are probably not aware that after that comment I did go back into the blog and remove some of my snarkier (funnier) remarks, because, frankly, our bidness coach could kick my ass, then drag my corpse to the top of a glacier and toss it in a bottomless crevasse.

One of my hits today had come from a link placed on the "News & Reports" page of this very same international coaching firm! A link. To my satirical blog. About them.

So, now I'm all paranoid.

Why in the world would they link to a little-bitty blog that essentially tells them how many ways their stupid "alignment" days annoy me? In which I dissected the agenda, minute by minute, sharing with my loyal readers the many, many things I'd rather be doing than that particular activity at that particular time?

And I snarked about the "games," too. Because I hate them. A lot. And yet I always win. The game is a super complicated "building your business" game, through increasing leads, conversion rates, profit margins, etc., and involves an enormous amount of math. Which I also hate. A lot. I never take any risks, I never borrow any money, and I never challenge anybody. But I always win. Which should teach me something, I suppose, and if I knew exactly what it was I would probably have more actual money in my real life.

I immediately wrote to them and said, "Hey, business dudes, I just noticed you have a link to my little personal-type blog on your "NEWS AND REPORTS" page! Are you quite, quite certain that this is appropriate? I mean, like, you realized it was satire, right? Because it's not exactly flattering. I'm not saying I'm demanding you remove the link or I shall hunt you to the ends of the earth and make you pay, but I'm kind of wondering what possessed you to link to that post on your "NEWS AND REPORTS" page. Because that's pretty strange. If it's just because I'm so brilliantly hilarious, and now one of you big hotshot bidness coachy people would like to hire me to do something witty and literary - and pay me buckets of money - then OK. That's fine. But if you're making fun of me, or getting up a posse to come take me out, then maybe you'd better take it down."

Or something like that.

So, being Stealth Googled. And subsequently linked. Should I be angry? Worried? Insulted? Flattered?

I Have Hibernation Head

Sorry for the lack of new material lately. My fall “hibernation instinct” has been kicking in, making me both physically and intellectually sluggish. I don’t feel very sharp, and I don’t want to post a bunch of lame crap just to be putting something up here.

Since I can’t seem to hold a thought long enough to write anything very insightful, today I’ll simply share some things that have (briefly) popped into my head recently… before popping right out again.

I want to thank all the Dumbasses Republicans who stick McCain / Palin signs in their yards. Why would I say that, you ask, since there is no way I’d ever vote for them even if they had ten thousand years to torture me into marking them on my ballot?

Because it makes things easier for me.

How? Because these people usually have other signs in their yards, too, which helps me determine which state and local candidates will also not be getting my vote. Guilt by association? Maybe, but I think it’s a sound theory.

I’m thinking about going another round on the wagon. I’m not saying I will, or that I plan to stay there forever, but it seems like it’s time to at least take a bit of a hiatus. I will put my energies into all my other vices, of which I have many, so it’s not like I’m going to be bored or anything. At the moment, though, everything else seems to be way less harmful than drinking.

I’m not telling you this so that you will be all encourage-y or yell at me when I tell you my next Drunken Idiot story. I’m just mentioning it, because that’s what’s in my head right now.

Some of you might have received a forwarded email purporting to be signs in front of two “rival” churches, located across the street from each other, one Catholic and one Presbyterian, arguing the existence of dogs’ souls. It was completely hilarious. Tom and I had a discussion about them.

ME: It’s a good thing I don’t believe in heaven, or I’d be worried about this.

TOM: (mumbles something that sounds like an agreement)

ME: Because, I mean, if dogs aren’t going to heaven, I’m certainly not going there.

(I ponder this for a moment, then continue…)

ME: Not that I’d probably get in anyway.

TOM: No, it’d probably be like our front door. (Which is currently refusing to unlock for me. It will, however, unlock for Tom, even if he is using my code.)

ME: Yeah. Except there’d be flames.

Then I was visiting Bits & Pieces, and discovered where these “church signs” came from. Um, how ‘bout “churchsigngenerator.com”?

And then, the dog-loving militant agnostic that I am, I had to create some signs. Because? I like to pretend that there are churches out there that I would actually not hate – or at least not completely distrust. It might be a bad idea to say “hate” in reference to a church. You know – just in case.

So, these are what I made:

(My first attempt. It gets better.)


(Perhaps a whisker better? I did go to Catholic high school.)



(Perhaps my best one. Note that even the doggie silhouette is of the Collie persuasion.)



(This, however, for personal reasons - obviously - is my favorite! I am so hanging this over my desk! Maybe I can think up something amusing to do with Darwin, too... given the whole Creationism/Darwinism thing. Plus Darwin-Dog is full of comedic potential.)

So. That's it. I've got nothing left for right now. Better hope the dogs do something bloggable soon!

Can You Be Annoyed and Motivated Simultaneously?

Today was one of those annoying, yet productive, days. It was annoying because Dr. Vet-Friend and I attended the big quarterly planning day put on by our business coaching firm. I’m not a group-type person. I am happiest toiling away in privacy, setting my own agenda and taking frequent smoke breaks. So sue me. I get sick of the group exercises and participatory rituals like “stretches,” “whooshes,” and “WIFLES.” If you don’t know what those are, be grateful.

Yet it was also productive, because in between all the nonsense, I generally get some really good ideas to improve our practice, and (despite myself) end up all motivated to share my newfound enlightenment with all of our little worker bees back at the clinic.

Which, in a way, brings about another round of annoyance, because tomorrow will now be a frantically busy day as I try to implement all my brilliant plans simultaneously. This will be followed by some delayed annoyance at next week’s staff meeting, when nobody other than Dr. Vet-Friend appreciates my efforts as much as I do. They should all remember, perhaps, that I do payroll. I can also suspend or fire people - and I'm getting good at it.

Also on the plus side… These quarterly planning days are held at a country club not far from the clinic where Dr. Vet-Friend and I worked prior to opening our giant, well-meaning, debt-hole. They have awesome food. We get coffee and pastries in the morning, and a fabulous buffet lunch. After our afternoon “break-out” sessions, we get cookies. Good ones. Today, I had chocolate and toffee chip. Yum. Any meeting that feeds me this well cannot be a total waste of time.

I stopped at the library on the way home, and then had to use my key – which has been returned to my purse after Monday’s fiasco – to get in the house because the lock is still being retarded, and went about the business of letting the dogs out and preparing their dinner. That accomplished, I decided to be a Very Good Dog Mom and go outside with Ozark, Brody and Darwin. (Sprocket, if you recall, can’t get off the deck to the yard. All his quality time takes place indoors.)

I ran around and hug-wrestled with Brody and Ozark, while Darwin maniacally ran his fence line. The thudding of his oversized paws was audible clear across the yard. Then he decided to head for the house. Fine. But he did not appear on the deck as expected. This did not bode well.

So, of course I found him here:

(Location of Very Bad Dog helpfully indicated with a yellow "X". Notice the wet Bad-Dog trail leading away from the scene of today's transgression.)

Sir Darwin the Naughty was blissfully lying, three-fourths submerged, in his very own private, semi-stagnant, flexible-bottomed pond. Also known as our covered and winterized pool. Besides the risk that he could tear the cover, thereby rendering it far less effective at keeping a winter’s worth of crap out of the pool, it also produced a soggy (if extremely pleased) dog.

After I yelled him out of the water, he did what I knew he would. Being a slow-moving biped, I had absolutely no hope of stopping him. He raced past me and began running the fence again. Dripping wet dog + high-speed running on a dirt path = a dog whose entire southern hemisphere is gritty, dark grunge.

I’m just too tired to face a D-Dog-Bath tonight, so I toweled him off and gave up. Now that he’s drying, though, he’s looking pretty good.

If I could teach him how to create the two PowerPoint presentations I’ve just decided I must do tomorrow, he could doggie-dip in the pool whenever he wanted, but thus far he has not earned that privilege.

You're Not Home Till You're Actually In The House

Certain acts of stupidity would appear almost as if you had to put a lot of effort into being that big of an idiot. They don’t. Yes, I know this from first-hand experience. Sometimes all you have to do is be a lazy procrastinator.

The setting: Front step of my house

Time: 5:40 PM this past Monday

I had just arrived home from work. As usual, Darwin was standing up in the bay window, his tail thumping the glass, and Brody had his head stuck up there, too. Besides being delirious with joy to see me, they were also happy because someone coming home from work means it is supper time. Maybe they’re actually happier about the supper, but I choose to believe it’s mostly about me.

I was carrying the following items:

• My laptop, in its case, slung over my right shoulder.
• My black lunch bag, hooked over my left elbow.
• My purple-multi-colored dog print tapestry purse, which I got at a dog show in January. (At that show, I also bought a denim jacket with golden retrievers embroidered on it, a silver paw print necklace… and a tiara because it was my birthday. It has a hair comb on it, and I’m fairly certain it’s for people and not dogs. Not that I care. Luckily, I was not wearing it several days later when I fell down the stairs, because if I had, we’d still be picking fake-rhinestone bits out of my skull.) The purse was also over my left elbow.
• A 15-pound bag of Nature’s Variety Instinct (rabbit) grain-free dog food, with which I supplement the boys’ raw diet, clutched in my left arm.
• My tan sweater, also draped over my left arm.

All this was arranged to leave my right hand free for door-unlocking.

We have one of those handy-dandy electronic locks, on which you push in your 4-digit code and the door magically opens. Theoretically.

Normally, you enter your code, and the lock goes, “WHIR!!” and you’re in. On Monday, though, it went, “…rrrrr…” And nothing happened. At all. Sometimes the bolt hangs up, and you have to enter the code a few times, so I entered it about thirty seven more times. Same result. Which was no result. Meanwhile, the dogs were trying to determine if they could rip down the door from the inside.

(My nemesis)

Yes, these locks also have the option of using a key, which is an extremely useful feature. If you happen to have the key in your purse, which I did not. (This is where the “dumbass” part comes in.) I’d put mine on a separate ring and left it at the house for Auntie T to have on hand while we were on our Anniversary Retreat, and I had not yet made the effort to figure out where we’d stuck it after returning home, and putting it back in my purse. I knew I needed to, but it just didn’t seem that urgent. Until right about now.

I trudged back to the garage and put down all my junk, then sat in the car contemplating my options. Tom wouldn’t even be done at work for 20 more minutes, and then had a 40-minute drive home. I checked the sliding glass door, in case we’d forgotten to lock it, but we are apparently quite conscientious about security. The only window that I knew wasn’t locked is the one to the downstairs family room through which we hand in the firewood… but it has a stick in the track. See? Security. Dryer vent and/or wood stove chimney? Too small. And that’s where I ran out of options.

I sent Tom a text, asking if he had any ideas regarding how to gain entry to my house, or the location of any hidden keys he might have squirreled away. He usually replies very quickly, but not in this case. After sitting in the car for about ten minutes, reading the new Northern Sun catalog that I’d just retrieved from the mailbox, and waiting for his reply, I called him.

He did point out my stupidity (of which I was already quite aware), informed me that he does not have a key hidden anywhere, and then suggested I go to Wal-Mart and pick up a few things while I waited for him to get home. OK, fine. I pulled back out of the garage, leaving some very befuddled dogs in my wake.

So, that’s what I did. I went to Wal-Mart, got stuff for nachos (Tom’s request) and bruschetta (mine), and got home a few minutes after Tom did. He was very nice about not rubbing my nose in the fact that I’d done something so dumb. He’d recently replaced the battery in the lock, but apparently it didn’t like those batteries. Still, batteries or no batteries, it’s just plain stupid to not have your key. It had already been a long day, and the fact that I was too lazy to locate and acquire the key in the nearly 3 weeks since we’d been home just made it that much longer.

I’m thinking I need to teach Darwin how to unlock the door. If it keeps his supper from being delayed by a full hour, I know he’d be sufficiently motivated!