transitions

So. daysgoby looks different.

It's not that I hated the old set-up (I liked it! Basic! Easy to fool around with!) but I couldn't set my pictures to 'biggun' size and when I tried to fix it, I.....broke the old template.

So! Here we are. And I (to my surprise; I can be a trifle curmudgeonly when it comes to new-fangled things) .....really like it!

I've got a ten-minute window between cooking and serving dinner, let's see if I can bang out a readable post.

I worked at the hospital today. It was a long, slow (ish) day, which was good because I couldn't find my notes. I've had a little notebook that I've carried around since I started there, with reminders and names of tests and extension numbers and such, and I can't find it.

Well, crap.
I managed not to hash anything up, since I remembered passwords from Friday (the last day I worked) but if I go another three month stretch without working there, it's going to be painful.

I need to have another scour around the house, then I'll panic.

And if the external stuff wasn't enough to drive me nuts, the child factor is killing me.

Rosey: (earnestly) You know Friday? The day after my leg hurt and I came home from school and the day I went to the museum and saw all the trees and the toys and made reindeer food? The day before Saturday which was yesterday?

me: (pouring water down my throat in long smooth gulps and wishing it was vodka) ummm...I think?

Rosey: I remember that day.

ARGH! She lay on the floor the other night and told the dog all about her day and read him several books and asked his opinion and babbled on happily for an HOUR. (Much to the dog's consternation. He tried hard to understand but was too fixated on the word 'treat' which didn't fall from her lips once.) Her brother went through this stage when he was three. I thought we were safely away from it, since she's six now.

Hmph. My grandfather nicknamed me 'Bobblegush' when I was about her age.

 A girl and her captive audience.

 Jasper: There had better be a Milkbone at the end of this story.

Gasp. You don't think I'm raising a blogger, do you???

einstein he's not

Drippy dusk, and I was outside with Jasper the Empty-Headed.

He was doing his usual circle-circle-circle-slow down- whoops! -circle circle circle, and I was gazing vacantly out into the trees, noting the colored leaves (there are a few now!) absently, thinking about sugar cookie dough and ticking off the Monday morning checklist in my head (lunches...check! Next up: showers!) and suddenly I noticed Jasper was sucking in his breaths, great inhalations that ballooned out his sides like bellows, head down, serious eyes and trembly whiskers.
(Although he was drilling holes with his eyes at a lawn chair, so I don't think he had a clue)

I peered around, slowly, dipping my head a little to look through the trees. Nope, all's quiet here.

C'mon, Jas, you crazy thing. Do your business so I can get out of the rain, and

....and there was a cough. From the woods.

Jasper was still huffing and intent on the lawn furniture. I swung around and caught just a blur from the corner of my vision. One...no, two...no, there was a baby!
A family of deer were grazing in the watershed, and were discreetly commenting to themselves about the fool human and the even more foolish dawg who were hanging out in the rain getting wet. Disturbing their dinner. For shame.

I watched them for awhile, wondering if this was the same family group that hang out in our side yard early in the morning and wake the cats with their soft snuffle-snorts and sproings up on their hindlegs into the apple trees at first light, then gathered the now uh...emptied dog and walked toward the house.

Jasper tugged at the leash and dragged me almost into the quince bush, where he beat a path underneath and began to root for something while I did a hoppy-dance of my own and tried to avoid the very large and very green frog in our path that Jasper had almost run over as he ran to wrestle....

an apple.

It's a good thing I kinda like him. 'Cause he's just...not...swift.

Or, you know, observant.

never take the dog out at two a.m.

Y'know what's fun?

Taking the dog out really late at night (because he's rapidly developing a shy bladder that only allows him to pee when he's with you)

hearing a hooty-owl in the deep woods

and then, full of the peace and tranquility a rushing river and velvet darkness of Spring brings,

nearly stepping on a giant frog in the path and doing the shit-shit-shit-shit! dance with the perplexed dog, who didn't see the thing and so thinks you want to play.

Convincing the mutt (who's barely seen you in two days and thinks being out this late is wonderful, y'know, plus the whole pee thing) that you're not up for a late night game of romp around the lawn is not easy.

But at least you aren't scraping frog off your shoe.

thursday night commercial, scene eleven

tip o'the hat to Giggle Pops Design Studio Thanks Ricki!



And this is why most of us have dogs. We could all use a little good press now and then.

Plus dogs will help you hide the bodies (they're natural born diggers, y'all!)

something stinks

(gracious, ladylike readers of this blog? Leave now. Come back tomorrow.)

There are many things I should not do. These things include not clobbering the kids, not mixing bleach and ammonia and not making Cass wear yellow pants to school. (Nope on all three.) I should not curse, I should not wear horizontal stripes, I should not put too much chili powder in B's food. (Also no, mostly.)

New number one on the list? I should NOT feed the dog table scraps. Ever.

And it came down from the heavens: Thou shalt not feed thy dog table scraps, or risk a large smell.

Note to all brown dog owners: Never feed the dog leftover pasta pie with italian sausage.

I'm surprised the air hasn't turned blue. Or he hasn't spontaneously combusted.

This is the cute end. Seriously.

Jasper says: My bum just whistled again! If I turn on the sad eyes, will you feed me more?

rocking

I usually read in the corner of the livingroom.

In a rocking recliner that has seen better days. Our first piece of new furniture after we married, it quickly became discolored and stained.

We had a baby. (Which did nothing for the staining and discoloring.) and after awhile, the seat started to rip. (Personally, I always thought it had something to do with the friction of my nightgowned bum shoving back into it at three in the morning.)

But it was still the most comfortable spot in the livingroom, so I found a nice cover for the torn part and we carried on.

We had another baby. She loved the swaying ka-thunk rhythm of the chair and snoozed a long part of her babyhood - day and night - (R was a horrible, horrible sleeper) away, often falling asleep to (yet another) Law And Order re-run.

The kids piled into the chair whenever we took pictures. They put a sheet over it and played fort, and tent, and marooned on a desert island. The old chair was a boat, a rocket, a bus ( sweet voices singing "The Wheels on the Bus go Round and Round") a train, a sled and a stage.

Now-a-days, they use it for target practice, parachute practice, home base for hide and seek, and a time-out chair.

But no one really sits in it anymore. I read in it during the day sometimes, but as a chair, an actual well-loved and used chair? It's not used for that much anymore.


Well, not by a person, at least.

As soon as we head upstairs to go to bed, there's a thwack as the recliner rocks backwards and Jasper drags his weary bones up into the chair.

(He's not really allowed, but he pretty much operates on the 'They're not here, and what they don't know won't hurt them' policy.)

I do the requisite scolding and 'git-ting' if
we catch him slinking apologetically off the recliner in the morning, but it does my heart good

to see that someone still loves the old chair.

she wets, she cries, she has chewmarks...

October's over, and we are awash...in Christmas music.

I have a theory - see, Thanksgiving 'round here? Is in early October. So Canadians gorge on turkey and pumpkin pie (and wow, I want to try this one) and then a few weeks later there's Halloween...and then there's NOTHING for two months.

So the day after Halloween (or as soon as the candy runs out) the mind turns to Christmas....

See? The American system of having Thanksgiving in November breaks up the waiting.
Anyhoo, the Christmas ads have started on the radio, the Wish Books come out any day now, and R is busy pointing to EVERYTHING and screeching 'I want THAT for Christmas!'

Exhibit A:

link


No. N-O. Hell to the no.

Yeah, I'm the hard-ass around here who won't let Rosey have that. (HOW on EARTH did she end up with such MEAN PARENTS, she'd like to know??)

Well, it's simple, kid. You leave any and all plastic doo-dads around on the floor....and then one of two things happen - either I step on them or the dog eats them.

And an itty bitty toilet? Looks like a hell of a chew toy.

Not to mention the trauma of R espying Jasper noshing on her doll as the air rings with cries of 'I need to go weeeeeee!'

eeeeyah!!!! and aaaaaaah.....

EEEEEYAH!!!!!!

I had a political drive-by tonight. By my mother. Suffice it to say that I don't take it lightly when someone tells me that they thought I was smarter than that.

Oh, and she's just bewildered
that I don't wanna be Palin when I grow up.


disclaimer: I love my mom. And she loves me. She does. Snort. Sarah Palin.

AAAAAH......

a boy and his dog (just what I needed to calm me down)

caturday

Lucy the cat likes food, belly rubs, humans, an occasional crumb of cheese and the other cats. (well, sorta.)

She does not, however, like the dog.

The staircase demarcates the boundary lines in the house - the cats live upstairs, with their food and box and access to many comfortable beds, and Jasper lives on the main floor, where he can see easily if there's anything nefarious afoot that must be doggily commented upon.

The cats come downstairs mostly late at night, when J's in his crate and they can sit on the windowsills and thunk! their tails and look out at the moonlit landscape and think catly thoughts, but there is an uneasy truce - the stairs are neutral territory. There is usually a cat or two lounging about halfway up, keeping an eye on things. Jasper pretends not to notice.

Today, though, he had an attack of puppy enthusiasm, and rushed up the stairs at Lucy, who was horrified (horrified!) to see the big galoot rushing at her and smacked him smartly a few times, swearing all the while.

Jas, of course, backed off momentarily, the wheels spinning in his head. Then he shook off any rational thought and plunged again. Lucy puffed up to raccoon size and smacked him again. He barked. She gave him a glare, fluffed up even more,

and chased him down the stairs.

Not bad for a cat who weighs approximately 1/10th of what he does.

nothing to see here

We have the super-duper model couch. Not only the bright colours, but the optional large brown throw pillow, as well.




R is recouping from a brush with almost-ickiness (fever and whoopsy-feeling tum) and whatever helps her sleep today is a good thing. Jasper would have been given a Hail Mary pass this time, but apparently I'm fiercer than I thought - I shot this photo and he tromped all over R to get down, shame-faced and wagging his fool tail all the while.


I'm sure if she sleeps again he'll scoot up there. Just to keep her company, you know.

and I sat on a deck-chair in bare feet

But how could you not, on a day like today??


My quince is quincing.


Lemonade in hand, I clinked my glass and dreamed of what's to come this summer - it was that sort of day.


It's almost June.

bullets over tuesday

• Boy home today. A *cough, cough* sore throat, j*u*s*t bad enough to make him beg to stay at the house and not go to school. He's had friends over the last two days - I think it may just be exhaustion. R was too tired to go to school yesterday...they and Cass's friend were playing a game Monday where one would take off on a bike, pedaling fast and free into the field, and the other two would run after them full tilt and try to catch them.
  
• Y'know, I have suspected the dog is as dumb as dirt. And now I have proof. R brought home a school project last week - it's potting soil tied up in a nylon with googly eyes stuck on. After a few days of watering it faithfully, grass seed began to grow through the netting. Well, tonight the dog.....ate it. Dirt and all. Yumm-o.
  
• Am trying to convince B he can take R to have her haircut on Friday. I will e-mail a photo of what I want, absolve him of any differences....B is not convinced. He does have a bad history with haircuts.
• Tomorrow night's supper: broccoli and cheese calzones - the bread for the crusts is rising now, and the air is yeasty and sweet.

Except, of course, where the dog is burping potting soil and running his tongue questioningly over his teeth.

creature comfort

The dog is loving on me.

This is suspect. Highly suspect. While I like him (a lot) and he likes me, usually we're not cuddly-buddies. He's not usually sitting with his head on my knee, looking at me with soulful brown eyes and whumping his tail against the tiles whenever I turn my head that way.

I understand that he gets lonely down here by himself at night. I do. But given the Spitting Tiger, Dog-Heart-Eater Dragon act the cat puts on when he sneaks upstairs, it might be safer for him to remain on the first floor. (Really. Chumba was pissed. And that's 30+ lbs of frenzied angry yaller cat coming out of nowhere to hiss and pound Jasper with flying paws o' fury.)

He doesn't have to go out. We (he and I) just made the rounds.

Shall I eat an acorn? Whassat? Was that a noise? Should I stand here for hours like a stone and growl softly, freaking you out? Me: Dumbass, that's the wheelbarrow. Oh! Okay. Let's circle and circle and circle and circle and look! Another crunchy acorn! Maybe I should pee here. No! Here! Wait for it...wait for it....psyche! I was never going to pee there! That joke never gets old, does it?

He's not hungry or thirsty or needing a treat* (he did have those acorns, after all!)

He just wants cuddles and a hug before I go upstairs.

Sometimes, that's all we need.




*Poor dog, what a terrible life. I should take pictures of him at three am, when he's sacked out, happily snoring and spreading hair on the EXPRESSLY FORBIDDEN couch, all legs in the air.

the vet loves me

Yesterday was the big chocolate dogs turn. He's been itching at his ear, and after trying the Advantage routine (it kills ear mites too) we were back at the vets office again. (This time under much better driving conditions, and sans chilluns.

Right out of the gate he shat on the floor. They don't blink much about that at the vets, so it wasn't a catastrophe, although hanging on to your dignity while your huge hound mistakes a brick tiled floor for the great outdoors? Not so easy.) This happened at the same time I was passing a mason jar-ed litter-encrusted spatter from the cat* to the tech.
'Poop here, poop there', she said with a shrug.

They said not a word about J's portliness, but I think the vet will mention it next visit - it took him a long time and a few grunts to straighten and put doggo el grande up on the table.

Jasper was delighted to be at! face! level! and set about slurping everyone, his feathered tail knocking pictures off the walls and his butt shimmying almost off the table with enthusiasm.

I grabbed his head. The vet tech grabbed his middle (smartly forcing him to sit and pushing his rear up to the wall) and the vet checked out his ear. Jasper panted adoringly and shed great gouts of fur, nuzzling the vet every time he had a chance. In lab world, apparently nothing says lovin' like a big slobbery kiss and a liberal dusting of hair.

Afterwards, he led me around the parking lot a few times then climbed into the Blazer and fell asleep even before I started the car. Because getting ear wax cleaned out is exhausting business, y'know.


*They did a fecal float, which is exactly what it sounds like.
Kate now has two pills in the morning and one at night, and won't come near me if she can't see my hands.

to the rest of us he's unmannered and foolish

He adores her and will happily swoop and wrestle and chase and snort and thunder around as she shrieks after him. I've even caught him with doll hats perched on his head - once with a sweet set of pompoms tucking his ears up. And he seems to be happy with the Doodlebops, too.

But - I think he likes it best when they settle in to the big old recliner and one or both fall asleep.

spilt milk

We were halfway through supper (B's yummy pan-fried haddock) tonight when Jasper oozed by us and nonchalantly ambled into the pantry, walking slowly and unobtrusively, intent. Distant crunching noises and a happily wagging tail whomping against the wall (Nothing to see here, folks! Just a Good Dog! Look away!) alerted us that he had his head in the dog food bag again, and R was sent to roust him out. R came back to the table wiping her fingers on her napkin.

Mama, Jasper's sticky.
Stinky?
No, sticky.

So when the chocolate brown dog disappointedly kerflopped down near the table we all had a look. He looked fine. A bit disgruntled at being caught stuffing his face...his face...his face?

Jasper never had a white eyebrow before. Or a white streak on his side. This was bad.

I looked at B. 'Glue?'
He shrugged unhappily. 'Maybe, although the only thing I can think of that's in the pantry that it could be is..
'Paint' I breathed, and sprinted for the door.

Oh God no.

At least half a gallon of bright white acrylic flat base coat was puddled on the floor. While the middle was gooey liquid, the edges were hardened and tacky.

It took me most of an hour to clean it up. At least it came up.


Now, does anyone know how to get paint off a dog?

Jasper says: I like the Groucho Marx look. Now feed me.

obviously, we're all tense

We're on stress-level vanilla here today.

domesticity redux

The dog is being all sweet to me today.

Hmph. He'd better be. I almost had his furry pelt last night, after the faithless hound ate all my hanging-to-dry pasta. Shrimp in lemon garlic sauce is much less spectacular with regular spaghetti.

Lately I've been getting into a cooking and baking thing - this doesn't happen all the time, as my missing-sweets husband will sadly tell you - and dragging out old recipes and hunting for new ones to try.

(Oh, Joke, dude? Missing your recipes. Reminder to self: Must make Shredded Granny Pants soon.)

I have on the desk in front of me a lovely mimeographed map. It's actually a copy of the one that the school board gave out to their drivers, so I'm relatively easy about heading out into the wilderness this afternoon. And B was kind enough to highlight the way and go over each turn, so we'll find him.

And then when we get home maybe I'll try to make pasta again. Hmph.

And the dog will stay in his kennel.

calling all super-letters

(Yes. Rosey's been watching PBS again.)**

We have an overstuffed, grubby recliner that was given to us right before Cass was born. It has rocked both my babies well.

This morning my daughter is stretched out across the seat, head on one armrest, feet propped on the other. Her feet are teasing Jasper's ear. He's in the chair too.

They started curling up like this a few weeks ago, the monster dog carefully climbing over and tucking himself in with her smaller body, and her little feet pat-pat-patting whatever she can reach of his brown fur. And no, he's never been allowed on the furniture before. We like to think it was a mutual decision, since he doesn't try it with any of the rest of us.

Sooner or later, one of them will climb down and stretch out somewhere else. He is a big dog, y'know, and needs much more room - and she's given to elbowing her way into having more room than her share.

She's like her Mum that way.

**Ooh, S, have you seen this??

calm before the storm

Gorgeous fall day today. B doing something out in the yard (finishing the trailer?) kids running hither and yon. Even the monster dog was out.

Everyday an inquisitive squirrel sneaks down the oak tree and tries to touch noses with the big dumb dog, who (every morning) watches, wags, freezes still, then can't contain himself anymore and must! bark! and lunge! Harrison (the squirrel) just chitters at him for a minute then runs back up the bark. This usually makes Jas so excited that he...well, sprays the area with biodegradable bullets as he sprongs and leaps hopefully about.

Sometimes I call him Machine-Gun Kelly. Fire in the hole! Rat-ta-tat-ta-tat-ta-tat!


(Which is always fun to try to explain to dog-sitters.)

Cass is running with his soccer ball, R chasing after him, and Jas is spotting blue jays. After dusk, (when all the dog walkers have gone home) he'll go off-leash and I'll throw sticks for him until he collapses in a big furry pant-y heap.

B stops drilling and leans on his contraption. Brushing his forehead off, he mutters something about hurrying to finish before the wind starts and....hmm?

I look at him like he's been sniffing too many power tool fumes. The breeze is barely stirring the trees. Huh?

Well, so much for the perfect autumn afternoon. It appears Nova Scotia is getting a visit from post-tropical storm Noel come Saturday.
Whee! Batten down the hatches. So much for color season!