dogs

My Visitor Redux

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In August I shared the story of the night I returned home and found my dogs lunging around the television. I described my apprehension, as to what captivated their attention–a snake, a bat, a rat, or some other creature. It was a squirrel! A squirrel, who then escaped to an upstairs bedroom and eventually vacated my casa through the balcony door.

Two weeks ago, I saw Mr. Squirrel again. By now, a chubby, full-grown squirrel romping across the front yard. I was glad he survived the nightmare of inhabiting my house for a week and delighted I chose not to pay $2,800 for critter removal! Until….

Until, I had to prepare for out-of-town, house guests last week: my niece and her husband and their two kids. After tidying the first two bedrooms, I wandered into the third–the one Mr. Squirrel had vacationed in. I pulled the hide-a-bed sofa apart. WTH? Underneath the sofa was a mass of shredded wood! WTH? Was he feasting on my sofa innards? No wonder he’s fat. I examined the shards of wood. Hmm.

To my horror, I looked up. Mr. Squirrel had chomped off the tops of several slats of the pricey, plantation shutters! I was livid. As I cleaned up his mess, I cursed his soul. But my anger subsided when I learned that squirrels are known to plant thousands of trees across the earth–an interesting fact. And who knows, maybe one of his reforestation projects will replace my ragged shutters?

Doing the Right Thing

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All of us at some time in our lives have faced the question: What is the right thing to do? Steal a pack of gum? Blame our misdeed on one of our siblings? Look the other way, ignore, or reject the pain of others? Thankfully, the majority of us step to the proverbial plate and do the right thing, and this week one of my friends did.

Though I’ve only known Emily for a few years, she’s one of those folks who exudes empathy. As a small business owner, she and her business partners hold monthly donation events, such as canned food and bottled water drives, benefits for local schools and animal rescues, and special events for veterans. However, this week I was stunned by her laborious random act of kindness when she went to the grocery store to buy cases of bottled water for a mission charity.

As she exited the store, she saw a homeless man sitting in the parking lot with three, very young caged puppies. Being a dog person, Emily was overcome with disgust. After all, it was 100 degrees outside–maybe more due to the heat from the scorching pavement. Should she stay or should she go? “I can’t confront that guy alone; he may be a meth addict,” she rationalized. Fortunately, she contacted a friend, and the two of them returned to the store and confronted the guy.

“I want twenty bucks for each of them puppies.”

“We’re not giving you any money; we’re taking the puppies and the cage now! Don’t try to argue with us; you probably stole them in the first place. But if you want to make a scene, fine. We’ll call the cops and the Humane Society.

As of today, after veterinary care where the three rescues were dubbed Sage, Willow, and Marigold, are healthy and happy, and remain in Emily and her husband’s care until they’re old enough to be adopted. And whoever is fortunate enough to cuddle one of these cuties needs to be grateful that some folk did the right thing. In this world, full of self-serving egomaniacs, be an Emily.

Declaration of War!

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I consider myself a peace-loving person, who would not intentionally ever physically harm any living thing, but today I find myself in full Carl Spackler-Caddyshack mode. I am at war with coyotes!

Spare me your lectures about my encroachment on their habitat. I have lived on the same property and in the same house for thirty-five years and never had any issues with these critters. But four months ago, things changed when they decided to prey on my dogs. (My dogs range in size from 60+pounds to 15 pounds, and they usually all go outside together and wander around my acre property.)

The coyotes chose my eldest–a 12-year-old dachshund for their first victim. Luckily, she escaped with a few bloody nicks and a fear of going outside after dark. Several months later, their second victim was my young, small Bernedoodle who sustained puncture wounds to her back and her side. However, this week my coyote conflict escalated into all out war when I came eye-to-eye with four yellow eyes as they attempted to jump over my six-foot wall into my backyard! Thankfully, my barking dogs and my shrieking voice caused them to abort their mid-air vault. After I had my anxious and over-stimulated dogs safely sequestered inside, I contemplated my strategies. A wildlife specialist at Arizona Game and Fish offered helpful suggestions and an internet search provided even more.

If you would happen to drive by my house, don’t be alarmed. My yard is decorated with motion sensors, blinking white lights, and ammonia-soaked beach towels drape my six-foot block wall. Wolf urine flakes have been sprinkled around the wall. In case you’re wondering, human pee also serves as a deterrent. (I may have to a host monthly stag parties at my casa when I run out of wolf urine!) Finally, within the next week or two, coyote rollers will be installed on top of the block wall–pricey. But after all, my dogs are priceless!

Finally, my nightly attire is a camouflage jacket with an ammonia-filled, super-soaker squirt gun strapped across my chest and an air horn hooked on my belt. So Wiley Coyote and friends bring it on! Dr. Suze is ready! Beep, beep!

On Being 105

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According to folklore, dog years are multiplied by 7.  Thus, I have a part pomeranian, part yorkie who recently had her fifteen birthday in people years or 105 dog years.  Meet Tessa Marie Jenkins, the centenarian!

Tessa was her original name, but over time, Marie and Jenkins were added.  Why? I don’t know.  In her early years, she was an active, friendly little dog, but then she became a recluse.  She spent the majority of her time under the bed.  So much so, that many of our family and friends asked, “Who’s that elusive dog of which I caught a glimpse?”  She kept her distance even from me.  She ran and hid if I tried to pet her.  I had to feed her in a separate room, as she wouldn’t eat in front of the others.  My kids called her a diva.  “She’s too good for our company.  Such a high-maintenance snob!”

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Then miraculously, two years ago Tessa Marie came out from under the bed.  She ate with my other dogs, and she even came to parties.  I took her to the vet for her innoculations and check-up, and the vet said she was in wonderful condition.  “Sue, you must have just had her teeth cleaned.  Her teeth are immaculate.”  I only nodded–little did he know her teeth had never been cleaned.  (I’m not a fan of routinely putting dogs to sleep for teeth cleaning, unless infection threatens their health.)

These days Tessa is a spry, active and very demanding 105 year-old.  She barks and barks until she gets a dog biscuit or three.  I can’t tell her “no” because she is stone deaf.  Yet, when her internal clock goes off, she barks until her dinner is served.  She barks when she needs to patrol the backyard, and she barks when she sees someone at the front door.

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Tessa has lived in my house for 15 years and has never gone near the swimming pool.  However, this week, during a romp, she fell in the deep end.  I was in shock!  She’s freaking old; she’ll have a heart attack and plummet ten feet down.  No.  She swam to the side, where my cabana boy rescued her.  Though I was sure she’d have some type of injury or side effect, she shook herself off as we towel-dried her.  She sprinted around the yard; I imagined her singing: Hey, now.  I’m a Rock Star!  I was amazed at her energy.

I guess I need to add this to my daily, dietary intake:

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The High Price of Grass

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lawn3No, I’m not talking about weed, Mary Jane, Kush, I’m talking about the stuff in my yard–or lack of stuff in my yard.  Long ago,  I chose not to grow winter grass, just summer grass.

In March, I began the task of overseeding, patching, mulching, and fertilizing.  The water sprinklers ran three times of day.  Unlike other parts of the country, the Southwest rarely gets free water from Heaven.  Yet, the dogs enjoy romping through wet grass and leaving paw prints on my floors.

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Over a month has passed and my lawn looks terrible.  It’s filled with splotching dead areas which refused to grow–even over the septic tank!  I’ve spent copious amounts of money trying to have an attractive, lush lawn to no avail.  Then yesterday, I received a water bill from the city.  OMG!  My water bill had quadrupled!  It was almost half a grand!  (Water is damn expensive in the desert.)

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I’m in a quandary; I don’t know what to do.  For sure, I’m reducing the watering schedule, but should I take out all the grass and put in rock or astro turf?  Resod? Spray paint the bare patches green?  Or maybe, I simply shouldn’t worry about the dismal look of my backyard.  No one can see it but me.  The dogs certainly don’t mind.

Once upon a time, someone said to me, “That’s just like you, Sue.  You always want to take the easy way out.”  I beg to differ.  I’m usually up for a challenge, but with temperatures over 100, an inviting pool, an inflatable lounge, and a cold beer, I’m no longer going to fret over my dismal attempt to grow grass.  Maybe next year.

 

 

I Hate Snakes

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Yes, I suffer from ophidiophobia or fear of snakes.  When I walk into a classroom and the teacher has a snake in a glass aquarium, I freak!  I perspire and feel nauseous.  I pray I won’t faint in front of the class.  Lo and behold, this week two encounters almost sent me to an early grave.

I was brunching with a high school assistant principal and merely asked, “What’s up in your world?”

“OMG! I have to tell you what happened.  A teacher called my office to report a kid had a snake in his backpack.”

I gagged on my waffle.  “Dear God!”

“The custodian and I went to the classroom and took the student into the hall.  The young man was wearing a hoodie.  Just as I was about to inquire about the snake, it poked its head out of the hoodie front pouch.”

Again, I gagged.  I would have died in the hallway and been trampled during class change.  “What did you do?”

“Followed protocol.  Took the kid and his snake to my office and had him put the snake in a large plastic container, called the parent, etc.  Look here’s a picture.”

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Lordy it was huge! “What is it?”

“A ball python, named Keith. Mom took it home.  The kid received a restorative discipline.  It was fine.”

Fine?  Doubtful.

Two days later, an unexpected visitor slithered into my backyard.  My dogs were hysterical.  I tried to get them in the house and away from the harmless king snake, but none listened.  Then Max, my cabana boy’s dog and self-appointed defender of me, leapt into action. He grabbed the snake and tossed it in the air three times.  The snake left the earthly world, and Max proudly strutted around as my savior from evil.

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And though it was painful for me to witness, I was delighted Max agreed with me, “The only good snake is a dead one.”

 

Bon Vivant…Not

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I’ve never been a gourmet cook, perhaps because of my upbringing.  Both of my grandmothers were simple, country girls who prepared simple, country meals.  Each had their strengths.  My maternal, Tennessee, grandmother’s fried chicken and green beans were delicious.  My paternal grandmother’s homemade cinnamon rolls,  blueberry muffins, and fruit pies were spectacular.  Beef, pork, or chicken with various potato dishes were my staple.  On rare occasions, fish was served.  My mom never mastered the art of anything that tasted like spaghetti sauce, but to this day, her banana cakes light up my palate!

As a mom, I tried to introduce my kids to different foods.  As toddlers, they abhorred baby food carrots and peas.  Who wouldn’t?  For years, my youngest ate only chicken fingers or a hot dog smothered with ketchup.  The thought of ingesting a piece of lettuce, a slice of tomato, or a green bean gagged her.  In contrast, my eldest was more daring.  She loved spaghetti, stuffed peppers, prime rib, and baked potatoes and sour cream.  Today, she’s a sushi addict.

However, when we’re together and want to venture out for dinner, we frequent Mexican or Chinese restaurants.  I accepted long ago I’d never be able to duplicate their culinary expertise.  When we’re in NYC, we eat cheese cake.  Yes, we have compiled a list of best to so-so.)

Admittedly, I’ve never prepared veal, lamb, elk, javelins, deer, nor pheasant.  Further my thought of preparing brains, liver, or mountain oysters gags me.  So you can imagine my reaction to a high-end magazine’s feature story: Welcome to the New World of Eating Insects.

Dragonflies, ants, grasshoppers, cicada, water bugs, and…freaking scorpions and tarantulas!  According to one source, “over 2 billion people regularly rely on one of the 1,900 edible species of insects as a source of protein.”  Cricket-flour chips are the new rage. Frankly, I can’t think of anything more revolting than a fly whose just sat on one of my dogs’ poop ending up in a casserole.

And to those of you who’ve been invited to my dinner party next week, the evite read: BYOB.  I’m well-stocked with booze.  Bring Your Own Bugs!

November Moth (Epirrita dilutata)

November Moth (Epirrita dilutata)

Homework

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On Wednesday, the 2017-2018, school year commences in our district.  For the next 9.5 months, I’ll receive phone calls and emails from parents and students who complain about homework.

“My kid has to do 25 math problems every night.  Don’t you understand he plays club soccer?”

“Why do I have to conjugate every Spanish verb and use it in a sentence?  I already know how to do it.”

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“Really?  You expect my child to read to me every night and require me to initial it happened?  I work full-time and have other responsibilities when I get home.  Ludicrous!”

“Why do we have homework anyway?  It’s such a waste of my free time.  Let’s just stop this silliness.  After all, I’m gifted; I get the message the first time.  I’m not in need of mindless repetition.”

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Since I’ve served as a school board member for 17 years, I’ve heard every argument against homework imaginable.  Even in some of my professional journals, I’ve read about the adverse effects of homework.  However, today, it became inimitably clear why school has homework.  Lord, it was a revelation!  Preparation for life.

Yesterday, I had the opportunity to go to a casino for dinner and gambling.  True, I do enjoy wagering occasionally.  Yet, I declined.  I had to do homework.  The kitchen floor desperately needed mopped after the monsoon.  My yard’s grass, thanks to the monsoon, would be a foot tall, if I didn’t mow. The swimming pool needed cleaned and nuked with chemicals because of the monsoon.  I had to do homework.

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In fact, this past week I’ve been consumed with homework. The condensation drain on an air conditioner clogged and sent water over my floor.  The patio door handle jammed and had to be replaced.  One of my dogs had poopy butt and had to be bathed.  Washing and ironing needed my attention.

And today is Sunday–a day of rest.  The Sunday crossword awaits my participation. But first, I must pay the electric and the water bills, clean out the refrigerator, dump the trash in the garbage cans for early Monday pick-up, and…ad infinitum.

Based on my epiphany about homework, the next complaint which comes across my radar screen will be answered:  Suck it up, dude.  Welcome to life.

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Stupid Is Stupid

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As a child, I did stupid things.  I knowingly picked some poison ivy to see what would happen and itched for a week.  I watched my grandparents’ pigs be slaughtered, even though I was told to remain in the house.  (A graphic I will never forget.) I drove the family car too fast, and I once drank far too much cider.  (Another experience, which led me to detest cider and later on in college, other spirits, like gin and tequila, where I prayed to the porcelain god I’d live till daylight.)

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Yes, I understand this blog risks me as being labeled an old crone.  I get it; I’m old.  But I’m NOT stupid.  Yet, everywhere I go I see stupid people who lack decorum and common sense.  In my small world, there were unwritten rules:

  • You don’t wear a hat at the dinner table. (Believe me, I’ve knocked a few of those on the floor of some teenagers at my house.) Nor do you come to the table without a shirt. (Spare me.  I’ve no desire to see spaghetti sauce splattered on your chest hairs.)
  • You don’t spit a hawker on the sidewalk.
  • You don’t smoke a cigarette nor cigar in church.

The list is endless; I could rant on till doomsday.  (However, I often wonder if doomsday is currently unfolding, particularly in DC where decorum vanished.)  I read news accounts of kids being hospitalized for snorting bathroom cleanser, sniffing hair spray, ingesting grandma’s heart medicine.  WTF?  It never occurred to me Bon Ami, Aqua Net, nor baby aspirin were fun highs.

Thankfully, the proverbial Big Brother came to rescue the stupid with childproof medicine caps.  (Those caps wreck havoc on my arthritic hands.  Behold my dog medicine bottle.  A hammer was the only answer.)

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Then, numerous warnings were required on packaging:

  • Discard the plastic bag.  Don’t let your child put it over his head, for he will suffocate.
  • Eating more than 10 candy bars at one sitting may be hazardous to your health.
  • Always wear a helmet when riding a bicycle to avoid serious injury.
  • This sweater contains non-organic fibers; wear at your own risk.

What?  I feel like Big Brother thinks I’m an idiot.  Granted, I never worried about plastic bags, candy bars, helmets, nor non-organic stuff,  my children and I were smarter.

However, I recently bought new ink cartridges for my printer, which came with this warning: CAUTION:  Tri-color inks contain nitrates.  Do not drink or place in mouth.  Please know if you are invited to my house for a party, I shall not be serving multi-color cocktails.  LMAOtumblr_leqjp1SEZw1qz6fdso1_500

 

 

 

 

A Timely Tale of Bullies

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th-1A few weeks ago, I shared the story of Bob, my current cabana boy.  Bob and his burly dog, Max moved into my guest house over a year ago.  For a year, Max only ventured outside when my dogs were in the house.  If they happened to see him, they’d chase him back through his doggy door.   They’d gnash their teeth if they spied him through the sliding glass door.  I would go and visit Max; I felt sorry for him, for his dad was gone much of the time.  He spent endless hours alone–unhealthy for a pack animal.  Dogs want to belong.

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Like some of our children, Max was a victim of bullies.  He was lonely and afraid.  Even though, I made numerous attempts to introduce him to the group, they refused…unless his dad was present.  Surprisingly, two weeks ago, Max wandered up on my patio and came through my doggy door.  Given the mid-afternoon, Phoenix heat,  my five were all asleep in various locales.  No one took notice.  And on that very afternoon, Max moved in.  He quickly adapted to our routine.  He knows his dinner is served in the laundry room, as each dog has an assigned space, i.e. office, powder room, playroom, kitchen.   (Yes, with six dogs, I need separation at meal time.)

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Further, like the rest of the pack, he understands I am the Alpha.  It is my way!  (Wish my own children understood I run the pack!). Curiously, though, Max quickly assumed another role–chief body guard of Sue.  I can not walk from room to room without him beside me. He follows me around the pool as I brush grit from the walls.  When repairmen come, I must banish him back to his own abode, as the hair raises down his spine and his teeth are in full display.  No doubt, he is my protector!

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Certainly, I was hesitant to bond with Max; he is Bob’s dog.  Yet, most of us want a haven to belong.  We don’t like being made fun of or ostracized.  Each of us has something to share; each of us wants to further the greater good.  So for the most part, the rest of the pack is relieved to not be #1 in guard duty of the old witch.  All is well.

I shall never understand why Max ventured into my house two weeks ago.  Perhaps his loneliness fueled his instinct to just belong.  Hmm.  Wonder if there’s a lesson here?

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