Shortly after we moved into our new house, I began noticing things. There was some mysterious "dirt" in the garage. Hmmm. Well, we did have a lot of boxes, movers, etc. Next, one night at dusk, I thought I saw a "shadow" streak across the floor. Double hmmm. Maybe I just needed new contacts. But then came the clincher. Somebody nibbled right through the foil wrapper of my emergency stash chocolate bar. Deep down, I knew what all this meant, even though I didn't want to admit it.
Just to be sure though, I confronted Tim, but the forensic evidence backed up his innocence. I couldn't deny the truth any longer. We had mice. Greedy, chocolate-stealing mice. They had to go.
Now, I am normally a live and let live kind of gal, but hey, they had crossed the line by going after my chocolate, so I did what had to be done (without actually having to touch one of the critters myself- bleck!) and called the exterminator.
Yadda, yadda, yadda, history of mice. Blah, blah, blah, habits and patterns. Look pal, all this info is great. Truly. But as fascinating as the crash course in Rodents 101 is, I DON'T CARE. I just want them GONE. NOW. Oh, and I'd like to do it humanely.
(long suffering sigh) Fine. Glue traps?
Hmm. Stuck to a board where they starve to death. Yeah. Not really sounding humane.
(Drawn-out sigh complete with impressive amount of chest expansion to make his point) Poison?
H-U-M-A-N-E. Maybe let's look it up in the dictionary, shall we? I'll bet there's even an app for that.
(Big sigh, accompanied by eye rolling in heavenward direction while mouthing what looked to be a prayer for patience). Traps?
Okay, but the kind where you can release them later, right?
(Huge, shoulder-heaving, you're-killing-me-lady sigh accompanied by full on glare)
He then explained to me the difference between exterminators and the animal rescue league. I explained the difference between being hired and being fired.
So we set the lures, plugged up the point(s) of entry and celebrated by watching some Tom and Jerry cartoons. Simple and painless for everyone. Nope. Uh uh. And, oh yeah, not that easy by a mile.
A few days later, I was upstairs doing some laundry when Tim came home from work early. While waiting for me to finish up, he sat down in the familyroom off the kitchen and got on his laptop (you can take the boy out of work...)
A few minutes later, I descended the stairs and a movement in the kitchen caught my eye. There. On the counter, my counter was a mouse, while Tim happily clicked and clacked along on his computer, totally oblivious to the threat to my chocolate and what was left of my sanity taking place a mere room away. Gross. Yuck. Ick and Ack!
Now, here is where our stories differ.
I remember calmly strolling over to Tim and quietly whispering in his ear that our mouse was back and trotting around my U-shaped countertops like a K-mart shopper looking for the blue-light special.
According to Tim, I screamed at the top of my lungs, pointed with trembling finger to the kitchen as though Freddie Kruger was slashing his way in through the window and gasped out something incomprehensible like mmm...mmm...mmm...ow...ow...ow... But he exaggerates.
Either way, Tim belatedly got the message and rushed into battle like a mighty warrior of old armed with his trusty and lethal sword...except in his case, it was a dishtowel.
For the next several minutes, Tim chased after that mouse. Back and forth, back and forth they scampered in vain, the mouse trying to flee, Tim trying to clean it, er, catch it, while I stood cheering him on. Okay, so maybe I was screaming like a banshee.
Exasperated and exhausted, both Tim and the mouse (I swear) stopped and looked at me.
"Be quiet," Tim snapped. (The mouse wisely kept his big trap shut) "You're scaring the poor little thing."
Excuse me? I'm scaring him? He is on my counter in my kitchen, going after more of my chocolate, and you're worried that I'm, what, hurting his fuzzy little feelings? Making him feel unloved and unwanted? Oh no! How will I ever be able to face myself in the mirror again?!? Heaven forbid my screaming might actually scare the "poor little thing" to death! Whatever would we do?
Tim growled and ground his teeth in total frustration. The mouse, sensing it was now or never, took advantage of his distraction, and with a death-defying leap Evil Knieval would be proud of, landed on the floor, scooted under the stove and escaped. We hunted for that little guy the rest of the night, but apparently Tim had frightened him off with all his yelling and carrying on, so he was never seen again.
The next day, I rented a semi to go buy some Clorox while Tim called the exterminator. And that was the end of our uninvited guest (although I swear I saw him in the yard waving good-bye to Tim one morning and giving him the thumbs-up), and the end of the exterminator as well, who, last I heard was going into a less service-oriented profession, like cloistered monk or hermit.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Friday, July 1, 2011
Buy the Book
I adore books. Fact or fiction, doesn't matter, I buy them all. The only kind of book that I have never bought is one on owning a pet. I mean, seriously, instinct and common sense are all you need, right? After all, you never see a monkey at the library or a lion browsing the child-rearing section at Barnes and Noble. And if elephants don't stress about something as big as potty training, then who should?
So when we got our dog, I wasn't too worried about raising her. How hard could it be? I'd had about ten gazillion cats and they were easy to deal with as long as you understood the ground rules: 1. They are in charge and 2. You live to serve them. Give them what they want, and nobody gets hurt, see? Train a cat? Sure. And then for your encore, you can walk on water and bring about world peace.
But a dog? They live to serve you, right? Common sense says to walk them, feed them, give them a nice, comfy little doggie bed to call their own and you have a devoted friend for life. Yup.
So, naively, we started with a walk. Well, I started with a walk, the dog made it about three feet before she decided our lawn was a wonderful smorgasbord of tasty delights: grass, mulch, leaves, dirt, bugs, acorns, trees, worms, and, hey, was that a scrumptious-looking bit of bird poop on the driveway? Yuuummmy!
Now, call me crazy, but instinct told me this was bad. Normal dogs do not eat something that has passed through the intestinal tract of another animal and come out of an opening marked "exit only". My dog had to be a freak.
And so I spent our first "walk" looming over her like a vulture over roadkill pulling dead, dying, moldering, slimy things that I wouldn't even normally step on while wearing heavy-duty work boots and hip-waders out of her mouth with my bare fingers. Eeewww. So much for walking.
Feeding? Well, after grazing in our yard like a competitive eater at an all-you-can-eat $1.99 buffet, how could she possibly be hungry? Common sense would say that she should be full, so, on to the bed.
By night, our little darling ambles happily into her comfy little crate and snoozes the hours away while dreaming of eating the poop and the bird. Finally. Something that was making sense!
Ah, but it turns out she was only lulling me into a false sense of security, because by the light of day, the mere prospect of a half hour in that cozy haven suddenly sent her into paroxysms of yowling, howling, yipping, yapping, crying, whining and sobbing panic.
The crate had become puppy prison. A horrible torture chamber to be avoided at all costs. Treats, toys and other enticements are placed there to lure poor, unsuspecting puppies into an evil vortex from which they may never return. And mommy? She makes Cruella DeVille look like Glenda the good witch. Do not under any circumstances trust her if you even suspect there is a crate somewhere in the vicinity.
So we decided to let her use the doggie bed someone had given her as a gift. Common sense. It is open, airy, plush. She will love it. Wrong again.
She has peed in it, tried to eat it, kicked it, punched it, tossed it, ripped it, trampled it and cussed it out with what I'm sure is wildly inappropriate language more suitable to some large, burly man with tattoos of skulls on his biceps.
Nap in the bed? Fat chance. She don't need no stinkin' nap. But if she absolutely, positively cannot keep her eyes open, then the best place for a nap is under a bed, table, couch, chair, or any other small, inaccessible spot where she can peer out with utter contempt while at the same time managing to smile smugly. Oh, and by the way, the carpet pad is waaaay tastier than anything I have to give her.
Well, since common sense and instinct did not seem to be working too well for me, I decided it couldn't hurt to maybe look up a few general guidelines on the Internet. Just purely as a matter of interest. So I maybe browsed a few thousand web sites. And then I may have taken a trip to the bookstore and bought a book or two. Okay, maybe three or four. And I may have highlighted and bookmarked a few dozen little tidbits, just to show Tim, poor guy, since he seemed a bit clueless.
I found out that it all comes down to this: Puppies are little bundles of energy who have no common sense and their instinct is to eat everything they see. Walking? Don't hold your breath. You might as well try to juggle jello. And finally, like kids, the box is always better than what came in it. Deal with it and nobody gets hurt, see? At least that is what the book says.
So when we got our dog, I wasn't too worried about raising her. How hard could it be? I'd had about ten gazillion cats and they were easy to deal with as long as you understood the ground rules: 1. They are in charge and 2. You live to serve them. Give them what they want, and nobody gets hurt, see? Train a cat? Sure. And then for your encore, you can walk on water and bring about world peace.
But a dog? They live to serve you, right? Common sense says to walk them, feed them, give them a nice, comfy little doggie bed to call their own and you have a devoted friend for life. Yup.
So, naively, we started with a walk. Well, I started with a walk, the dog made it about three feet before she decided our lawn was a wonderful smorgasbord of tasty delights: grass, mulch, leaves, dirt, bugs, acorns, trees, worms, and, hey, was that a scrumptious-looking bit of bird poop on the driveway? Yuuummmy!
Now, call me crazy, but instinct told me this was bad. Normal dogs do not eat something that has passed through the intestinal tract of another animal and come out of an opening marked "exit only". My dog had to be a freak.
And so I spent our first "walk" looming over her like a vulture over roadkill pulling dead, dying, moldering, slimy things that I wouldn't even normally step on while wearing heavy-duty work boots and hip-waders out of her mouth with my bare fingers. Eeewww. So much for walking.
Feeding? Well, after grazing in our yard like a competitive eater at an all-you-can-eat $1.99 buffet, how could she possibly be hungry? Common sense would say that she should be full, so, on to the bed.
By night, our little darling ambles happily into her comfy little crate and snoozes the hours away while dreaming of eating the poop and the bird. Finally. Something that was making sense!
Ah, but it turns out she was only lulling me into a false sense of security, because by the light of day, the mere prospect of a half hour in that cozy haven suddenly sent her into paroxysms of yowling, howling, yipping, yapping, crying, whining and sobbing panic.
The crate had become puppy prison. A horrible torture chamber to be avoided at all costs. Treats, toys and other enticements are placed there to lure poor, unsuspecting puppies into an evil vortex from which they may never return. And mommy? She makes Cruella DeVille look like Glenda the good witch. Do not under any circumstances trust her if you even suspect there is a crate somewhere in the vicinity.
So we decided to let her use the doggie bed someone had given her as a gift. Common sense. It is open, airy, plush. She will love it. Wrong again.
She has peed in it, tried to eat it, kicked it, punched it, tossed it, ripped it, trampled it and cussed it out with what I'm sure is wildly inappropriate language more suitable to some large, burly man with tattoos of skulls on his biceps.
Nap in the bed? Fat chance. She don't need no stinkin' nap. But if she absolutely, positively cannot keep her eyes open, then the best place for a nap is under a bed, table, couch, chair, or any other small, inaccessible spot where she can peer out with utter contempt while at the same time managing to smile smugly. Oh, and by the way, the carpet pad is waaaay tastier than anything I have to give her.
Well, since common sense and instinct did not seem to be working too well for me, I decided it couldn't hurt to maybe look up a few general guidelines on the Internet. Just purely as a matter of interest. So I maybe browsed a few thousand web sites. And then I may have taken a trip to the bookstore and bought a book or two. Okay, maybe three or four. And I may have highlighted and bookmarked a few dozen little tidbits, just to show Tim, poor guy, since he seemed a bit clueless.
I found out that it all comes down to this: Puppies are little bundles of energy who have no common sense and their instinct is to eat everything they see. Walking? Don't hold your breath. You might as well try to juggle jello. And finally, like kids, the box is always better than what came in it. Deal with it and nobody gets hurt, see? At least that is what the book says.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Stress? What Stress???
I am living in the 7th circle of Dante's Inferno.
Oh, yeah. But I'm not at all stressed.
Since my last blog, I have moved, had part of my new house destroyed by snow (not to mention the time spent on researching if I could sue Irving Berlin's estate for him wishing me that White Christmas!), survived rebuilding (barely) and hosted both of our families for Christmas and Thanksgiving.
Stressed out??? Nah. I've always had that bald spot, twitch and rash.
And just when things were starting to get back to normal (I actually stopped diving under the sofa, curling into a fetal position and sucking my thumb everytime a serviceperson rang the bell), I lost my toehold in the 1st circle and slipped all the way back to the 7th.
It all began innocently enough. Tim wanted a dog.
No.
Please??? I'll take care of her, take her for walks, clean up after her. I promise. (Yeah, like he even knows where I to find one cleaning product in this house).
No.
Aww. Come on. Look at this picture. Soooo cute. I'll do everything. I promise.
No.
He enlisted our niece in the battle. Please, please, please. I'll come over and help. You won't have to do anything.
No.
He enlisted friends, acquaintences, former grade school teachers, long lost cousins, celebrity spokespersons, total strangers. You need a dog. Mine is my best friend. They are great companions, smart. They can do tricks, like sit, fetch, stay, cook dinner, pay the bills, reorganize your closets.
Hmmm. No.
Three weeks ago, we got a dog. A puppy. And six days later, Tim had emergency back surgery. 7th circle.
But stress? Not here. Nope. Not a bit. I've always eaten Valium like they're M&Ms, talked to myself and burst into hysterical tears for no reason six times a day.
My day? Stress free.
5:00-5:30 Wake up to the sound of whimpering. Roll over, give Tim another pill and take out the dog who is also whimpering.
6ish: come in, remind Tim he is not supposed to bend, twist, lift, sit, stand, llie or walk for longer than 20 minutes. Feed dog. Feed Tim. Carry half the contents of our bedroom and his office downstairs so he can work from home. Eat chocolate, drink coffee, wish I were in Fiji (or even Siberia!).
7:00-9:00 Entertain dog, clean up after dog, keep dog from suicidal tendencies like eating carpet and sticking tongue in electrical outlet.
Entertain Tim, clean up after Tim, keep Tim from suicidal tendencies like bending twisting or writing e-mails while on pain medication.
9:00-9:05 Shower, dress, apply spackle to hide dark circles and lines, grimace at what used to be a hairstyle and is now a frizzy bird's nest on top of my head due to all the time I spend standing outside waiting for the dog to go potty. Eat breakfast.
9:05-12:00 Stuff ears full of cotton, fill pockets with smelly dog treats, crate train dog, take dog outside every five minutes to potty. Beg dog to take a nap.
Pry computer from Tim's fingers every 20 minutes, fetch new ice pack every 30 minutes, administer pills as needed (Oh. Yeah. Give Tim some too.), lift dog up so Tim can get "puppy kisses". Um. Helloooo. Shouldn't the one doing the work be the one getting the kisses??? Beg Tim to nap.
12:00 Lunch. Beg dog to eat. Beg Tim to eat. Forget to eat (that's okay because I will eat many cookies later)
12:30-5:00 Repeat morning drill
5:00-7:00 Feed dog. Start dinner. Take dog out. Do more dinner prep. Take dog out. Try to finish dinner prep. Take dog out. Start cooking dinner. Take dog out. Keep part one of dinner warm as I cook part two. Take dog out.
7:00 Eat cold, undercooked/overcooked dinner. Take dog out. Do dishes. Take dog out.
8:00 Watch Tim sleep in chair while trying to keep dog from sleeping so she will sleep at night.
10:00 Take dog out for last time. Carry 4,562 of Tim's necessary items for home recovery back upstairs. Put dog to bed. Put Tim to bed. Administer pills. Watch chick flick on HBO when pills kick in but tell Tim he is watching a "guy" movie with guns and bombs.
Stress? No such thing here. Uh uh. I always scream into my pillow, sleepwalk and bite my own toenails.
Oh, yeah. But I'm not at all stressed.
Since my last blog, I have moved, had part of my new house destroyed by snow (not to mention the time spent on researching if I could sue Irving Berlin's estate for him wishing me that White Christmas!), survived rebuilding (barely) and hosted both of our families for Christmas and Thanksgiving.
Stressed out??? Nah. I've always had that bald spot, twitch and rash.
And just when things were starting to get back to normal (I actually stopped diving under the sofa, curling into a fetal position and sucking my thumb everytime a serviceperson rang the bell), I lost my toehold in the 1st circle and slipped all the way back to the 7th.
It all began innocently enough. Tim wanted a dog.
No.
Please??? I'll take care of her, take her for walks, clean up after her. I promise. (Yeah, like he even knows where I to find one cleaning product in this house).
No.
Aww. Come on. Look at this picture. Soooo cute. I'll do everything. I promise.
No.
He enlisted our niece in the battle. Please, please, please. I'll come over and help. You won't have to do anything.
No.
He enlisted friends, acquaintences, former grade school teachers, long lost cousins, celebrity spokespersons, total strangers. You need a dog. Mine is my best friend. They are great companions, smart. They can do tricks, like sit, fetch, stay, cook dinner, pay the bills, reorganize your closets.
Hmmm. No.
Three weeks ago, we got a dog. A puppy. And six days later, Tim had emergency back surgery. 7th circle.
But stress? Not here. Nope. Not a bit. I've always eaten Valium like they're M&Ms, talked to myself and burst into hysterical tears for no reason six times a day.
My day? Stress free.
5:00-5:30 Wake up to the sound of whimpering. Roll over, give Tim another pill and take out the dog who is also whimpering.
6ish: come in, remind Tim he is not supposed to bend, twist, lift, sit, stand, llie or walk for longer than 20 minutes. Feed dog. Feed Tim. Carry half the contents of our bedroom and his office downstairs so he can work from home. Eat chocolate, drink coffee, wish I were in Fiji (or even Siberia!).
7:00-9:00 Entertain dog, clean up after dog, keep dog from suicidal tendencies like eating carpet and sticking tongue in electrical outlet.
Entertain Tim, clean up after Tim, keep Tim from suicidal tendencies like bending twisting or writing e-mails while on pain medication.
9:00-9:05 Shower, dress, apply spackle to hide dark circles and lines, grimace at what used to be a hairstyle and is now a frizzy bird's nest on top of my head due to all the time I spend standing outside waiting for the dog to go potty. Eat breakfast.
9:05-12:00 Stuff ears full of cotton, fill pockets with smelly dog treats, crate train dog, take dog outside every five minutes to potty. Beg dog to take a nap.
Pry computer from Tim's fingers every 20 minutes, fetch new ice pack every 30 minutes, administer pills as needed (Oh. Yeah. Give Tim some too.), lift dog up so Tim can get "puppy kisses". Um. Helloooo. Shouldn't the one doing the work be the one getting the kisses??? Beg Tim to nap.
12:00 Lunch. Beg dog to eat. Beg Tim to eat. Forget to eat (that's okay because I will eat many cookies later)
12:30-5:00 Repeat morning drill
5:00-7:00 Feed dog. Start dinner. Take dog out. Do more dinner prep. Take dog out. Try to finish dinner prep. Take dog out. Start cooking dinner. Take dog out. Keep part one of dinner warm as I cook part two. Take dog out.
7:00 Eat cold, undercooked/overcooked dinner. Take dog out. Do dishes. Take dog out.
8:00 Watch Tim sleep in chair while trying to keep dog from sleeping so she will sleep at night.
10:00 Take dog out for last time. Carry 4,562 of Tim's necessary items for home recovery back upstairs. Put dog to bed. Put Tim to bed. Administer pills. Watch chick flick on HBO when pills kick in but tell Tim he is watching a "guy" movie with guns and bombs.
Stress? No such thing here. Uh uh. I always scream into my pillow, sleepwalk and bite my own toenails.
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