You've Got a Knack, Jack!

Because it is Friday, and hardly anybody reads Val's masterpieces on Friday...my two loyal commenters will be treated to more Jackfoolery. He's got a knack, that little guy. A knack for wiggling his way into the hearts of even the staunchest anti-Jack-ites. For making them jump on the Jackwagon. Even sweet, sweet Juno has come around. Like a Sour Patch Kid, first Juno is sour...then she's sweet, sweet.

Here comes Jack, all ready to win friends and influence species.

That. Or he's looking for his bolt and shop towel that I put up so he couldn't work overtime all night.

Then there's Juno, seeking a kind word, a pat, perhaps a light-lipped theft of some puppy toys.

At first, she plays hard-to-get. Retreats toward her private doghouse. Reverses direction. Then she loosens up like she's stopped by Happy Hour for a couple of cocktails. She gives Jack an inviting smile.

And THEN, my friends...it is time for THE KISS!

Val's mouth is not the only place Jack freely inserts his tongue.

All Work and No Play Make Jack a Dirty Boy

Perhaps you've heard...Val has a new puppy. He's not all that new any more. He's about 11 weeks old now. AND in the three weeks since his last (and first vet visit), he almost doubled his weight! Uh huh. He was 3.6 pounds last time, and now he's 5.8 pounds. That's before breakfast, of course, and without his shoes.

Let's not sugarcoat it. Puppy Jack will never be a show dog. He's half Red Heeler (which is, technically, an Australian Cattle Dog) and half Dachshund. Not a recognized breed by the AKC, I'm fairly certain. But I must let you in on a secret that reared its floppy-eared head on Tuesday morning 30 minutes before Jack had to leave for his vet appointment.

JACK IS A WORKING DOG.

Oh, you might have assumed such. His Heeler half was bred to herd herd animals. Cattle, I presume. And his Dachshund ancestors were badger-hunters. So you might infer that Puppy Jack would be a blue-collar kind of dog. What you might not infer is the degree to which that little pup is already punching the time clock.

I went out on the front porch and called for Jack, to make sure he was around and ready for crating to ride in T-Hoe for his 2nd puppy shot. He came running from Hick's Shackytown area, bounding along, front legs outstretched like Superman, lips stretched in a smile, his tiny tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Up the steps he bounced, his long little body undulating like a reverse Slinky. He immediately tried to climb my lower leg, wiggling to be picked up.

"Look at YOU! Aren't you a sweetie? What's going on? Have you been running through the dew? Did it rain? Your back is all wet, puppy!"

Of course I scooped him up and carried him like a baby. He likes that. Whether he is held on the shoulder like a burping candidate, or on his back in the crook of my elbow so he can gaze at me adoringly, he still has prime vantage to try and poke his tongue in my mouth. He's kind of a little perv, our Jacky.

As our lovefest progressed, with short interludes during which I stopped to pat my sweet, sweet Juno who had arrived from the back porch, I noticed an odor. Jack had reduced his wiggling and attempted French-kissing, and was laying calmly on my chest, his eyes lovingly locked on mine. As I stroked his straight freckled fur, knowing full well that hairs were going to fly into my mouth, I felt an odd texture.

Jack was oily.

He was not wet from dew or overnight rain. That smell was oil. Like engine oil. Like Hick's work pants when he has spent the workday in the swarf pit, which is a room at his factory where oil is separated from the ground-up metal particles after the saw blades are hewn out of bands of steel. But Hick was gone. Gone with the wind. Or at least with the assistance of the jet stream, having flown to England to pack up his machine in France and send it to Germany where he and Hans the guy from Switzerland would get it ready for shipping to the U.S.

How Jack got oily I am not sure. He DID show an unhealthy fascination with an old pink shop towel the day before, which he found somewhere near the BARn. I took it away and put it on the rocking chair, which kind of rubbed Jack the wrong way, so that he kept jumping against the seat of the chair, rocking it, trying to get his towel back, (though I don't know why, since he obviously had no back pocket to stuff it into), all the while BARKING at that shop towel to intimidate it.

Also the day before, I found THIS on the end of the front porch:



That's not something a puppy should be chewing on. I took it away and put it in a cardboard box (where the fat tuxedo cat who hates us likes to sleep) on top of some left-over, unnecessary-brick-sidewalk-straighting lumber was stacked.

I have no idea what Puppy Jack has been up to, but it was certainly poor timing on his part, because I was not taking him to the vet while he was oily. Not in my T-Hoe, even in his crate, because The Pony takes him out if he whimpers.

We had 30 minutes before we left. During which I had to get Jack clean, wake The Pony, take a shower, and load up. There was only one solution.

Puppy Jack had his first bath. Like most babies, his was in the kitchen sink. DON'T TELL HICK! I hollered for The Pony to get up and help. I started running water. It takes about 5 minutes to get hot, you know. I grabbed the medicated pet shampoo we had used on Juno a few weeks back. The Pony hollered NO, that he had found the Mane and Tail Shampoo, which he fetched from the laundry room. I cleared off the kitchen counter and laid out two thirsty towels, then dispatched The Pony to the porch to catch Jack, with instructions that he would be the holder and the shampoo-squirter, and I would do the washing and rinsing.

A better-behaved puppy you never saw than Jack! He never once tried to get out. The Pony merely held his hands on Jack's stubby front legs. There was no struggle. He actually seemed to enjoy the warm bath. In the interest of time, and not wanting to upset Jack, I did not get his whole face washed, but only the top of his head. The rest of his body got the full treatment, though. Then I rinsed him, pulled the plug, and wrapped him in the first towel to cuddle like a baby. When I thought that one had soaked up most of his moisture, I had The Pony hold open the other towel, and we swaddled him and went out onto the porch for the imminent unveiling.

"Pony! I'm going to let him out. Hold him a minute, then put him in his crate so he doesn't go find the oil again. Give him a few pieces of cat kibble, but don't feed him until we get back."

I headed off to the shower, The Pony caged Jack and got dressed, and we were out of there only 1 minute after our previously-planned departure. I must admit, the vet tech, who LOVES Jack, and carried him with her out of the exam room while she went to tell the vet we were ready, DID give him a little sniff. I admitted to the oil and his hasty bath, and she agreed that Jack indeed smelled a bit like oil.

The Pony has found him under Hick's Gator two mornings in a row. I guess he has been doing a little mechanic work before we get up, as evidenced by the spare part and oil. And like a proper working man, he has been observed after hours, hitting the bottle.

One thing is for certain. Jack can work under a vehicle without needing a car creeper.

Always a Coincidence to Rock Val's World

Thank you for your suggestions to reconcile my dilemma. Only this evening, it hit me: I would be going to that session, "Life Writing: Personal Stories and Memoir,"in order to hone my work for...what else...a chance to pitch it to an agent! A chance which was right there in front of me at the very same time slot! So...I will go to the pitch session. IF I haven't waited too long to schedule it, and the one I want is booked up! I'll get right on that!

I had been going round and round with that choice all day. Well. Except for the hour-and-a-half I spent picking up my sister the ex-mayor's wife so we could go to Mom's bank and close out her account. And the 15 minutes I spent getting my 44 oz Diet Coke and two soft chicken tacos from Hardee's (Val does not live by Super Nachos alone).

Sis was actually quite complimentary today. Let the record show that I have not seen her since The Pony's graduation. I guess absence makes the sis grow civil-er. In fact, upon exiting her garage and entering T-Hoe, she said, "Oh. Your car is not as dirty as I thought it would be." Uh huh! She likes me. She really likes me! I resisted the urge to ask her if she had put another giant bolt in her driveway so I could pick it up in my tire. Or, perhaps, a mysterious bone like she discovered in her own tire, and did not have the common decency to ask her mechanic to give it back to her after fixing the tire. I will forever wonder what kind of skeletons Sis has in her tire.

Anyhoo...we went to the bank to withdraw what was left in Mom's account. Yes, it HAS been a year and four months and-a-half since Mom's passing, and both of our names were already placed on that account by Mom for our eventual inheritance. But...we were waiting for a refund from the Social Security Administration because they had taken out the Medicare payment already for March, a month in which Mom most certainly did not need any insurance services.

Sis jumped through many hoops trying to get that money back. Not that it was a lot. It was the principle. She went through local representatives and higher-ups, and was told kind of snottily by the Social Security Administration that "A lot of people have that problem, and this is not high on our priority list." So she was surprised last month when that money was actually credited back to Mom's account.

Sis showed me the balance in the checking account. "I don't know HOW, but every time I've tried to balance it, this total comes up one penny off! I think we actually have one more cent than the bank is showing. But it's been that way since Mom's last balance in the check register. That would have driven her crazy!"

"Oh, I know! She was upset when they shorted her $10 when she got cash back from a deposit. Even though they called and apologized that afternoon, and told her to come pick up her ten. So she would have thought they were out to get her again."

We closed out the account, no problem. Sis said, "I actually think we should have one more penny than what that balance shows, but I can't prove it." As the lady counted out equal shares of cash, Sis looked at me and said, "I guess if we DID have that extra penny, it would have made one of us get a cent more than the other."

"That's okay. I would have given to you. You did all the work to get back that money." Heh, heh. I can be quite generous where one penny is concerned.

On the way back to Sis's house, right after I turned onto her road, a car came up behind me. Let the record show that Sis lives in the second house. So it's not like I had been cruising along for miles.

"What in the world? Who's this coming up behind me so fast? Nobody was even behind me when I turned in." I though it might be somebody that lives on Sis's road. Someone she knew.

Sis craned her neck around. At the same time, we both said it:

"It looks like MOM'S car!"

Seriously. It was the same make and model and color. A silver 2002 Chevy Trailblazer.

"I know it's not Hick! (We bought Mom's car's half-interest from Sis.) He's parked at the airport right now while he's in Germany. That's SO weird! On this day when we closed out her account, and were a penny off."

Strange coincidences seem to follow me, you know.

Val Poople Problems

Val is at a crossroads, my friends.

Not like Robert Johnson. I'm not a guitar player, and while I may whine and complain at every opportunity, I have led a charmed life, and know nothing of the blues. Not sellin' my soul to the devil any time soon.

I am, however, at a place in my writing journey where I must make a decision. Not to poop or get off the pot. I'm pretty sure I'll keep pooping. Which is an appropriate analogy for my writing, don't you think?

The decision involves which direction to take at the upcoming All Write Now conference in July. The one The Pony and I attended last year, where, I don't mean to brag (oh, who are we kidding, I LIVE for opportunities to brag) I took first place in the nonfiction category. This year, the conference will have agents from a couple of literary agencies (that's why they're called AGENTS, duh!) that represent the poop I'm churning out. Therein lies my dilemma.

I can schedule a pitch session with one or both of these agents, for FREE. One little glitch in this journey is that my work is not yet complete. A faux pas that is frowned upon, you see, the pitching of unfinished self-assumed masterpieces. However, it being nonfiction, I could get by with a proposal and three sample chapters, most likely.

OR...

I can pay to get a one-page written critique of my work, along with a 10-minute discussion with these same agents. I would need a one-page synopsis, and can only submit up to 10 pages. Money is no object for high-roller Val. She has a stack of un-cashed-in scratch-off winners that could buy 15 critiques. Although she is only allowed two, per the rules of the conference.

OR...

I can schedule the free pitch sessions, AND the critiques.

So, you may wonder, what exactly is the dilemma? The ONE conference session I want to attend will run at the same time as the pitch sessions. That's right. The ONE session tailor-made for Val, called  "Life Writing: Personal Stories and Memoir," runs concurrently with the free pitch sessions.

Woe is Val. When will she ever have a chance to talk to a literary agent again? Should she throw caution to the wind, and pitch her poop anyway, risking ire because it's not fully formed and marinated and fermented? Or should she hold off on the pitch, attend the workshop she desires, and make do with the critique?

I suppose it comes down to which experience will benefit me most. Point me in the WRITE (see what I did there?) direction. I don't want to waste an agent's time for free. I don't have visions of hitting the New York Times Best Seller List after a 10-minute pitch at a writers' conference in Southeast Missouri. I'm not exactly Lana Turner cooling my rumpus on a stool at Scwab's, waiting to be discovered.

What say you, blog friends? Which do you think would be in Val's best interests?

You Know How Sometimes, You Could Swear This Has Happened Before?

It was deja vu all over again for Val this morning.

The Pony and I had several errands to run, one of them being the weekly shopping, so he was roped into helping. I had scarcely backed out of the garage when it hit me. Not the garage. I was careful about that, even though Hick has broken two mirrors off two different cars doing that very activity. For a moment, I was distracted. But I had already cleared the garage door.

But wait! I'm getting ahead of myself. Well...really...I'm NOT. But a story by Val cannot go straight from beginning to middle to end. So let's backtrack a bit.

Hick is gone to England/France/Germany again. He might even make it to Switzerland. He didn't give me his itinerary. Anyhoo...while that cat's away, this rat will play! I can stay up late without scolding! Sleep in as long as I like (if I put my phone someplace I can't hear it at 6:00 a.m.). So last night, I didn't go to bed until 3:00.

As I came up the steps from my dark basement lair, where I had been typing a letter to send Genius, I noticed a foul odor. Huh. What WAS that? Paper plates in the wastebasket that I'd used to cut up my onion? Two days ago, I had noticed something stinking in the kitchen. I was getting my Super Nachos ready for lunch. There was part of an onion I was waiting for The Pony to toss off the back porch. In fact, I had just called him up from the basement to do so, and to carry my bubba cup of ice, my bubba cup of water, and my 44 oz Diet Coke downstairs for me.

"Something doesn't smell very good. What IS that?" I sniffed at various ingredients for my Super Nachos. "The lettuce is a day from expiring. Maybe it's the lettuce that smells off. Or that onion." The Pony lent his flaring nostrils.

"Are you sure it isn't that shredded chicken?"

"I DID just microwave it. But it has so much salt and preservatives that it wouldn't be bad. Hm. It DOES smell kind of not-good. But it always smells like that. Maybe it's just the combination. I'm still eating this! I've spent 30 minutes making it. Now go throw out the onion ends." Don't worry about Val. The Super Nachos were delicious. As usual

Then yesterday, after my morning shower, which occurred around noon, I was walking through the living room, rounding the short couch, when I got a whiff of something unpleasant. Huh. I hope that isn't ME! I just took a shower, for crying out loud! I'm sure I washed everything. I even pulled out my shirt neck and sniffed down inside. Nope. Val didn't stink.

I forgot about it until last night. Or, you might say, early this morning. No need to go sniffing around at 3:00 a.m. I have all week for that. Besides, it would have to wait until later, because I had errands to run, and wanted to get an early start.

So there we were, having just backed T-Hoe out of the garage.

"Look, Pony. There's a turtle by your car. A big one."

"Aww..."

"I hope I don't hit it, trying to get around your car."

"You won't. You would have to hit my car to hit that turtle."

"You know you could park under the carport while your dad's in France, right?"

"Uh huh. I might."

"Jack is going to love that turtle. It should be safe, though. I don't think he can get his mouth open far enough. But he'll bark at it."

"Yeah."

"I see you're in the back seat again. Whatever happened to you riding--WHAT IS THAT SMELL?"

"Smell?"

"YES! What is that STENCH? It can't be me! I just took a shower. It smells like...FEET!!!"

"Um. Yeah. It's my shoes--"

"We just bought you new flippers a year ago, because those old ones stunk so bad! I KNEW I'd smelled that odor before! And don't think you're going to start wearing the new pair I bought you for college last week."

"I think the problem is...I wear them around to the pool, and then when I get out, my feet are wet, and that makes the cushion part wet, and it doesn't dry out, and they stink."

"AGGGGG! I can't stand it!"

"So you don't want me to sit up there by you?"

"NOOOOO! I've got to put the windows down! That's TERRIBLE! And it's going to be 92 degrees today. I'm so hot already. This is not cooling off."

"Maybe you should put it on 'recirculate.' But that would only keep my foot smell in here with you. Oh, what to do, what to do?"

"I'm stuck with you now. But when we get back, I'm going to wash those shoes. Soak them! Then let them soak in plain water to get the soap out. THEN we're going to put them on the back porch in the sun. Maybe that will disinfect them and dry them out good."

Let the record show that The Stinky Express finished six errands without an unfortunate upchuck from Val. And that by the time we got home, I was so hot and bothered (NOT in a good way) that I did not feel like washing The Pony's shoes. He kicked them off where he usually does. By the stair banister at the end of the short couch, overlooking the basement steps.

"Get those things out of this house! I can smell them already. I KNEW the house smelled funny when I got home with my soda yesterday. Take them to the back porch, on that triangle corner where the cats lay up on the rail. So Jack can't get them." I wasn't so much worried about Jack tearing them up as about him taking on their smell.

Let the record further show that I sent The Pony to move those shoes a few minutes ago. "It might rain. They don't need to get wet. But don't bring them in the house. Put them in the garage. Or on that shelf on the porch with the fish food."

The Pony came back in declaring that they still smelled. "It's like feet and cats. The cats were laying on them."

I might just be rid of those cats sooner than I expected.

Don't Make Me Tell You About the Time that Encyclopedia Salesman Almost Lost Three Toes

Have you heard? The homestead has a doorbell again! Let the record show that it always had a doorbell, but that now it works. Hick put a new one in sometime last year. It makes the Big Ben chime sound.

I may have heard that we have a new doorbell...but I can't actually HEAR the doorbell. That's because the doorbell speaker is upstairs, in the hall by the piano. The one we got from my mom's house, not the one we got from my grandma. And I am in my dark basement lair.

The Pony, however, has the ears of an elephant. He can easily hear the doorbell from his subterranean gaming couch, even with the TV on. Wednesday, I heard The Pony trot up the stairs. I thought nothing of it. He does that whenever he refills his water carafe from Frig II, or when his internet disconnects and he has to fiddle with his phone on the windowsill to restore service, or when he gets a text from somebody who is not on the app that sends it to his laptop. He trotted back down shortly, and appeared in the non-door of my lair.

"There's a man at the door selling meat."

"Tell him 'No thank you.'" With his mission clear, The Pony hoofed it back up the steps. I heard the door open. Then The Pony returned. "Did you see the truck? Was it Schwan's? The big yellow truck?"

"I didn't see a truck. Just a man selling meat. He rang the doorbell."

"And you didn't see a truck in the driveway?"

"No."

"I hope he wasn't just some random guy selling meat. I thought it was that route guy with the yellow frozen food truck. The barn neighbors used to get stuff from him. What kind of meat?"

"He said it was steak."

"Did he say somebody told him to come here?"

"No. Just that he had a few pieces left over. Of meat."

"It will be a sad day when I have to wait at home for leftover meat to be delivered to my door."

Seriously. Those guys are like vampires. Once they've been invited in, there's no stopping them. Never mind the signs that say "NO SOLICITING." If he has a route, fine. Go to the customers on that route. That does not give him carte blanche to roam around our private compound ringing doorbells all willy-nilly to inquire as to whether the lady of the house desires his meat. LEFTOVER meat!

What's next, a paving company dump truck half full of leftover blacktop, with the driver asking to take a dump in my driveway?

Finders/Losers, Keepers/BLEEPERS!

Tuesday, I stopped by Country Mart to...um...see if their scratch-off ticket machines were working. And they were! So I figured since I was there already, I might as well buy a couple of tickets. So as not to waste the gas for the trip, you know.

When I pulled into the Country Mart lot, I parked beside a car just like The Pony's. Almost. It was a Nissan Rogue, but the AWD version, loaded, with a sunroof and leather seats and...well...I didn't see ALL the bells and whistles, because I noticed a lady sitting on a bench in the alcove of the building. She was smoking like a chimney, intent on texting, but I was sure she might suspect me of being up to no good if I cupped my hands around my eye-sides and pressed my face against the Rogue's windows. So I went on inside. Good thing. I passed a lady pushing a full cart toward the Rogue.

I had already made a stop at Save A Lot. I had a short list. Mainly shredded lettuce and salsa for my Super Nachos and plain paper plates. I needed some Select A Size paper towels, but Save A Lot doesn't carry name brands unless they get a special order. I guess I could have looked in Country Mart. But that would have required moving more than two feet inside the exit door, where the lottery machines are located.

When I came out, my as-yet-unknown-losing-tickets clasped in my hand, I noticed something in front of that little black Nissan Rogue.

IT WAS AN 8-PACK BUNDLE OF PAPER TOWELS!

Funny. I needed some paper towels. For an instant, I debated with the little Animal-House-like devil on one shoulder, and the corresponding angel on my other shoulder. I could pick up those paper towels. Obviously, that lady with the cart was gone. She must not have been the Rogue driver, because it was still there. So those paper towels were going to waste!

I climbed in T-Hoe. I was going to take a picture of those paper towels. But that texting smoker was still sitting there. CRIMINY! How long a break does Country Mart give their employees? I didn't want her to think I was taking her picture to get her in trouble. Dang it! Nor could I hop out and pick up those paper towels, because she would see me. And might take my picture with her cell phone! So I figured it might be best not to pick up those paper towels for those reasons. And because they weren't mine.

While I was considering the ramifications of thievery, a woman came walking from the exit doors past the front end of T-Hoe, over to the front end of that Rogue, and snatched up that 8-pack of paper towels! She turned around and went back the way she had come, toward the exit doors. She must have been parked over that way. What the not-heaven?

It was NOT the full-cart woman that I had seen before.

I think that wench stole my intended contraband right out from under my nose!