This morning, as I tried to squeeze out my final five winks of a recliner nap, Hick charged past me like a lame hippo. He walks like he has no feet on the end of his ankles. And he's not too particular about staying in the open traffic areas at 6:00 a.m. He sideswipes furniture like The Pony drives those Fast & Furious cars in the gameroom at Walmart. It may come as a complete shock to The Pony that he is expected to keep his Ford Ranger on the road, and not on the sidewalk, mowing down streetlights like there's no tomorrow.
I picked up the phone for my mom's daily morning call. I heard Hick stumping through the laundry room to feed the dogs on the back porch. I heard Hick stumping back through the kitchen to where the microwave was humming with a sausage biscuit in its innards, a sausage biscuit wrenched from Frig's freezer, along with a bottle of water snagged from the fridge area beside the lunches I'd already prepared for The Pony and myself. I heard and felt Hick stumping behind the La-Z-Boy on his way to the bedroom. All very distracting while trying to watch the weather and make small talk with a septuagenarian. Val does more before 6:10 a.m. than the army does all day.
"Just a minute, Mom. There's some kind of crisis developing here. WHAT are you doing? You've usually left by now."
"I lost my billfold. I just reached for it, and it's not in my pocket. I thought maybe I left it here on the dresser."
"Is it there?"
"No."
"Oh...that's terrible!"
"I'll talk to you in a minute, Mom. What about your pants from yesterday? What were you wearing? You mowed the yard. You went to town for propane and lawnmower gas. You grilled."
"Huh. I can't find it. I have no idea where I lost it."
"Maybe it's in the yard. Maybe it fell out of your pocket. You can look out there."
"I don't know what I'm going to do."
"You'll have to retrace your steps."
"Wait a minute." Hick stumped back past the La-Z-Boy to the kitchen. "I think I laid it down in here...Here it is! On the counter!"
"Don't worry, Mom. He found it. I think he was laying out receipts for me to deal with after buying gas yesterday. I know. Yeah. Nobody's happier than me that he found it. I'm sure a woman such as yourself, who loses her phone EVERY SINGLE TIME SHE PUTS IT IN HER PURSE can relate."
"I haven't put my phone in there since last week! I always carry it in my hand now, and leave it in the car when I go in the store!"
"Okay. Anyway. Crisis averted."
I'm sure Juno would have done her part in finding such a valuable chunk of chewable leather.
Monday, April 7, 2014
Sunday, April 6, 2014
The True Meaning of Cash Flow, in a Convoluted Manner
We got a refund check from the College of Genius on Friday. One of his scholarships had to be renewed at semester, which he forgot about, since it had not been mentioned since last spring when he applied for it. He was mysteriously awarded a new scholarship in January, for the same amount, so we were not out any hard-earned cash. I had interrogated Backroads school personnel in an effort to track down a contact person and address so Genius could communicate with this organization in February, when he realized his error of omission. Luckily Genius found the info in his records, because nobody at school knew nothin' 'bout no scholarship, other than the new liaison (name unknown) would be there sometime between February and May to pick up this year's applications. Genius called and left messages, and sent the packet of grades and documentation. He never heard back, so we figured he has out of luck, and had learned a valuable life lesson. On March 31st, the scholarship money showed up in his student account.
That check was a pleasant surprise. It also meant that I had to leave my dark basement lair on Saturday to drive it to our place of savings and deposit it in one of Genius's college accounts. My mom had let The Pony sleep over, and was going to drop him off at bowling league at noon. That meant she couldn't accompany me on this trip. I called to see if she wanted anything. She said no. I guess now that her driveway is passable, my Meals on T-Hoe's Wheels program is no longer needed.
Still, I took Mom some leftover fried rice, sweet & sour sauce, crispy sweet things that are free and nobody here likes them, and a box of Fiddle Faddle I bought in Save A Lot. Oh, and I brought her a fish sandwich because they were two for five dollars at Arby's. I did not expect her to give me anything in return. But you know my mom. She's such a giver!
Mom came out to the driveway to grab her stuff. We were both rushed for time. In her hand, she held a folded-up bill of indeterminate currency. She waved it around. "I know I owe you more than this...and I'll get it to you sometime. But I read in the paper about those teachers at your school hosting The Extraordinary Dance, and I wondered, if I give this to you, can you give it to them for a donation? I think it's great that they're doing something like that, and I saw how they're having more expenses this year, and I wanted to give them something."
"Sure. I'll give it to them. I have lunch with one every day."
Mom handed me a five-dollar bill. To her, this means a lot. She's from another era. From a time when she threw her shoe out of the car window, and had to go around with one shoe until her lead-mining father could afford another one with credit at the company store. It really comes from the heart.
This morning, when The Pony and I went on our weekly grocery-shopping trip, I saw the folded up five in the back hidey-hole area of my purse. "Oh, tomorrow morning, don't let me forget to take in this donation grandma gave me for The Extraordinary Dance."
"Okay. Just what is that, anyway? The prom?"
"No. It's like that, but a month later. And it's for the extraordinary kids. The ones who go to extraordinary class. Who have learning issues. This might be the best night of their high school lives. We've hosted it for years, and invite other schools to bring their students. They love it. They look forward to it. There are so many this year that the sponsors are getting the word out that they need donations. One of our teachers has agreed to make all the food. Grandma gave me five dollars to give them."
"FIVE dollars? Only FIVE dollars? That's nothing!"
"Grandma thinks it is. She's from a time when five dollars could get a lot. And she really wants them to have it. I'm going to explain to them how much it means to her. I'm sure they will be thrilled to get it."
"Can I give them some money?"
"Sure. I can give it to them for you."
"Okay. I have plenty. I want to give twenty dollars. If, for nothing else, to show up Grandma!"
"Well, that's very nice of you to donate. But we're not telling Grandma how much."
"That's fine. I want to donate to them."
You never know what The Pony is kicking around in his head. He appears to have inherited his grandma's giver gene.
That check was a pleasant surprise. It also meant that I had to leave my dark basement lair on Saturday to drive it to our place of savings and deposit it in one of Genius's college accounts. My mom had let The Pony sleep over, and was going to drop him off at bowling league at noon. That meant she couldn't accompany me on this trip. I called to see if she wanted anything. She said no. I guess now that her driveway is passable, my Meals on T-Hoe's Wheels program is no longer needed.
Still, I took Mom some leftover fried rice, sweet & sour sauce, crispy sweet things that are free and nobody here likes them, and a box of Fiddle Faddle I bought in Save A Lot. Oh, and I brought her a fish sandwich because they were two for five dollars at Arby's. I did not expect her to give me anything in return. But you know my mom. She's such a giver!
Mom came out to the driveway to grab her stuff. We were both rushed for time. In her hand, she held a folded-up bill of indeterminate currency. She waved it around. "I know I owe you more than this...and I'll get it to you sometime. But I read in the paper about those teachers at your school hosting The Extraordinary Dance, and I wondered, if I give this to you, can you give it to them for a donation? I think it's great that they're doing something like that, and I saw how they're having more expenses this year, and I wanted to give them something."
"Sure. I'll give it to them. I have lunch with one every day."
Mom handed me a five-dollar bill. To her, this means a lot. She's from another era. From a time when she threw her shoe out of the car window, and had to go around with one shoe until her lead-mining father could afford another one with credit at the company store. It really comes from the heart.
This morning, when The Pony and I went on our weekly grocery-shopping trip, I saw the folded up five in the back hidey-hole area of my purse. "Oh, tomorrow morning, don't let me forget to take in this donation grandma gave me for The Extraordinary Dance."
"Okay. Just what is that, anyway? The prom?"
"No. It's like that, but a month later. And it's for the extraordinary kids. The ones who go to extraordinary class. Who have learning issues. This might be the best night of their high school lives. We've hosted it for years, and invite other schools to bring their students. They love it. They look forward to it. There are so many this year that the sponsors are getting the word out that they need donations. One of our teachers has agreed to make all the food. Grandma gave me five dollars to give them."
"FIVE dollars? Only FIVE dollars? That's nothing!"
"Grandma thinks it is. She's from a time when five dollars could get a lot. And she really wants them to have it. I'm going to explain to them how much it means to her. I'm sure they will be thrilled to get it."
"Can I give them some money?"
"Sure. I can give it to them for you."
"Okay. I have plenty. I want to give twenty dollars. If, for nothing else, to show up Grandma!"
"Well, that's very nice of you to donate. But we're not telling Grandma how much."
"That's fine. I want to donate to them."
You never know what The Pony is kicking around in his head. He appears to have inherited his grandma's giver gene.
Saturday, April 5, 2014
Finders Sneakers, Losers Freakers
Hick enjoyed a full Saturday off today. That's because they have a guy out sick at work, and the other supervisor of that department didn't want to work on Saturday, and didn't order a replacement to work back-to-back shifts to get on the day schedule. So Hick had no machines running that he had to troubleshoot and repair. Too bad, so sad.
Hick made the most of his morning, before meeting The Grandma's House Night-Spending Pony at the bowling alley for his league. Off Hick went to trim some cedars. That's the story he gave me. Even though I questioned whether that was a good idea to work by himself with a chainsaw. Hick pooh-poohed my concern, and took off towards the BARn with both dogs yapping at the tires of his Gator. Heh, heh. I said pooh pooh. You know what THAT sounds like!
Imagine my surprise 90 minutes later when T-Hoe lurched up the gravel hill across the Great Chasm left by Thursday's torrential rains, and saw...
HICK PICKING UP WOOD FROM THE SIDE OF THE ROAD!
"What are you doing?"
"I'm picking up this wood." Indeed. It was in firewood-length sections, 4-6 inches in diameter. He already had the back of the Gator half full.
"Whose land is that?"
"It's the ROAD'S land!"
"It is not. That land belongs to somebody. They're going to catch you stealing wood, just like that guy down by the creek who caught you stealing his pile of gravel with a shovel on the fourth load you put in the Gator."
"I thought that gravel just washed up out of the creek during high water."
"Yeah. In a mound like when it pours out of a dump truck."
"Well, I stopped when he asked me what I was doing."
"Uh huh. Half his gravel pile was gone. You're lucky he wasn't one of the CRAZY hillbillies."
"This is just scraps left from when Ameren was out here trimming branches."
"Still. It's on SOMEBODY'S land. Not yours. You need to stop that and go trim your own trees like you said."
"Whatever." Hick continued to pick up the pre-sawn logs.
He's going to come to no good end one of these days.
Hick made the most of his morning, before meeting The Grandma's House Night-Spending Pony at the bowling alley for his league. Off Hick went to trim some cedars. That's the story he gave me. Even though I questioned whether that was a good idea to work by himself with a chainsaw. Hick pooh-poohed my concern, and took off towards the BARn with both dogs yapping at the tires of his Gator. Heh, heh. I said pooh pooh. You know what THAT sounds like!
Imagine my surprise 90 minutes later when T-Hoe lurched up the gravel hill across the Great Chasm left by Thursday's torrential rains, and saw...
HICK PICKING UP WOOD FROM THE SIDE OF THE ROAD!
"What are you doing?"
"I'm picking up this wood." Indeed. It was in firewood-length sections, 4-6 inches in diameter. He already had the back of the Gator half full.
"Whose land is that?"
"It's the ROAD'S land!"
"It is not. That land belongs to somebody. They're going to catch you stealing wood, just like that guy down by the creek who caught you stealing his pile of gravel with a shovel on the fourth load you put in the Gator."
"I thought that gravel just washed up out of the creek during high water."
"Yeah. In a mound like when it pours out of a dump truck."
"Well, I stopped when he asked me what I was doing."
"Uh huh. Half his gravel pile was gone. You're lucky he wasn't one of the CRAZY hillbillies."
"This is just scraps left from when Ameren was out here trimming branches."
"Still. It's on SOMEBODY'S land. Not yours. You need to stop that and go trim your own trees like you said."
"Whatever." Hick continued to pick up the pre-sawn logs.
He's going to come to no good end one of these days.
Friday, April 4, 2014
Stranger in My Pocket
I spent the day at the local junior college science fair, and I reached a startling conclusion. Val is as attractive as one of those electromagnets that dangle from a crane and lift crushed cars at the junkyard.
The fair opened at 7:30 a.m. Kids had until 9:30 to get their projects set up. My students were riding the bus with our middle school entrants to conserve resources. The Pony and I headed directly to the fair, per our normal morning routine. We arrived at 7:26. "Let's just sit here a while and make sure the doors are open. There's no rush. Our bus won't be here until after school starts."
"No. I'll go in at 7:30. It's open. They shouldn't say they're open if they don't want people here that early." The Pony uses logic as a weapon. I managed to stall him until 7:38. Then I drove him to the circular drive so he didn't risk paragliding in the heavy winds with his project board that would not tri-fold after his addition of a plexiglass triangle to represent a prism. I returned to the lot and parked T-Hoe.
Just as I suspected, The Pony and I were the only people in the field house besides the fair director. I picked my seat (heh, heh, I picked my seat!) so I could see my entrants once they were set up. The trick is to stake out the front row of bleachers so you're not mixed in with the kids during the awards, and you have leg room, and can come and go as you wish. Plus the uninterrupted view down to the floor. I spread out my coat and bag of science fair accoutrements along the bleacher, to save space for my two colleagues who were accompanying the bus. I was the lone attendee for a good 30 minutes, until a bus from another school arrived.
I had just returned from the display floor after picking up my list of projects. I sat back down at the end of the bleacher, my coat still sprawled like a lioness in the sun digesting a meal. The sponsor from the just-arrived bus walked past me AND SAT DOWN ON THE VERY EDGE OF MY COAT!
You've gotta be kidding me! ALL that space, not a single soul other than Val in that whole audience, and he sat right on top of me. Plus, he had brought some work to do, it seems, because he edged the edge of my coat back towards me, and plunked a teacher text on the bleacher. But that's not all! An acquaintance of his arrived on the next bus, and she walked around the other side of the field house and approached from the right. Passed Creeper while chatting, pushed my coat so that it wrinkled like a Sharpei pup, and PLUNKED HER BUTT DOWN BETWEEN ME AND HIM!
So...there were only us three sponsors in the entirety of the whole building, and we occupied a ten-foot section of one bleacher! I was starting a slow burn. Like my head was the top of a thermometer, and the mercury or red-colored alcohol was rising. Fast. More buses disgorged their little brainiacs. Their sponsors accompanied them to the floor. By the time our bus arrived, and my colleagues joined me, there was no room at the end.
"I've been saving these seats for you. Unsuccessfully. I feel like Elaine at the Paradise Twin. 'Saved. Taken. SAVED! These seats are SAVED!' I guess it wasn't clear what I was trying to do, what with my coat stretched out and me sitting right here on the other side of it."
The Creeper and the BleepHer swiveled their judgemental eyes to look at me like I had two heads. Which I could only wish for. Because I would use my two mouths to give them a sound cussing. Okay. I wouldn't do that, because I was representing my school, and people there knew my name like everybody at Cheers. But I would have made twice as many snide comments about claim jumpers and line cutters and close-sitters.
Seriously. There was so little room left of my savitude that the male colleague declared, "Well, I'll just sit up here in the row behind you."
What is WRONG with people?
Can they not fend off my gravitational pull?
The fair opened at 7:30 a.m. Kids had until 9:30 to get their projects set up. My students were riding the bus with our middle school entrants to conserve resources. The Pony and I headed directly to the fair, per our normal morning routine. We arrived at 7:26. "Let's just sit here a while and make sure the doors are open. There's no rush. Our bus won't be here until after school starts."
"No. I'll go in at 7:30. It's open. They shouldn't say they're open if they don't want people here that early." The Pony uses logic as a weapon. I managed to stall him until 7:38. Then I drove him to the circular drive so he didn't risk paragliding in the heavy winds with his project board that would not tri-fold after his addition of a plexiglass triangle to represent a prism. I returned to the lot and parked T-Hoe.
Just as I suspected, The Pony and I were the only people in the field house besides the fair director. I picked my seat (heh, heh, I picked my seat!) so I could see my entrants once they were set up. The trick is to stake out the front row of bleachers so you're not mixed in with the kids during the awards, and you have leg room, and can come and go as you wish. Plus the uninterrupted view down to the floor. I spread out my coat and bag of science fair accoutrements along the bleacher, to save space for my two colleagues who were accompanying the bus. I was the lone attendee for a good 30 minutes, until a bus from another school arrived.
I had just returned from the display floor after picking up my list of projects. I sat back down at the end of the bleacher, my coat still sprawled like a lioness in the sun digesting a meal. The sponsor from the just-arrived bus walked past me AND SAT DOWN ON THE VERY EDGE OF MY COAT!
You've gotta be kidding me! ALL that space, not a single soul other than Val in that whole audience, and he sat right on top of me. Plus, he had brought some work to do, it seems, because he edged the edge of my coat back towards me, and plunked a teacher text on the bleacher. But that's not all! An acquaintance of his arrived on the next bus, and she walked around the other side of the field house and approached from the right. Passed Creeper while chatting, pushed my coat so that it wrinkled like a Sharpei pup, and PLUNKED HER BUTT DOWN BETWEEN ME AND HIM!
So...there were only us three sponsors in the entirety of the whole building, and we occupied a ten-foot section of one bleacher! I was starting a slow burn. Like my head was the top of a thermometer, and the mercury or red-colored alcohol was rising. Fast. More buses disgorged their little brainiacs. Their sponsors accompanied them to the floor. By the time our bus arrived, and my colleagues joined me, there was no room at the end.
"I've been saving these seats for you. Unsuccessfully. I feel like Elaine at the Paradise Twin. 'Saved. Taken. SAVED! These seats are SAVED!' I guess it wasn't clear what I was trying to do, what with my coat stretched out and me sitting right here on the other side of it."
The Creeper and the BleepHer swiveled their judgemental eyes to look at me like I had two heads. Which I could only wish for. Because I would use my two mouths to give them a sound cussing. Okay. I wouldn't do that, because I was representing my school, and people there knew my name like everybody at Cheers. But I would have made twice as many snide comments about claim jumpers and line cutters and close-sitters.
Seriously. There was so little room left of my savitude that the male colleague declared, "Well, I'll just sit up here in the row behind you."
What is WRONG with people?
Can they not fend off my gravitational pull?
Thursday, April 3, 2014
It Probably Just Needed to Digest a Bit Longer
Here's a little story about one of my early efforts to break into print. I had forgotten all about this failed attempt until I read of blog buddy Tammy's recent success.
I submitted a little tale to Reader's Digest to enlighten folks about MY day's work. Since I was teaching at the time, and we didn't have cool uniforms or any uniforms or barely even a dress code...I couldn't submit to Humor in Uniform. So All in a Day's Work it was. Actually, I sent two (failed) tales, but the other one will have to get in line.
I don't remember how I told it then. I'm sure it was bare-bones, and conformed to the proper word count, and was dry as not-heaven. But below is how I'm telling it now.
Along about my eighth year of teaching, I worked at a little smidgen of a school nestled in the foothills of float trip country. Most of the faculty was from the local area, with many spouses employed at various grade levels. Every now and then, a teacher would move on, and a new one would join our ranks. At the back-to-school inservice day one August, our middle school principal looked around the library at his current crop of educators. We were all women, except the principal himself, and the husband of one of our our sixth grade teachers.
"Well, Bob, it looks like you'll be in hog heaven this year."
Bob put his palms on the edge of the brown laminated table, and tilted his library chair back. He turned his head to the left, drank in the human scenery, swiveled his gaze slowly around the room to his right, and said, "Ya got THAT right."
Ahem. I don't think Bob was making a statement about our beauty. Or the "heaven" part.
Lucky for them we were not ones to cry sexual harassment in the workplace.
I submitted a little tale to Reader's Digest to enlighten folks about MY day's work. Since I was teaching at the time, and we didn't have cool uniforms or any uniforms or barely even a dress code...I couldn't submit to Humor in Uniform. So All in a Day's Work it was. Actually, I sent two (failed) tales, but the other one will have to get in line.
I don't remember how I told it then. I'm sure it was bare-bones, and conformed to the proper word count, and was dry as not-heaven. But below is how I'm telling it now.
Along about my eighth year of teaching, I worked at a little smidgen of a school nestled in the foothills of float trip country. Most of the faculty was from the local area, with many spouses employed at various grade levels. Every now and then, a teacher would move on, and a new one would join our ranks. At the back-to-school inservice day one August, our middle school principal looked around the library at his current crop of educators. We were all women, except the principal himself, and the husband of one of our our sixth grade teachers.
"Well, Bob, it looks like you'll be in hog heaven this year."
Bob put his palms on the edge of the brown laminated table, and tilted his library chair back. He turned his head to the left, drank in the human scenery, swiveled his gaze slowly around the room to his right, and said, "Ya got THAT right."
Ahem. I don't think Bob was making a statement about our beauty. Or the "heaven" part.
Lucky for them we were not ones to cry sexual harassment in the workplace.
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Law or Lie?
Did you know that you must be 18 to buy a duck?
I didn't, either. In fact, I'm not sure that's really true. It falls into the category of "Things I Learned Teaching School." Or an entry in my proposed Encyclopedia of Common Student Knowledge.
The kind soul who brought this matter to my attention loves animals. Every time we see a video or read about any kind of critter, she crows, "It's so CUTE! I want one!" Except for snakes. And, surprisingly, turkeys. Because she's such a lover of animals, I'm going to call her Philanimal. Near the end of class today, she approached my desk.
Philanimal: "Did you know you have to be 18 to buy a duck, Mrs. Thevictorian?"
Val: "I did not."
Philanimal: "I didn't either, until I went to buy one yesterday. They were SO cute. And they were only four dollars. I took one up front and said, 'I want to buy this duck.' And the lady said, 'I can't sell you that duck. You have to be 18.' Can you believe that? I can drive a car. I can see an R-rated movie. I can move out and live on my own. But I can't buy a duck!"
Val: "Where was this?"
Philanimal: "At the pet shop in Backroads. We also saw a little alligator. He was just chillin', looking at me through the cage, and my friend stepped up and said, 'Look at him!' And he SLAMMED against the glass and I screamed and jumped back...and...I peed a little."
Val: "Um. That's just a little too much information. But I'm glad to you tipped me off on the legal age to buy a duck. Too bad somebody called to tell on the auction my husband used to go to on the edge of Backroads. He could buy and sell animals there all day long. He got chickens, and a turkey, and rabbits, and goats. No duck, though. But he knew a regular there who used to buy a duck every couple of weeks. She was Chinese. It was not going home with her to be a pet.
Philanimal: "Ohh...that's sad."
Val: "Well, it's a fact of life. Besides. That lady WAS over 18."
I don't want to put false information into the blogosphere. I wondered if maybe that duck rule only applies to Missouri. We have exotic animal regulations, you know. So I consulted my BFF Google. Surprisingly, I did not find any statutes prohibiting under-eighteeners from buying ducks. I even read about the Missouri Duck and Coot Regulations. But that was certainly not about buying downy pets.
Don't let me dissuade you from running out to pick up some cute Easter fowl. Besides...I'm pretty sure most of you are over 18. And won't even get carded.
I didn't, either. In fact, I'm not sure that's really true. It falls into the category of "Things I Learned Teaching School." Or an entry in my proposed Encyclopedia of Common Student Knowledge.
The kind soul who brought this matter to my attention loves animals. Every time we see a video or read about any kind of critter, she crows, "It's so CUTE! I want one!" Except for snakes. And, surprisingly, turkeys. Because she's such a lover of animals, I'm going to call her Philanimal. Near the end of class today, she approached my desk.
Philanimal: "Did you know you have to be 18 to buy a duck, Mrs. Thevictorian?"
Val: "I did not."
Philanimal: "I didn't either, until I went to buy one yesterday. They were SO cute. And they were only four dollars. I took one up front and said, 'I want to buy this duck.' And the lady said, 'I can't sell you that duck. You have to be 18.' Can you believe that? I can drive a car. I can see an R-rated movie. I can move out and live on my own. But I can't buy a duck!"
Val: "Where was this?"
Philanimal: "At the pet shop in Backroads. We also saw a little alligator. He was just chillin', looking at me through the cage, and my friend stepped up and said, 'Look at him!' And he SLAMMED against the glass and I screamed and jumped back...and...I peed a little."
Val: "Um. That's just a little too much information. But I'm glad to you tipped me off on the legal age to buy a duck. Too bad somebody called to tell on the auction my husband used to go to on the edge of Backroads. He could buy and sell animals there all day long. He got chickens, and a turkey, and rabbits, and goats. No duck, though. But he knew a regular there who used to buy a duck every couple of weeks. She was Chinese. It was not going home with her to be a pet.
Philanimal: "Ohh...that's sad."
Val: "Well, it's a fact of life. Besides. That lady WAS over 18."
I don't want to put false information into the blogosphere. I wondered if maybe that duck rule only applies to Missouri. We have exotic animal regulations, you know. So I consulted my BFF Google. Surprisingly, I did not find any statutes prohibiting under-eighteeners from buying ducks. I even read about the Missouri Duck and Coot Regulations. But that was certainly not about buying downy pets.
Don't let me dissuade you from running out to pick up some cute Easter fowl. Besides...I'm pretty sure most of you are over 18. And won't even get carded.
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Dr. Valthenstein in the Lu-BOR-u-tory With the Milk of Human Kindness
I have created a monster.
So sayeth The Pony. And so sayeth Hick. Though Hick did not sayeth it in so many words, just in snide little comments interspersed with my glowing tales of Juno's latest brilliant acts.
I might have mentioned once or twice how Juno greets me on the side porch every evening when we get home from school, and how we have an intense reunion, a two-legged/four-legged lovefest, where I hug her and whisper sweet nothings while she lays her head on my shoulder or upper chest, and gazes into my eyes with her almost-human amber orbs.
Last week, Juno, in mid-lovefest, GROWLED at Ann the simple-minded black german shepherd with the muddy brown eyes that signify nobody's home. Ann was merely shouldering her way in front of me for a pat, all the while whining in her anxious way, which seems to be a standard warning that the sky is falling. The Pony was just around the corner, unlocking the kitchen door. But he came back. "We tried to TELL you Juno is evil. You've created a monster!"
Well. I beg to differ. My sweet, sweet Juno? A monster? I think not. She just wanted me all to herself. There's not enough love to go around. And Ann is always stealing Juno's special house on the back porch mere feet from the kitchen door, where treats can be tossed directly inside to prevent sharing.
Since we moved the cat feeding roasting pan of kibble out of the garage and onto a shelf on the side porch, Juno has been discombobulated. She used to love running under the garage door andstealing a accidentally dragging her mouth across the cat kibble for an accidental bite before I had T-Hoe pulled in properly. Now she crouches down and scampers in, but looks puzzled and sheepish and goes back out to wait for me.
Well. I feel a little bit guilty. Juno is a black silky ball of energy. She burns a lot of calories. Unlike Ann, the matronly would-be bonbon eater. So after our lovefest, I have started reaching up into the cat roaster and giving Juno a handful of cat kibble. If I forget, Juno looks at me. Turns her head to the cat roaster shelf. Looks at me again. Walks to the shelf and puts her nose up against it. Looks back at me. Expectantly.
I think Juno may dream of cheating on me with the cat kibble.
So sayeth The Pony. And so sayeth Hick. Though Hick did not sayeth it in so many words, just in snide little comments interspersed with my glowing tales of Juno's latest brilliant acts.
I might have mentioned once or twice how Juno greets me on the side porch every evening when we get home from school, and how we have an intense reunion, a two-legged/four-legged lovefest, where I hug her and whisper sweet nothings while she lays her head on my shoulder or upper chest, and gazes into my eyes with her almost-human amber orbs.
Last week, Juno, in mid-lovefest, GROWLED at Ann the simple-minded black german shepherd with the muddy brown eyes that signify nobody's home. Ann was merely shouldering her way in front of me for a pat, all the while whining in her anxious way, which seems to be a standard warning that the sky is falling. The Pony was just around the corner, unlocking the kitchen door. But he came back. "We tried to TELL you Juno is evil. You've created a monster!"
Well. I beg to differ. My sweet, sweet Juno? A monster? I think not. She just wanted me all to herself. There's not enough love to go around. And Ann is always stealing Juno's special house on the back porch mere feet from the kitchen door, where treats can be tossed directly inside to prevent sharing.
Since we moved the cat feeding roasting pan of kibble out of the garage and onto a shelf on the side porch, Juno has been discombobulated. She used to love running under the garage door and
Well. I feel a little bit guilty. Juno is a black silky ball of energy. She burns a lot of calories. Unlike Ann, the matronly would-be bonbon eater. So after our lovefest, I have started reaching up into the cat roaster and giving Juno a handful of cat kibble. If I forget, Juno looks at me. Turns her head to the cat roaster shelf. Looks at me again. Walks to the shelf and puts her nose up against it. Looks back at me. Expectantly.
I think Juno may dream of cheating on me with the cat kibble.
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