People that entertain shopping at garage sales are in my opinion rabid hoarders, now and then you do have the person that is simply looking for a good deal on an item they need or would like. The majority are absolute freaks that plan out the entire weekend from the very moment the newspaper hits their porch, they tear into the print and start circling each advertisement fiendishly with their red markers and itemizing their attack with a chronologically efficient itinerary.
As my husband and I prepare for our 10th move in a little more than that many years we've come to terms that we really have too much shit. Seriously, we are ALL hoarders in some respect but we have to set ourselves onto a healthy course we must release ourselves from the bindings of material objects.
Enjoy them while you have them and when you stop using them and they sit stacked in closets, remain in boxes unseen for weeks, months ...years it's time to say goodbye and let your junk become someone's treasure.
A couple of weeks prior, I had packed a fat box of beautiful clothing and sent it off to my sister, she really needed a boost and it was my pleasure to help her. Over the years I'd picked up some rather nice items that I wore while doing the cat show circuit, but since I've quit that game I had all of these lovelies hanging in the closet with no where to wear them.
Well I could still wear them but I don't want the memories attached to them.
There are still more to dig through, other items that my mother would have called 'schmatta' or 'rags'. Everyone loves to wear certain things until they are practically falling right off of you. These old things bring you comfort and these are the ones that give you good memories.
My sister gave me a shirt 13 years ago that I still have and absolutely love, wear frequently and doubt I'll ever let it go even though it should have been burned ages past.
Preparing for our very first yard/garage sale was quite the undertaking. It was overwhelming to say in the least because we have 2 households that are 6 hours apart round-trip and the majority of the goodies to sell were in the farther away home but we wanted to hold the event in the current homestead.
Seeing how we needed to get everything out anyhow it required the rental of an enormous rental truck and 2.5 days of blood, sweat and tears ...the husband's tears because I could not participate in the travel.
When he returned loaded down, eyes bleary from little to no sleep and smelling of day old B.O. I swiftly fed him a hearty breakfast of eggs and flapjacks and tucked him into bed for a few hours of sleep before we tackled the chore of figuring out which of our possessions would become someone's new prize and which would continue to lend a helping hand in our lives.
This didn't happen overnight mind you, it seems that we have to reminisce over everything we touch and weigh the needs against the wants. Processing those can be heavy on your mind. I once considered myself to be pretty much a non-materialistic person but have found with aging that we begin to have dependency on the good things in life.
For starters, gadgets are fun.
Duplicates of kitchen items are nice to have also.
I am especially fond of cooking but seriously, I don't think in the long run I need to have 4 colanders or 100 unmatched forks and spoons.
All of the trinkets and ridiculous tchotchke's that I have never even put out for decoration will all have to go. Why did I even pick this crap up? Dust collecting is all it's good for and as far as I'm concerned it can all go to the first little old lady that squeals like a 6 year old when they see it gleam in the early morning light.
We spend several evenings doing this, unpacking a box and blowing off the cobwebs and polishing what we didn't consider a turd. Keep? don't keep? Donate? wipe, assess and then price with a sticker and into a new box.
After each new box was filled to capacity we'd close it up and label "SELL" and shove it into a corner which was quickly looking like Mount St. Helen's and I beseech that it does not topple over in a loud bang along with the clatter and clash of glass smashing.
Not to be outdone, we have cat helpers jumping around and getting on every flat surface bumping into items and ...eventually breaking some of the items we would have sold.
Get pissed about it? no, because that's one less thing to have to worry about haggling and barter and will just go into the recycle bin. Accidents happen and you can never stay angry at a purring bundle of joy.
The weekend is coming and I've placed our announcement in the newspaper, it's a holiday weekend and from all that I've read about sales this is supposed to be beneficial to us because people are home (I guess).
The night before we frantically put together the last few items and find out from the weather channel that the weekend will be hot and wet, lucky us..Good thing I've thought ahead and purchased a pair of canopy's for the situation so that we are covered come rain or shine.
I don't believe in rescheduling because of a few sprinkles and there is little time left for my shit to go bye-bye before we pack another truck and move along to our next abode.
Up go the trusses and we stretch the canopy over the skeleton making a fast shelter for our junk. We line up the pair of these horizontally with the garage and then set out the tables which we've absconded from the husband's office for our weekend usage. what a coup to have these on hand instead or borrowing or renting from other people, or worse yet - rigging up temporary tables from pallets and stacked boxes.
The heat is downright nasty to work in and I'm dreading the following morning which will begin at 5:00 (the sale advertised for 8:00) so we both try to climb into bed for an early evening nap after dinner on Friday evening. No sooner have I shut my eyes than I hear a pounding and ringing of my doorbell.
Who might this be?
Sometimes the neighbor children kick over a ball into the yard and they ring but they never beat with such a tempo on my door to create a racket like this. This is deafening and I'm becoming incensed because my slumber has been disturbed and they have not stopped, seriously - a few knocks and rings are more than enough to alert a person that you are at the door.
Rubbing my eyes I open the door to find a non-English speaking man and a young child waiting there for me and the kid says, "You have furniture for sale?"
I said, "are you kidding me? the sale is tomorrow, go away you are rude"
WTF I cannot believe someone has come to my door 13 hours before we would even be beginning and try to buy things. No I am not going to stand for that and I'm not going to stand there and talk to you and let you come in and get a look at everything we have so you can make me offers early.
Back to bed I go, but I can't fall asleep right away because I'm so pissed off by this interruption. The knocking and banging on my door must have gone on for a full 3 minutes before I went to answer it. As a home owner I don't feel its necessary to always answer my door nor my phone, my solitude is paramount to me and unless I hear sirens I could care less about what's happening in the world unless I pursue it.
The knocking that kept going on though, that finally had me out of my bed to see what the commotion was about and for me to get up through my exhaustion and pain only to be confronted with this bullshit left me madder than a wet hen.
I finally did calm down and rested for about an hour to get up and start all over again and I worked all the way through the night, the husband was able to put in almost 4 hours of sleep. I knew that I would end up crashing and burning before the day was through but that's how I tend to roll.
Out into the pre-dawn light I bring out my boxes and start placing items onto tables, the humidity so high that sweat is rolling off of me in rivers. There's no feminine beading on my brow, I'm soaked to the bone by 6:00 and by then the man has come out and is hauling the bigger items of furniture on a dolly into the garage from our living room.
we are quietly working and I look up to see a car has pulled in front of the house. Here comes a woman onto our lawn at 6:15!
She starts with, "what else do you have?" and I SNAP!
Look lady, the sale is posted at 8 a.m. and you are 2 hours early - you can come back then because there are no early sales!
She eyeballed our tables and inside the garage area where he was working and then trounced off in a huff, we never did see her again that morning. No skin off my knuckles if you ask me because I found out by 10 a.m. that all of the early people are the ones that come with coin purses only.
Several cars were circling the house by 6:45 and they just converged onto us en masse. Instead of cockroaches scurrying away when you turn on the lights, these attacked when the sun came up. There was no way I could start barking at the 20 people that showed up and walked across the grass at this hour and it was just going to have to be the beginning of our day whether we were ready or not.
Let the fun begin!
What felt like 8 hours was only 4. I was dripping sweat like I'd just jumped into a swimming pool, swiping it away from my eyes and steadily taking money from people left and right. Dealing with the usual "will you take this much instead" and instead of being pissed off to be offered so little for these treasures I'm happily dealing with them because i don't want to wait for the next person and maybe being left with this crap still left in my garage at the end of the day.
Finally I could take no more and had to take a small break and let him take the reigns, inside I went for a breather of A/C and 5 minutes on the sofa. My eyes were so heavy and I felt the threatening of a nap stealing over me but I went back out and faced the day for the remaining 4 hours.
There were very few slow downs even though we were drizzled on many times - both of us rushing to the tables to toss plastic sheeting over the goods and weighting them down.
Just as we decided to close up shop and a final 'customer' was returning to pick up a large item the clouds opened up and that was it. Sheets of rain came down, the plastic whipping in the wind and both of us with our hair plastered to our skulls ...we just threw our hands up in the air and sat down in the garage and enjoyed the coolness of the breeze that came in with the storm.
There are still things to be had - just ask and you may receive but ask quickly because I'm going to have the Salvation Army come and pick up the rest this week.
No more sales for me, there's not enough quarters and dime's to be handed over on a hot July day to make up for the misery I experienced.
Remind me to stop buying crap I really don't need.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
I'm only trying to help
Any means of concealment will not stop his heightened sense of hound-dogging.
WHO you ask?
The cat, Santana.
He has great big eyes that seem to never blink, he stares deep into your soul. Tilting his head slightly to one side and his ears cupped forward to capture your tender words. When you stroke your palm over his shoulders and scritch his head you are left with a feeling of peace and calm.
The way he stares at you it's as though he's waiting for a conversation, and if he could he would offer you advice. The comfort of his company and his rumbling purr are all that he has to offer instead.
He is a big muscular boy, lean and without the flab that you'd typically find with this breed. When he runs and plays those muscles ripple under thickly wrinkled skin.
I know, some people are completely turned off by these nudists but once you have held one I believe that they can convert you immediately. The texture of these oddities can remind one of many luxurious fabrics like velvet and some even say it is like holding a newborn baby.
Santana is the type of cat that takes your heart and stretches it out like warm taffy, stretches it out as far as possible and then winds the taffy tightly around his long knuckled oval paws.
I use taffy not only as a metaphor but as a symbol of one of his triggers of hound-dogging.
Something isn't right in this cat's head when it comes to sweets!
Generally you would expect a few things when it comes to your domesticated pets. Dogs, well dogs will beg for everything because dogs are like that. They will Hoover up the floor of every tasty morsel they find and they even like less than tasty morsels such as: cat box crunchies (turds coated in litter), remains of just about anything rotting in the yard or garden and even rocks.
Dogs are the most notorious patients in veterinary offices for having surgery to remove strange items from their stomach, causing dangerous blockages that will kill them. I'm talking about things as bizarre as kitchen knives, dozens of pairs of socks, your kitchen rugs and even Wii game controllers.
Cats though, cats are what you would think are dainty even picky eaters.
Kibble, maybe a treat of a can of tuna and a lick of cream but not this guy.
No sir, no way he has a sweet tooth or rather a snack craving and the lure of filling his tummy is very strong.
My cats are very well fed, we use a combination of a high end kibble as well as freshly prepared raw meat diet. This preparation can take quite a bit of time for the especially spoiled rotten and persnickety eaters, but I do not mind the effort because these are most certainly the only 'children' I will have.
(okay, so shoot me - I'm the weird crazy cat lady)
Santana is one of those, he's not all that keen on working with the bigger chunks of meat (what we like to call prey-model, this is basically large hunks of meat still attached to the bone or even the entire critter). Instead he wants me to process it through my meat grinder into a finer more palatable meal closer to the texture of hamburger. It still has the bone in it but he's not challenged with crushing it on his own, I suppose the savage beast in him is quite tame unless he can smell ....flour, sugar, honey and high fructose corn syrup!
The minute he hears the crumple or crinkle of the wrapper or bag your snack has come in he is snapped into command of execution ..'Aten-Hut'!
Those shoulders hunker down low while his bum comes up and his tail swings out straight from his body, balancing him for the pounce - he has his 'prey' in sight and the prey this day is the golden yellow sugar cookie I'd picked up earlier in the day to have as my late night snack.
This cookie is wrapped tightly in clear cellophane and has been hidden from view and scent because it was jammed down to the bottom of my over the shoulder nap-sack (that I'm grateful for the fashion world for taking back on). My bag had been tossed over the bedpost and then covered up with a mountain of other junk, my discarded clothing, a bath towel, a portion of the bedding...many layers of material that covered the scent trail from him. He knew it was in the room but he just didn't have the opportunity to hunt yet.
I'm not always a chocoholic, deep down I really like a simple cookie. Sugar cookies have always been a favorite of mine, especially if they have been rolled in large raw sugar on the top. I love to see the granules that scintillate as they hit the light, they remind me of tiny baguette diamonds or quartz. Imagine eating something so decadent as gemstones that taste so divine!
When I finally decided I was ready for this treat my mouth was watering, I'd pulled my bag out of the heap and laid it on the bed for a moment to go and fetch something. I don't remember what, I forget half the shit I'm doing anyhow and when I came back I even forgot that I wanted the cookie and went back to goofing around on the computer.
Cats coming and going about I didn't pay any special attention to the fact that my special sweet(s)heart was missing in action until I heard a rustling sound. Then I heard a sort of a wet slurping chomping masticating noise and I peered down to the floor only to see that a trail of cookie crumbs are scattered all over the floor leading to find him in the corner wit his prize.
He's huddled over the bundle and he's gnashing holes into the plastic, a paw holding down a corner that he has managed to unfold. With each successful mouthful of Saran Wrap he yanks free, a large chunk of cookie releases and he shakes it vigorously in his teeth to give it the final kill, chews and swallows.
"Santana!" He looks up, guilt in his eyes and crumbs on his lips, he stops and backs away from his cookie destruction.
"Why, why do you keep taking my cookies?"
There's a 5 quart bowel of food only feet away from this bakery butchery but I know the pussy will continue this bad habit forever.
Maybe it's because I toss animal crackers for him to fetch? Or have him sit up and beg for blackberry jam on toast?
I'm not going to lose weight by having snacks in bed ...and maybe he's just saying,
"I'm only trying to help you"
WHO you ask?
The cat, Santana.
He has great big eyes that seem to never blink, he stares deep into your soul. Tilting his head slightly to one side and his ears cupped forward to capture your tender words. When you stroke your palm over his shoulders and scritch his head you are left with a feeling of peace and calm.
The way he stares at you it's as though he's waiting for a conversation, and if he could he would offer you advice. The comfort of his company and his rumbling purr are all that he has to offer instead.
He is a big muscular boy, lean and without the flab that you'd typically find with this breed. When he runs and plays those muscles ripple under thickly wrinkled skin.
I know, some people are completely turned off by these nudists but once you have held one I believe that they can convert you immediately. The texture of these oddities can remind one of many luxurious fabrics like velvet and some even say it is like holding a newborn baby.
Santana is the type of cat that takes your heart and stretches it out like warm taffy, stretches it out as far as possible and then winds the taffy tightly around his long knuckled oval paws.
I use taffy not only as a metaphor but as a symbol of one of his triggers of hound-dogging.
Something isn't right in this cat's head when it comes to sweets!
Generally you would expect a few things when it comes to your domesticated pets. Dogs, well dogs will beg for everything because dogs are like that. They will Hoover up the floor of every tasty morsel they find and they even like less than tasty morsels such as: cat box crunchies (turds coated in litter), remains of just about anything rotting in the yard or garden and even rocks.
Dogs are the most notorious patients in veterinary offices for having surgery to remove strange items from their stomach, causing dangerous blockages that will kill them. I'm talking about things as bizarre as kitchen knives, dozens of pairs of socks, your kitchen rugs and even Wii game controllers.
Cats though, cats are what you would think are dainty even picky eaters.
Kibble, maybe a treat of a can of tuna and a lick of cream but not this guy.
No sir, no way he has a sweet tooth or rather a snack craving and the lure of filling his tummy is very strong.
My cats are very well fed, we use a combination of a high end kibble as well as freshly prepared raw meat diet. This preparation can take quite a bit of time for the especially spoiled rotten and persnickety eaters, but I do not mind the effort because these are most certainly the only 'children' I will have.
(okay, so shoot me - I'm the weird crazy cat lady)
Santana is one of those, he's not all that keen on working with the bigger chunks of meat (what we like to call prey-model, this is basically large hunks of meat still attached to the bone or even the entire critter). Instead he wants me to process it through my meat grinder into a finer more palatable meal closer to the texture of hamburger. It still has the bone in it but he's not challenged with crushing it on his own, I suppose the savage beast in him is quite tame unless he can smell ....flour, sugar, honey and high fructose corn syrup!
The minute he hears the crumple or crinkle of the wrapper or bag your snack has come in he is snapped into command of execution ..'Aten-Hut'!
Those shoulders hunker down low while his bum comes up and his tail swings out straight from his body, balancing him for the pounce - he has his 'prey' in sight and the prey this day is the golden yellow sugar cookie I'd picked up earlier in the day to have as my late night snack.
This cookie is wrapped tightly in clear cellophane and has been hidden from view and scent because it was jammed down to the bottom of my over the shoulder nap-sack (that I'm grateful for the fashion world for taking back on). My bag had been tossed over the bedpost and then covered up with a mountain of other junk, my discarded clothing, a bath towel, a portion of the bedding...many layers of material that covered the scent trail from him. He knew it was in the room but he just didn't have the opportunity to hunt yet.
I'm not always a chocoholic, deep down I really like a simple cookie. Sugar cookies have always been a favorite of mine, especially if they have been rolled in large raw sugar on the top. I love to see the granules that scintillate as they hit the light, they remind me of tiny baguette diamonds or quartz. Imagine eating something so decadent as gemstones that taste so divine!
When I finally decided I was ready for this treat my mouth was watering, I'd pulled my bag out of the heap and laid it on the bed for a moment to go and fetch something. I don't remember what, I forget half the shit I'm doing anyhow and when I came back I even forgot that I wanted the cookie and went back to goofing around on the computer.
Cats coming and going about I didn't pay any special attention to the fact that my special sweet(s)heart was missing in action until I heard a rustling sound. Then I heard a sort of a wet slurping chomping masticating noise and I peered down to the floor only to see that a trail of cookie crumbs are scattered all over the floor leading to find him in the corner wit his prize.
He's huddled over the bundle and he's gnashing holes into the plastic, a paw holding down a corner that he has managed to unfold. With each successful mouthful of Saran Wrap he yanks free, a large chunk of cookie releases and he shakes it vigorously in his teeth to give it the final kill, chews and swallows.
"Santana!" He looks up, guilt in his eyes and crumbs on his lips, he stops and backs away from his cookie destruction.
"Why, why do you keep taking my cookies?"
There's a 5 quart bowel of food only feet away from this bakery butchery but I know the pussy will continue this bad habit forever.
Maybe it's because I toss animal crackers for him to fetch? Or have him sit up and beg for blackberry jam on toast?
I'm not going to lose weight by having snacks in bed ...and maybe he's just saying,
"I'm only trying to help you"
Thursday, June 17, 2010
don't look up, chuck
My mind is so youthful and silly but my body is decrepit, my long dark brown hair now has shimmers of silver threading through it, the smile lines near my eyes are growing deeper and each morning as I slide off the bed to stomp towards the bathroom I hear my joints crackle and creak.
I remember distinctly something my mom did every morning she woke up and sat upright in the bed and then she belched soundly before heading off to start mom duties.
This really cracked me up, thinking what a piggy she is and why would she burp after sleeping because she didn't have anything to eat during the night.
Now I know from first hand experience, it's sort of a bugle to announce the new day. Sort of "Reveille" to the morning!
The compression you create from sitting upright and all of the trapped gas erupts from your mouth. You really don't have much control over it and it rather surprises me every time it happens.
I suppose that it's better than the alternative that every guy I know seems to do, which is to fart with such abandon you'd guess they have nearly sharted the bed!
My husband sometimes gives me those looks of disapproval when I'm ripping some gaseous emanations from my pie-hole but more often than not finds himself rating me. If he had index cards handy I bet he'd be numerically scoring me such as they do in the Olympics. He also has another rating system in which he measures the belch by "inches".
I might have a gut wrenching thunderous explosion that lasts more than a moment and he'll say,"oh that's a 4 incher". The longer I can stretch it out, the more hollow and reverberating the better the rating.
One burp I don't care to experience however, is the tomato sauce based burp. Over the years, as I've gotten more bling-shine in my hair, I have figured out that I have a strong sensitivity to nightshades (this is the family of food that includes Potatoes, tomatoes, sweet and hot peppers, eggplant, tomatillos, tamarios, pepinos, pimentos, paprika, cayenne, and Tabasco sauce are classified as nightshade foods).
Let me inform you that this pretty well SUCKS DONKEY BALLS. Some of my favorite foods have these ingredients, if not a majority in a single recipe!
I'm from the Midwest where you have meat and potatoes in the winter and BLTs in the summer. These days I live in central Texas and guess what, everything down here is peppers, peppers, cayenne and BOY do I love Tabasco on everything else.
A few years ago there was a morning that I woke up with gastrointestinal stress (yeah, I said it - I was farting and burping), in addition to that I was experiencing stomach cramping that rode very high in the gut. All day long I found myself in discomfort and every hour I stayed awake the worse it seemed to be.
After the first couple of hours of pain I decided to start eating Tums, I'd already taken a heartburn remedy but no relief was in sight.
Whenever I applied pressure to my mushy tummy there was a little bit of alleviation ...but the pain sort of traveled to my low back. It started to feel like I'd been kicked in the kidneys and the kicker decided to lay right across me and jam their knuckles in as deeply as possible.
All day long I'm in agony but refuse to go to the doctor. You ALL know how I feel about going to a physician and this just seemed stupid because of a tummy-ache. Seriously it couldn't be much more than a little stomach flu but I couldn't bring myself to lay down and rest because the symptoms escalated to the most dreaded, puking.
There is nothing worse than barfing your guts out iif you ask me, give me a fever or you can even give me the shits but don't have me upchucking.
The day turned into night and I'm pacing the floors and leaning into furniture to get as much pressure into my stomach to ease the pain, the pain was moving then into my chest and my heart was racing and I was sweating.
During all of this I'm being told what a hard-headed ass I am and finally at the usual bedtime my husband says to me, wake me up when you are ready to go to the E.R because I'm done telling you to go.
A couple of more hours passed, I'm weeping in pain and have now begun crawling on my hands and knees because the very effort of standing was too much for me.
Retching and heaving, the sweat pouring off of my brow I finally give in and weakly call up the stairs ...."help"
my voice is tiny and it sounds so very far away from that I don't even recognize it.
There's no answer from up above, the bedroom door is shut and the husband has on his 'white noise' to drown out the rest of the world. He's cozy in his cocoon of sleep while I am certain that Death is visiting my living room.
I cry out again, "help" this time a little bit louder but again there is no response so I begin my ascent. I climb, hand over hand, knees roughly hitting the hard wood steps and I can see small dust bunnies made from cat hair blow away from my palms. The lights are out except for a small nightlight at the top of the landing and the warm golden glow from the lamp left on downstairs.
It felt like eternity creeping up those stairs, each palm stomp and knee thump just added more pain to my stomach but I finally found myself at the door where I reached up and eased the door open.
I cry out "HELP" and instantly he's awake as I scuttle up onto the mattress. The lights are still out, the gentle hum of the ceiling fan as it spins the only sounds besides his breathing and my huffing and puffing.
My head collapses onto his forearm, hot and wet from the exertion and I tell him to please take me to the E.R. There's something wrong and I can't avoid the truth any longer.
He helps me back down the stairs and starts the car ready for our drive to the hospital, which I should mention we have NO IDEA WHERE IT IS! We have only lived in this location for a short time and never needed to visit the place in the past therefore we don't really know the true whereabouts other than the direction.
The nausea is building up and burbling out of me, hot rank burps that burn my throat. I've got the seat reclining all the way but I'm doubled over clutching myself in a tight hug, wishing that we were there already and wondering why I'm such an idiot.
He's racing along the highway going far and above the speed limit, our headlights piercing the dark night. Beacons to assist us on the journey to heal me.
Exiting the ramp where there is the familiar "H" for hospital the husband turns and starts heading ...in the wrong direction. After about a mile and a half I snap at him, you are going the wrong way..HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT TURN AROUND.
He continues for another mile and agrees at last, he makes a sharp and unexpected turn (unexpected to me) and I'm smashed into the door and again snap at him to get me there all the while I have the windows rolled down to try and capture cool air, gulping back the vomit that's rising up my esophagus and threatening to spill over onto my lap, the floor to splatter the interior of the auto.
We finally arrive and I burst out of my door like a bottle rocket, scramble through the doors which open to me with that swooshing sound- so inviting and promising of healing. I doubt the car had come to a complete stop before my feet hit the pavement, he had pulled right under the canopy where the ambulances park and I say.."park, come in..help."
When I get inside the smell of the industrial cleaners assault my sense of smell and I can feel another burst of barf about to expel but I choke it back and tap, loudly, on the window of the check-in window.
Oh so grateful am I to be immediately welcomed and pulled around the corner to have my vitals taken. No nonsense and fantastic service they rush me back and immediately put me on an IV of medication to stop the vomiting.
My gratitude cannot be expressed and soon the doctor is in with me behind the curtain to explain what is wrong. I'm on my side curled into a fetal ball, the IV lines tangled from my inner arm under my shoulder, around my back because I've tossed and turned on the gurney to find some comfort.
The verdict is in, my gallbladder. They want to get me in for an ultrasound and see how bad it is...Oh it's bad alright. I have a number of little stones floating around inside (too bad they weren't diamonds that could be dug out) and my gallbladder showing signs of illness.
The technician doing my ultrasound states to me that she isn't supposed to say anything and it's for the doctor to report but guarantee that my morning would be spent in surgery.
Sweet pain killers administered..I'm whisked off to have my belly to be filleted and I hear someone telling me to count backwards from 100...99...98...97..ZzzZzzzZ
I hate barfing and every time I do I'm reminded of the misery of that day - when the doctor came to report to me about the procedure he asked how long I'd been having problems such as heartburn. My answer was and still is, I didn't have very bad heartburn at all just once in a while after a rich meal.
He says to me, " I can't understand anyone tolerating as much pain as you had because you could have died tonight, your gallbladder had gangrene and was on the verge of bursting"
ya know something, I'm an idiot.
I remember distinctly something my mom did every morning she woke up and sat upright in the bed and then she belched soundly before heading off to start mom duties.
This really cracked me up, thinking what a piggy she is and why would she burp after sleeping because she didn't have anything to eat during the night.
Now I know from first hand experience, it's sort of a bugle to announce the new day. Sort of "Reveille" to the morning!
The compression you create from sitting upright and all of the trapped gas erupts from your mouth. You really don't have much control over it and it rather surprises me every time it happens.
I suppose that it's better than the alternative that every guy I know seems to do, which is to fart with such abandon you'd guess they have nearly sharted the bed!
My husband sometimes gives me those looks of disapproval when I'm ripping some gaseous emanations from my pie-hole but more often than not finds himself rating me. If he had index cards handy I bet he'd be numerically scoring me such as they do in the Olympics. He also has another rating system in which he measures the belch by "inches".
I might have a gut wrenching thunderous explosion that lasts more than a moment and he'll say,"oh that's a 4 incher". The longer I can stretch it out, the more hollow and reverberating the better the rating.
One burp I don't care to experience however, is the tomato sauce based burp. Over the years, as I've gotten more bling-shine in my hair, I have figured out that I have a strong sensitivity to nightshades (this is the family of food that includes Potatoes, tomatoes, sweet and hot peppers, eggplant, tomatillos, tamarios, pepinos, pimentos, paprika, cayenne, and Tabasco sauce are classified as nightshade foods).
Let me inform you that this pretty well SUCKS DONKEY BALLS. Some of my favorite foods have these ingredients, if not a majority in a single recipe!
I'm from the Midwest where you have meat and potatoes in the winter and BLTs in the summer. These days I live in central Texas and guess what, everything down here is peppers, peppers, cayenne and BOY do I love Tabasco on everything else.
A few years ago there was a morning that I woke up with gastrointestinal stress (yeah, I said it - I was farting and burping), in addition to that I was experiencing stomach cramping that rode very high in the gut. All day long I found myself in discomfort and every hour I stayed awake the worse it seemed to be.
After the first couple of hours of pain I decided to start eating Tums, I'd already taken a heartburn remedy but no relief was in sight.
Whenever I applied pressure to my mushy tummy there was a little bit of alleviation ...but the pain sort of traveled to my low back. It started to feel like I'd been kicked in the kidneys and the kicker decided to lay right across me and jam their knuckles in as deeply as possible.
All day long I'm in agony but refuse to go to the doctor. You ALL know how I feel about going to a physician and this just seemed stupid because of a tummy-ache. Seriously it couldn't be much more than a little stomach flu but I couldn't bring myself to lay down and rest because the symptoms escalated to the most dreaded, puking.
There is nothing worse than barfing your guts out iif you ask me, give me a fever or you can even give me the shits but don't have me upchucking.
The day turned into night and I'm pacing the floors and leaning into furniture to get as much pressure into my stomach to ease the pain, the pain was moving then into my chest and my heart was racing and I was sweating.
During all of this I'm being told what a hard-headed ass I am and finally at the usual bedtime my husband says to me, wake me up when you are ready to go to the E.R because I'm done telling you to go.
A couple of more hours passed, I'm weeping in pain and have now begun crawling on my hands and knees because the very effort of standing was too much for me.
Retching and heaving, the sweat pouring off of my brow I finally give in and weakly call up the stairs ...."help"
my voice is tiny and it sounds so very far away from that I don't even recognize it.
There's no answer from up above, the bedroom door is shut and the husband has on his 'white noise' to drown out the rest of the world. He's cozy in his cocoon of sleep while I am certain that Death is visiting my living room.
I cry out again, "help" this time a little bit louder but again there is no response so I begin my ascent. I climb, hand over hand, knees roughly hitting the hard wood steps and I can see small dust bunnies made from cat hair blow away from my palms. The lights are out except for a small nightlight at the top of the landing and the warm golden glow from the lamp left on downstairs.
It felt like eternity creeping up those stairs, each palm stomp and knee thump just added more pain to my stomach but I finally found myself at the door where I reached up and eased the door open.
I cry out "HELP" and instantly he's awake as I scuttle up onto the mattress. The lights are still out, the gentle hum of the ceiling fan as it spins the only sounds besides his breathing and my huffing and puffing.
My head collapses onto his forearm, hot and wet from the exertion and I tell him to please take me to the E.R. There's something wrong and I can't avoid the truth any longer.
He helps me back down the stairs and starts the car ready for our drive to the hospital, which I should mention we have NO IDEA WHERE IT IS! We have only lived in this location for a short time and never needed to visit the place in the past therefore we don't really know the true whereabouts other than the direction.
The nausea is building up and burbling out of me, hot rank burps that burn my throat. I've got the seat reclining all the way but I'm doubled over clutching myself in a tight hug, wishing that we were there already and wondering why I'm such an idiot.
He's racing along the highway going far and above the speed limit, our headlights piercing the dark night. Beacons to assist us on the journey to heal me.
Exiting the ramp where there is the familiar "H" for hospital the husband turns and starts heading ...in the wrong direction. After about a mile and a half I snap at him, you are going the wrong way..HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT TURN AROUND.
He continues for another mile and agrees at last, he makes a sharp and unexpected turn (unexpected to me) and I'm smashed into the door and again snap at him to get me there all the while I have the windows rolled down to try and capture cool air, gulping back the vomit that's rising up my esophagus and threatening to spill over onto my lap, the floor to splatter the interior of the auto.
We finally arrive and I burst out of my door like a bottle rocket, scramble through the doors which open to me with that swooshing sound- so inviting and promising of healing. I doubt the car had come to a complete stop before my feet hit the pavement, he had pulled right under the canopy where the ambulances park and I say.."park, come in..help."
When I get inside the smell of the industrial cleaners assault my sense of smell and I can feel another burst of barf about to expel but I choke it back and tap, loudly, on the window of the check-in window.
Oh so grateful am I to be immediately welcomed and pulled around the corner to have my vitals taken. No nonsense and fantastic service they rush me back and immediately put me on an IV of medication to stop the vomiting.
My gratitude cannot be expressed and soon the doctor is in with me behind the curtain to explain what is wrong. I'm on my side curled into a fetal ball, the IV lines tangled from my inner arm under my shoulder, around my back because I've tossed and turned on the gurney to find some comfort.
The verdict is in, my gallbladder. They want to get me in for an ultrasound and see how bad it is...Oh it's bad alright. I have a number of little stones floating around inside (too bad they weren't diamonds that could be dug out) and my gallbladder showing signs of illness.
The technician doing my ultrasound states to me that she isn't supposed to say anything and it's for the doctor to report but guarantee that my morning would be spent in surgery.
Sweet pain killers administered..I'm whisked off to have my belly to be filleted and I hear someone telling me to count backwards from 100...99...98...97..ZzzZzzzZ
I hate barfing and every time I do I'm reminded of the misery of that day - when the doctor came to report to me about the procedure he asked how long I'd been having problems such as heartburn. My answer was and still is, I didn't have very bad heartburn at all just once in a while after a rich meal.
He says to me, " I can't understand anyone tolerating as much pain as you had because you could have died tonight, your gallbladder had gangrene and was on the verge of bursting"
ya know something, I'm an idiot.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Would you like to make that a meal deal?
"That comes to $42.50."
Husband's humor at it's finest last night when we are picking up our very late night dinner of Subway sammies because we are absolutely famished, which we shouldn't be considering our afternoon was filled with the amazing scents of dead cows, chickens and pigs smoking away over coals and smoldering wood at the Hico, Texas Steak-Off!
The Subway down the road from our house is essentially one of the 9 circles of Hell for me because they have practically no ventilation and the air quality inside the restaurant chokes me out of the place. It's not as if I necessarily love the ambiance of sitting IN one of these chains for my dining experience but it wouldn't hurt to sit and spread out to gobble my sammich now and then instead of hunching over my lap and/or the steering wheel because I'd be wheezing inside there.
Some days my COPD and asthma are so bad I can't even go inside, I remain out and peer in through the window looking a bit like a dog at the shelter desperately hoping someone will adopt me and bring me a 6" toasted multi-grain turkey and Swiss with Chipotle mayo on it, plenty of lettuce and some spinach and onions and all sorts of other tasty veggies too. Oh, don't forget a bottled water - because I won't drink the water in this Godforsaken town.
We wander in and are raising a ruckus as usual, talking over one another while the Subway Sandwich Artist is trying to inquire about our bread choices. Husband is flapping his lips and has already announced that he is getting a flat bread with turkey and ham (yuck, I hate ham sammich's, all of that cured meat its like having a squashed piece of salt that looks like meat & taste vaguely like meat if you let it linger long enough on your tongue.)
He's asking me, "Are you going to tell her what you want or WHAT?" all the while he's practically indicated one of the bread choices for me which is completely incorrect because I'm switching it up this evening and going with ...the MEATBALL and going to really hog out and get the foot long. I intend on eating all the meat, some cheese and tossing the bread to the dogs.They love that garbage.
So here we are, bickering and having a grand time of it because for us it's not really a fight it's just a show of voices to see who can be more obnoxious.
The 'Artist' on the other hand is getting a bit flustered and I think she's starting to wonder ..WTF.
Finally she's put my bread on the counter, tossed the steaming hemorrhaging orbs onto the gluten rocket and started to slide it over to the vegetable section for a healthy decoration.
While she's preparing to do so, a new couple enters the store and she has to call her co-worker out to assist and as he passes by she picks up my tasty Italian torpedo, she doesn't even consider for a second to give it the cradling it deserves and PLOP PLOP PLOP...1, 2..3...4..and soon 5..6..7..and lastly the 8th sphere plummets to the floor with a thud and a marinara splash.
"Ahhh Man, That has Never happened to me before" she says, her cheeks flushed. She then says, "I just finished sweeping the floor, damn I'm so embarrassed"
I didn't see anything, did you see anything?
Naturally I'm also making fun of her co-worker at the same time, he has on those 'saggin' pants and I'm like.."dude that style is way out".
I can't help it, I think I'm getting old or something. These things bother me! Long hair on boys too!
He's taken offense to this and by the time that sandwich hits the floor he's starting to kid around with us and wants me to pay for the busted up one on the floor, mine, full price for the side items instead of paying for 'meal deals'
He says, "you'd best come back here and clean up"
I say, "okay, I will and I'll just take it down to the shelter...they won't know one way or another where it was. It's all good!"
When they ring up our meal - she is about to announce the total and the husband says..."That comes to $42.50' and all 4 of us start to laugh.
I left the place having him smile and giggle because I was sagging also and warned that I don't wear any drawers (undies) and proceeded to start to yank my pants down and bare my bright white ass.
Husband's humor at it's finest last night when we are picking up our very late night dinner of Subway sammies because we are absolutely famished, which we shouldn't be considering our afternoon was filled with the amazing scents of dead cows, chickens and pigs smoking away over coals and smoldering wood at the Hico, Texas Steak-Off!
The Subway down the road from our house is essentially one of the 9 circles of Hell for me because they have practically no ventilation and the air quality inside the restaurant chokes me out of the place. It's not as if I necessarily love the ambiance of sitting IN one of these chains for my dining experience but it wouldn't hurt to sit and spread out to gobble my sammich now and then instead of hunching over my lap and/or the steering wheel because I'd be wheezing inside there.
Some days my COPD and asthma are so bad I can't even go inside, I remain out and peer in through the window looking a bit like a dog at the shelter desperately hoping someone will adopt me and bring me a 6" toasted multi-grain turkey and Swiss with Chipotle mayo on it, plenty of lettuce and some spinach and onions and all sorts of other tasty veggies too. Oh, don't forget a bottled water - because I won't drink the water in this Godforsaken town.
We wander in and are raising a ruckus as usual, talking over one another while the Subway Sandwich Artist is trying to inquire about our bread choices. Husband is flapping his lips and has already announced that he is getting a flat bread with turkey and ham (yuck, I hate ham sammich's, all of that cured meat its like having a squashed piece of salt that looks like meat & taste vaguely like meat if you let it linger long enough on your tongue.)
He's asking me, "Are you going to tell her what you want or WHAT?" all the while he's practically indicated one of the bread choices for me which is completely incorrect because I'm switching it up this evening and going with ...the MEATBALL and going to really hog out and get the foot long. I intend on eating all the meat, some cheese and tossing the bread to the dogs.They love that garbage.
So here we are, bickering and having a grand time of it because for us it's not really a fight it's just a show of voices to see who can be more obnoxious.
The 'Artist' on the other hand is getting a bit flustered and I think she's starting to wonder ..WTF.
Finally she's put my bread on the counter, tossed the steaming hemorrhaging orbs onto the gluten rocket and started to slide it over to the vegetable section for a healthy decoration.
While she's preparing to do so, a new couple enters the store and she has to call her co-worker out to assist and as he passes by she picks up my tasty Italian torpedo, she doesn't even consider for a second to give it the cradling it deserves and PLOP PLOP PLOP...1, 2..3...4..and soon 5..6..7..and lastly the 8th sphere plummets to the floor with a thud and a marinara splash.
"Ahhh Man, That has Never happened to me before" she says, her cheeks flushed. She then says, "I just finished sweeping the floor, damn I'm so embarrassed"
I didn't see anything, did you see anything?
Naturally I'm also making fun of her co-worker at the same time, he has on those 'saggin' pants and I'm like.."dude that style is way out".
I can't help it, I think I'm getting old or something. These things bother me! Long hair on boys too!
He's taken offense to this and by the time that sandwich hits the floor he's starting to kid around with us and wants me to pay for the busted up one on the floor, mine, full price for the side items instead of paying for 'meal deals'
He says, "you'd best come back here and clean up"
I say, "okay, I will and I'll just take it down to the shelter...they won't know one way or another where it was. It's all good!"
When they ring up our meal - she is about to announce the total and the husband says..."That comes to $42.50' and all 4 of us start to laugh.
I left the place having him smile and giggle because I was sagging also and warned that I don't wear any drawers (undies) and proceeded to start to yank my pants down and bare my bright white ass.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Terrier: the new wayfarer
I've been putting this one off because it freaked me out so bad, but I'm finally able to share the experience and quite frankly you just aren't going to believe me.
Fourteen months ago I adopted Jake, whom I call the Pissin' Yorkie. Originally I'd begged his breeder for a tri-color female but to my surprise she offered this boy and I accepted but I'm still hoping she will sooner or later offer me my much preferred bitch.
Quite frankly I hate dogs (males) because they can't seem to keep their legs down and they can't keep their little dick's from leaking on your furniture or the corners of walls and on occasion your leg.
Iit took me a little bit of time to adjust to Jake and really grow a fondness to him. It didn't help that the little bastard fell head over heels in doggy love with the husband instead of me, and he was supposed to be MY companion. For the first couple of months he'd swoon when the man came home from work, his brown eyes welling up with adoration and he'd instantly forget that he'd had the entire day with me.
Jake came with extra equipment, I wasn't really excited about this and not only that, but some of his equipment was trapped inside which made his surgery a little bit more difficult and expensive. Let me tell you, this gift of a pup was starting to seem less of a gift! He didn't know the first thing about outdoor potty training, as he was a kennel dog and considered it okay to whiz in his area and when let outside he'd avoid the grass and instead head for the concrete patio.
This wasn't going to do for me, and diligent attention was going to have to begin.
Walking a 3 pound dog doesn''t really happen, not when my stride is over 3mph and my legs are 32" long. When I first put a collar on him he reared his little legs up and kicked around as if I had put a saddle on him and he was a wild horse. Imagine my laughter when the teensy leash clipped on and he was confronted with the weight of this added and dragging behind him, broncos around like a stallion.
After a year of his companionship and his switching loyalties from husband to me and back a few more times I'd like to say that he really likes me. I provide for him the additional affection that you can only get from grooming. He LOVES it when we get in the tub and a handful of shampoo starts massaging into his little doggy tresses.
Grooming a Yorkie is extensive, there are several layers of shampooing that takes place. After shampoo you have to condition and then comb and blow dry and comb and after that depending on what you want to accomplish ...scissoring or most recently I've taken to clippering.
Oh yes! Jake is currently sporting a fine mohawk.
As for his travels, you ask this because of the title - let me give you a little insight because of my opening statement...
In early February we had an over-abundance of red-tailed hawks out and about, their beautiful silhouettes circling in the skies. Those wings spread wide as they soar above, it leaves me feeling serene ..or it did until one early wet morning.
Now my days consist of me heading to bed around 4 or 5 a.m. I put the dogs out to do a fast pee trip at 3ish and I get up again at 7 or 730 and let them stay out until 9 before bringing them in. This particular morning I was hurting above average, a week or so before I'd had the slip and hurt myself (bringing in the treadmill if you'll remember reading that particular blog) and the added humidity from the rain, my FMS and just being exhausted all added up to needing to sleep in just a little bit longer but only until 930.
Stretching and knocking off half a dozen hot sweaty cats, I stuff my feet into my slippers and paddle out in my underpants to walk out to the patio and call the dogs in.
The sky is dark, like steel wool and the air is heavy with mist and fog and thick. It's nasty out and already and there's a huge puddle of water pooling on the patio (because the damn yard is slanted). I hollar out for the dogs, Poncho is huddled under the peach tree trying to take cover under the barren branches. The fat drops of water splashing down and pinging him.
Helen on the other hand is in her element, naturally - that dumb ass junkyard dog is bulldozing through every wet hole, making a muddy mess. She's celebrating the life giving water! Flopping to the ground and rolling in any smelly spot she can and mashing the odor into her coat.
Jake is no where to be found!
I yell for him, "Jake"..."Jakey" ..and then I go out into the yard, in my t-shirt and underpants in the cold (it's 50 degrees for sure) and the wet and it's now starting to rain and its not just mist anymore and circle the perimeter of the yard to make sure there's still no spots for escape for him. While I do this I'm calling for him, a little desperation in my voice by this time...and I notice..oh fuck, I notice the hawk dive bomb towards Poncho who has run towards the backdoor that I've left open just enough for him to nose his way back inside.
No fucking way is this really happening! I've been saying for a while now, kind of off hand to one of the cats...you are going to get eaten you dumb shit (because he keeps running out and playing in the yard when I go out in the yard at night). We have all sorts of birds of prey, most especially the hawks, vultures and owls. Recently an owl has taken roost in a large tree in the next door neighbors backyard. I hear it hooting each night and this particular cat is what most laypeople call 'pink'. Imagine how delectable he must look in the dark to this owl running around in the green grass?
So on this wet and cold morning, I've over slept and left my poor little defenseless Jake out in the yard. Soaking wet he weighs barely 3 pounds and I'd just recently given him a full shave down because of my back injury. He literally looked like a squirrel because I'd cut him completely down to nothing, not even a little lions mane. He had to appear to be a meal just handed to him on a platter.
Oh the GUILT I had and soon I'm walking around the yard and the wetness on my face was not just the rain but tears, and I'm sobbing because I've lost my little dog - that I didn't think I really loved.
Oh Jake ...Jake!
I go inside and throw on my husband's jacket and some sweatpants, not really thinking yet I start walking up the street and calling his name in hopes that maybe he'd really just gotten out of the yard. I know that he hadn't because, well he just wouldn't leave the yard because it's not in his little dog nature and the yard is completely closed.
Sniveling and hiccuping I speed dial hubby and probably hard intelligible I say "jake...gone..come home.."
I was so impressed by his showing up because the 10 minutes it takes to get from our house to the office was done immediately I think he just dropped everything and walked right out of a meeting just for me. He found me walking through puddles in my sandals, no socks and the temperature still dropping and now the rain coming down hard. Snot rolling, my chest heaving and I'm saying.." the fucking hawks took Jake!"
He can't believe it so goes driving around the neighborhood calling for him while I walk and believe it or not..I listen very carefully I hear YAP YAP..WHAT..!!!??? Jake? YAP YAP!!!
JAKE...I'm looking frantically around and still I look up and I see another hawk in the sky that was soaring up above.
I'm 5 houses south of my own and I look down the yard and into the yards in the next street and lo and behold...there's my little guy hopping up and down against a fence! He's desperately barking at me, YAP YAP. In this same yard there is a Rottie mix who is wagging his tail quite happily wanting to play with him but keeping his distance for the most part and in this yard there's a tree also bare of leaves with a few long branches..perfect for a large bird to perch upon..perhaps where one would sit and enjoy a meal?
I will never really know how my little dog ended up so far away from my home that cold wet morning but I can only imagine that he went Up Up and Away into the sky on Red Tail Air but wiggled and kicked enough to get set back down and save his little terrier life and come back to live with me.
oh and by the way, he loves me a LOT now since I saved him
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Redtailedhawkeatingsquirrel07.jpg
Fourteen months ago I adopted Jake, whom I call the Pissin' Yorkie. Originally I'd begged his breeder for a tri-color female but to my surprise she offered this boy and I accepted but I'm still hoping she will sooner or later offer me my much preferred bitch.
Quite frankly I hate dogs (males) because they can't seem to keep their legs down and they can't keep their little dick's from leaking on your furniture or the corners of walls and on occasion your leg.
Iit took me a little bit of time to adjust to Jake and really grow a fondness to him. It didn't help that the little bastard fell head over heels in doggy love with the husband instead of me, and he was supposed to be MY companion. For the first couple of months he'd swoon when the man came home from work, his brown eyes welling up with adoration and he'd instantly forget that he'd had the entire day with me.
Jake came with extra equipment, I wasn't really excited about this and not only that, but some of his equipment was trapped inside which made his surgery a little bit more difficult and expensive. Let me tell you, this gift of a pup was starting to seem less of a gift! He didn't know the first thing about outdoor potty training, as he was a kennel dog and considered it okay to whiz in his area and when let outside he'd avoid the grass and instead head for the concrete patio.
This wasn't going to do for me, and diligent attention was going to have to begin.
Walking a 3 pound dog doesn''t really happen, not when my stride is over 3mph and my legs are 32" long. When I first put a collar on him he reared his little legs up and kicked around as if I had put a saddle on him and he was a wild horse. Imagine my laughter when the teensy leash clipped on and he was confronted with the weight of this added and dragging behind him, broncos around like a stallion.
After a year of his companionship and his switching loyalties from husband to me and back a few more times I'd like to say that he really likes me. I provide for him the additional affection that you can only get from grooming. He LOVES it when we get in the tub and a handful of shampoo starts massaging into his little doggy tresses.
Grooming a Yorkie is extensive, there are several layers of shampooing that takes place. After shampoo you have to condition and then comb and blow dry and comb and after that depending on what you want to accomplish ...scissoring or most recently I've taken to clippering.
Oh yes! Jake is currently sporting a fine mohawk.
As for his travels, you ask this because of the title - let me give you a little insight because of my opening statement...
In early February we had an over-abundance of red-tailed hawks out and about, their beautiful silhouettes circling in the skies. Those wings spread wide as they soar above, it leaves me feeling serene ..or it did until one early wet morning.
Now my days consist of me heading to bed around 4 or 5 a.m. I put the dogs out to do a fast pee trip at 3ish and I get up again at 7 or 730 and let them stay out until 9 before bringing them in. This particular morning I was hurting above average, a week or so before I'd had the slip and hurt myself (bringing in the treadmill if you'll remember reading that particular blog) and the added humidity from the rain, my FMS and just being exhausted all added up to needing to sleep in just a little bit longer but only until 930.
Stretching and knocking off half a dozen hot sweaty cats, I stuff my feet into my slippers and paddle out in my underpants to walk out to the patio and call the dogs in.
The sky is dark, like steel wool and the air is heavy with mist and fog and thick. It's nasty out and already and there's a huge puddle of water pooling on the patio (because the damn yard is slanted). I hollar out for the dogs, Poncho is huddled under the peach tree trying to take cover under the barren branches. The fat drops of water splashing down and pinging him.
Helen on the other hand is in her element, naturally - that dumb ass junkyard dog is bulldozing through every wet hole, making a muddy mess. She's celebrating the life giving water! Flopping to the ground and rolling in any smelly spot she can and mashing the odor into her coat.
Jake is no where to be found!
I yell for him, "Jake"..."Jakey" ..and then I go out into the yard, in my t-shirt and underpants in the cold (it's 50 degrees for sure) and the wet and it's now starting to rain and its not just mist anymore and circle the perimeter of the yard to make sure there's still no spots for escape for him. While I do this I'm calling for him, a little desperation in my voice by this time...and I notice..oh fuck, I notice the hawk dive bomb towards Poncho who has run towards the backdoor that I've left open just enough for him to nose his way back inside.
No fucking way is this really happening! I've been saying for a while now, kind of off hand to one of the cats...you are going to get eaten you dumb shit (because he keeps running out and playing in the yard when I go out in the yard at night). We have all sorts of birds of prey, most especially the hawks, vultures and owls. Recently an owl has taken roost in a large tree in the next door neighbors backyard. I hear it hooting each night and this particular cat is what most laypeople call 'pink'. Imagine how delectable he must look in the dark to this owl running around in the green grass?
So on this wet and cold morning, I've over slept and left my poor little defenseless Jake out in the yard. Soaking wet he weighs barely 3 pounds and I'd just recently given him a full shave down because of my back injury. He literally looked like a squirrel because I'd cut him completely down to nothing, not even a little lions mane. He had to appear to be a meal just handed to him on a platter.
Oh the GUILT I had and soon I'm walking around the yard and the wetness on my face was not just the rain but tears, and I'm sobbing because I've lost my little dog - that I didn't think I really loved.
Oh Jake ...Jake!
I go inside and throw on my husband's jacket and some sweatpants, not really thinking yet I start walking up the street and calling his name in hopes that maybe he'd really just gotten out of the yard. I know that he hadn't because, well he just wouldn't leave the yard because it's not in his little dog nature and the yard is completely closed.
Sniveling and hiccuping I speed dial hubby and probably hard intelligible I say "jake...gone..come home.."
I was so impressed by his showing up because the 10 minutes it takes to get from our house to the office was done immediately I think he just dropped everything and walked right out of a meeting just for me. He found me walking through puddles in my sandals, no socks and the temperature still dropping and now the rain coming down hard. Snot rolling, my chest heaving and I'm saying.." the fucking hawks took Jake!"
He can't believe it so goes driving around the neighborhood calling for him while I walk and believe it or not..I listen very carefully I hear YAP YAP..WHAT..!!!??? Jake? YAP YAP!!!
JAKE...I'm looking frantically around and still I look up and I see another hawk in the sky that was soaring up above.
I'm 5 houses south of my own and I look down the yard and into the yards in the next street and lo and behold...there's my little guy hopping up and down against a fence! He's desperately barking at me, YAP YAP. In this same yard there is a Rottie mix who is wagging his tail quite happily wanting to play with him but keeping his distance for the most part and in this yard there's a tree also bare of leaves with a few long branches..perfect for a large bird to perch upon..perhaps where one would sit and enjoy a meal?
I will never really know how my little dog ended up so far away from my home that cold wet morning but I can only imagine that he went Up Up and Away into the sky on Red Tail Air but wiggled and kicked enough to get set back down and save his little terrier life and come back to live with me.
oh and by the way, he loves me a LOT now since I saved him
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Redtailedhawkeatingsquirrel07.jpg
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