The Runs and Staple Guns

Preface: I am a pacifist. To my core. Maybe it's my Quaker name. I cannot watch a PG13 level violent movie - nightmares forever. I had to walk out of the theater when I tried to watch Slum Dog Millionaire. I am a nurturer by nature.

But...

The most darling Mama Pajama

For the first three years (2002 to 2005) when we moved to Paducah, my dogs had the runs. For the first three months the nine dogs and I were living in Bill's studio while the rehab on rest of the house was being completed and Bill was still in Maryland working. We didn't have a fence yet. And within three weeks all nine dogs had copious, constant, explosive, mucousy, foul smelling diarrhea.

You want to talk nightmare?

I didn't know a soul. Hadn't found a vet yet. Oh my God in heaven just the thought of those days gives me palpitations and the butt sweats.

At first I blamed the water, but store bought water made no difference. I cooked for all of the dogs back then, had been for years. Maybe southern chicken had so much more antibiotics that it screwed up their normal flora? The first vets I went to did fecals - normal. No parasites. We would do a round of antibiotics (amoxicillin and flagyl) and they would get better, only to have the diarrhea reappear when the antibiotics stopped. Queen Gracious had a bad neurological reaction to the flagyl, scaring the beejeesus out of me.

After five months poor Luciano had a terrible episode and started pooping frank blood. By then I had found the Paducah Kennel Club and members advised me to go to Ol' Poke 'n Stick. He asked if Bill and I had been sick. No. Did I ever have any problem with any of the dogs before I moved? Nope. Instead of only doing a fecal he looked at a rectal scraping (poor Looch) under his microscope. Was there a lot of rotting vegetation around the house? No, but, hmmm, well, the contractor said that when they removed the old roof it was over two inches thick: layer upon layer of rotten stuff that had been on the house since just after the Civil War. They of course threw it off the roof onto the ground. Our yard.

"Your dog has a bad clostridium infection," said my veterinary Angel, Ol' Poke 'n Stick. "I bet your whole yard is full of spores." Clostridium? As in the anaerobic bacteria which causes botulism, tetanus, and gangrene? Oh. My. God. The dogs were on amoxicillin for three years. (I have recently discovered that my home cooked diet did contribute - it was too low in fiber. High fiber helps the body keep the normal clostridia in check. And to this day my dogs don't tolerate chicken.)

Okay. That's "behind" us. Ancient history. Until two weeks ago when Mama Pajama got sick. Fine one minute, not so much the next. Vomiting. Lethargic. God-awful smelling uncontrollable squirts. I was sure she had some horrible cancer. I cried when I made her appointment. I cried while I sat in the waiting room. I cradled her in my arms when I told Ol' Poke 'n Stick, "She'll be fourteen on the 29th of this month. If this is something bad, we are not going to keep her alive for a miserable week, so that I can get used to the idea of losing her. I do not want her to be miserable, not for a minute."

Ol' Poke 'n Stick gave Mama a pat. He smelled her breath and looked at her gums. I'm thinking he's going to do blood work and abdominal x-rays and find some lethal tumor. He lifted her tail and sniffed. He gave her another pat and grabbed a Q-tip, lifted her tail again and lived up to his nickname. He disappeared out of the exam room, stinky Q-tip in hand.

I held my Mama Pajama in my arms and wept. A few minutes later Ol' Poke 'n Stick stuck his head back in the door. "Come look at this. Leave her here. She'll be okay for a minute. I want you to see this." I left a relieved, if slightly bewildered Mama Pajama in the exam room and walked to the microscope.

"Look," he said. (Ol' Poke 'n Stick overestimates me. I wouldn't know what I was looking at under a microscope unless the bugs wore name tags.) But, what I saw looked just like this:

"It's clostridium," he said. "She's going to be fine. We just need to give her some antibiotics, is all." I was so busy happy dancing all over that fact that Mama Pajama didn't have some horrible terminal illness, my brain too busy with the oh thank you God wanting to hug Ol' Poke 'n Stick, I picked up Mama Pajama and her prescription and tra la la'd to the van.

Halfway home it hit me: the roof! (This is where the "GUNS" part of the title of this post comes in.) The fudging, fluffing, goddamned roof!

Seems like our contractor thought we were crazy stupid Yankees who bought this old shell of a house and would never make it here and would be high-tailing it back to cooler climes before the paint dried. Because last fall we had to replace our front porch roof which had rotted off. It had been a new front porch roof just eight years ago. Oh and we had to replace every single window trim on every single window on the new additions. They had rotted off as well. Our original contractor wouldn't return my calls. The (reputable) contractor who did the repair work took photos. He just scratched his head in wonder. "This is so basic," he said. "I mean it's code, but it's just basic." Something about backwards flashing and no flashing and really dumb stuff.

Bill and I just scraped up the $8600 to do the repairs, grateful that I have a job, and chalked it up to life's experiences.

But remember when I was at the National, Bill had to cope with a major roof leak? The roof had leaked several times over the years and we were always having to replace shingles. I'm no builder, but this struck me as odd, what with the whole thing being brand new. We got a (reputable) roofer to take a look. He came down off his ladder with his eyes bugged out. "There's no vapor barrier on your roof," he said. "I mean my GOD! That's CODE! Why in the hell would anyone bother to put on a roof without a moisture barrier? I'm really sorry, but you need a new roof."

Once again all the shingles came down off the roof onto our yard with a fresh load of clostridium spores. The new roof was $9200. We talked to a lawyer in Lexington. We shouldn't have had to pay for the porch, the window trim or the new roof, but we have. The contractor did return Bill's call. I think his ears perked up when he heard Lexington lawyer.

I was willing to be quiet and see what happened. But now my dogs are sick, again. Sam I Am started straining and straining with nothing coming out and then before work on Saturday at 5:40 AM he vomited a gallon of undigested food. Poor thing had to go out a bazillion times and Saturday night Swede William started. Monday morning I took specimens in from each of them: clostridia galore.

I'm telling you right now, my dear friends, I cannot work twelve, thirteen, fourteen hour shifts and get up to let eight dogs out six times each during the night. My friend Heather (whose husband is a good lawyer) saw my van leaving the vet's and she called me to see if everything was okay. I fumed. I said the shitty contractor wouldn't return my calls. "Maybe you should go to his office and talk to him in person," suggested sweet little Heather. She had no idea of the seed she planted.

Patience the Pacifist had a thought. The Great Satan whispered in my ear and I listened and I listened hard.

"I could go to his office," I said. "I could buy one of those staple-y things they use to put the shingles on. I could go to his office and I could point the staple-y thing at his crotch. I could tell him I am a nurse. Being a nurse I would know that if I were to staple your testicles to your chair [oh dear readers I am relishing those words: staple. your. testicles.] that you will survive. Or, you and I could drive to your bank. You could get out $8600 for the porch and the window trim plus $9200 for the roof, and, oh let's get an even thousand for the vet bills I've incurred over the years which doesn't even come close."

Sweet little Heather sucked in some air on the other end of the phone. "Patience? Are you all right?"

Oh I hadn't felt this good in years! The money is awful and I am working too hard to be pissing it away because of some shoddy construction work, but that was just what it was and you go on with life. But the bastard's corner-cutting code violating crap is making my dogs sick. THAT WILL NOT DO.

So. I feel marvelous. The sumbitch pays us back and soon, or I dream of stapling his balls to his chair.

It's all just a little fantasy, don't worry. In reality, I will pray for the man. Anyone who makes a living ripping people off can't like himself much. Maybe since Bill and I have been MORE than decent about this he will restore my faith in human kind. It just surprised me that I was able to imagine a scene that I wouldn't have been able to watch on a movie!

But actually? I couldn't even get to the stapling part in my imagination: in my fantasy we just went to the bank and got the money he owed us and I thanked him very kindly.

Patience the Pacifist lives

hug your sweet hounds

Fat Charlie's Home Safe

So, maybe once or twice you've heard me mention that I love my vets?
I LOVE MY VETS!!!

First thing this morning I loaded up the whole waggle (minus Delia and Looch who went a'walkin' with Bill) and headed to Ol' Poke n Stick's before breakfast. (Hey, if Fat Charlie couldn't have breakfast, none of us could. That's only fair.) Wait, let me back up a minute.

Last night was awful. Pure personal hell. The fourth of freaking July.

I hate fireworks. Long before I had boom-phobic dogs, I hated fireworks. If you sneak up behind me and say "boo" you better duck and run and protect your private parts. I respond to being startled by hitting. Hard. While I scream. And I kick. Hard. Then I yell at you for being so STUPID. It is completely reflexive and I've been that way all my life. So I hate things that supposedly are going to look all pretty and then out of nowhere go boom.

In the country, you loaded up and went to the church or the fairgrounds and watched the fireworks. My mother learned early on, when she couldn't get me out from under our car, where I lay in a fetal position with my hands over my ears, screaming "Stop it stop it stop it," that it was better if she and I stayed home and popped popcorn and watched TV. They tried to condition me to liking them by buying sparklers and making a big deal of how fun it all was. Bull Shit. You couldn't fool me even at age six. But, in the country, at least home was safe. You could hear the bangs in the distance, but home was safe.

Then as an adult I worked in the Operating Room. Oh yeah, those blown off hands, feet, eyes: whewie, there's some fun. Idiots.

When my first whippet, Gracious, was around eight, my teenage son thought it was a good idea to shoot a squirrel out his bedroom window while she was sleeping on his bed. Thus began her intense terror at sudden loud noises. Caruso (Lindy Loo's great grandfather) and Giacomino (Very Old Dog) both developed old age thunder phobia. They would lie in some corner and tremble violently, panting with the curled-up panic tongue, eyes popping and nothing nothing nothing could I do for them. We all suffered through the week of the freaking fourth.

This year would be the first year since we moved here to the city that I didn't have a boom phobic dog. What a relief. It's just so different in this southern city. Cherry bombs, bottle rockets, things that make that ZZZZZzingBAMBOOOOM going off all over. The city sponsors a fireworks show over the river - only eight blocks away and bad enough though it lasts only an hour and a half and is done by people who supposedly know what they are doing. But everyone goes to Missouri and buys their own fireworks and sets them off all over. I hate it. But at least this year I wouldn't have an old dog trying to die of a heart attack.

Or so I thought. My neighbors had apparently bought out the entire state of Missouri. (Sorry Missouri, I guess you guys did without, lucky dogs.) Early on, way before the city's show started, HUGE explosions started going off in the empty lot right across from our house. And then over our house. All the dogs started looking alarmed. Then one firework went haywire (imagine that) and did the falling bomb sizzle noise as it shot horizontally past our TV room window and then exploded. I hit the floor and the dogs went ballistic.

We were clearly being attacked.

This went on and on and on. The city's display started; we could barely hear it over the amateur crap right outside our door. And over our roof. And in our yard.

I was already worried about Fat Charlie's surgery today. Anytime you anesthetize a thirteen year old dog, well... I said, "Let's just go to bed." I tried to let the dogs out to potty, but they were WAY too freaked out. Our world was exploding. We went up to our room. I couldn't find Mama Pajama and Fat Charlie. Found Mama Pajama in Bill's study, eyes huge and worried. I got everyone in our bedroom and handed out treats. No Fat Charlie. The calm dog, the unflappable. The one who was going to protect me - tooth and nail - with all he had when an old drunk guy thought my house was where he needed to be one night when Bill was out of town. My bravest fastest Whippet who had to have surgery in the morning. My oldest dog. Thirteen.

I found him in a dark crate downstairs in the dog room. Panting. Trembling violently. Eyes wide with terror. He didn't know how to protect us from this. I got angry.

My other sweet neighbor called. Her thunderphobic dog, Cooper - a lab/border collie cross - was wild with fear. "I'm afraid he can't keep this up much longer," she said. Should we call the police? It's our neighbors, our friends. But this is ridiculous. Those can't be legal.

This is just what my old dog's heart needed nine hours before anesthesia. It was getting louder over my house and he was getting more frantic. I asked Bill to read in our bedroom to keep the other dogs company and I took Fat Charlie and Sam I Am (for company) down to the van. We were getting out of there. As we ran from our breezeway to the van one exploded right over our heads and the burning things landed all around us. I screamed, "Stop it stop it stop it," just like my six year old self. It didn't stop. As soon as we left my immediate neighborhood Fat Charlie settled down and went to sleep. I called my sweet neighbor with Cooper to tell her what a good idea the van was. She answered her cell by saying, "We had to get Cooper out of there, so we're in our car out by the Mall." They had left before I did.

I tried coming home twice, but the neighbors were still at it. As long as I kept driving and Charlie couldn't hear the idiocy, he slept. We came home around eleven; the show across the street was over. But it had moved to the back yard. Fat Charlie didn't mind the firecrackers too much and he was worn out. He finally went to sleep. I did too. Around 1:30.

Okay, now I'm back to loving my vets. They let Fat Charlie wait in his own crate - his safe place - in my van while the pre-op shot went to work. They let me stay with him, with my quiet calm voice until the Propafol was injected and he no longer knew or cared what was going on. I took the rest of the waggle out to the kennel club to burn off their energy. My vets called me: Fat Charlie's surgery was over and I could pick him up in an hour.

He was FINE.

Now we're all lying in the kitchen/dining room. Fat Charlie's rear legs aren't working too well yet, but they will. He stopped panting when we got home. It's normal quiet here. Mama Pajama is sleeping a couple of feet away from her brother on Bill's armchair. Sammy is curled up by my head and Swede William is lying on my right leg. My foot's asleep.

As awful as last night was for me and for Fat Charlie, I kept thinking of a nurse I know. Her husband served in Iraq. He suffered from injuries from a roadside bomb. And now from PTSD. What the hell was last night like for him? When explosions brought back memories of friends' being blown to bits and his own stunning injuries. I kept thinking of him.

I HATE fireworks. I HATE fireworks. I HATE FIREWORKS. Hooray for the FIFTH of July. I hope all of you and your dogs are okay.

hug your hounds

How to Walk Dogs Backwards

Stella asked how we manage to walk three dogs, backwards, while filming, as seen in the video on the previous post.

It's easy. I am a marvellous dog trainer. I wish I could share my secrets with you, but really it is an inborn talent. A gift. Like charisma, this can't be taught or learned, it just is.

the end-
Patience

Who's training whom????

[Sam I Am here. I've distracted the Dear Servant momentarily. (No great challenge there, bless her heart. As the humans say in these parts. It translates into: the woman hasn't got a single bone to chew on.) We let her think that she has some magical gift of whatever she was talking about. It makes her feel good about herself, and honestly she has so little to feel good about that every little bit helps.

Here is the real scoop. The Elders tell me that in the Olden Times they all walked together in fields and woods full of every sort of delectable vermin. They speak of fox, groundhogs, bunnies, evil squirrellies, and something magical called deer. Of course the Elders knew that the Servant was crippled, blind, and senseless, so they would allow her to tether herself to them so she wouldn't get lost. As clumsy as she was, even back in her relative youth, more often than not she would land with an 'ooph' on her bouncy belly whenever the vermin were sighted.

A large, gelatinous, human anchor. Screaming obscenities with her face in the mud. (Makes me giggle just a little bit to think of it. Silly human.)

Here and now we walk in this city. No fields, unless she drives us to the Kennel Club. No fox, no groundhogs, no magical deer. (I sure would like to chase one of those one day; they sound great!) Plenty of Evil City Squirrellies who show no respect, Evil C.A.T.s who are V.I.L.E., loose dogs who are danger-danger-dangerous, and lots of cars and trucks.

She doesn't walk us all at once any more. She makes us take Turns. I get two turns because I have taken my Great Uncle Giacomino's place and she can't stand to be away from me for a minute and a half. When it's not our Turn we wait in our Dog Room and get a biscuit and howl our heads off to let her know how stinky not-our- Turns are.

It's taken us eight years, but we finally trained her. She used to (close your ears, Dogs, this is for the humans only) jerk on our necks and froth at the mouth and yell something which made no sense like nonobaddogs or some such unintelligible nonsense. Of course we payed absolutely NO attention to this demonstration of human stupidity; we barked louder and pulled harder. REALLY! I mean. She's not a bad human, but, sigh, she is a human.

One day she had a treat in her pocket. We were dutifully alerting her to the danger of a horrid, rabid, stinkypoopbutt C.A.T. at the top of our lungs and she was getting ready to behave badly. I said, "Hey Idiot Servant! You have treats in your pocket. They might be more interesting than that ol' stinkypoopbutt C.A.T."

She didn't get it (no surprise) so I bumped her pocket with my wonderful long skinny nose.

HELLO!!! LIGHTBULB!!! The human thinks she has a GREAT IDEA!!! Don't you just love them? So now our walks are a treat a minute. We don't pull her? We get a treat. We don't bark our heads off? We get more treats. Treats treats treats!!!

Yah, life is good. We can still bark our heads off at anything we want when we're in our Yard. Unless she's near the Flying Object Of Doom (she calls it the plastic watering can). Then we just run to her instead, and... GET TREATS!!! They are so easy to train if you are consistent and get on their level.


goose your humans-

Sam I Am]

Cyber Friends

Recently one of my Facebook friends wrote

"I love sitting in my living room on a gray, rainy day reading FB and feeling like my friends and relatives are near and knowing a little bit of what they are up to. I know it's a counterfeit form of intimacy, but it beats only seeing y'all at reunions and funerals!"

That got my attention.

This friend was, for years, My Best Friend. And then life scattered us willy-nilly. We've reconnected through Facebook.

Is cyber friendship real? I had thought about this before. I have made lifetime friends on an Internet group called Whippet World. I have gotten to know people through their blogs, and through their comments on this blog. I care about these folks. I miss them when I'm not able to communicate in cyberland. (Too much of that going around lately!)

I think I get to know the hearts of these online friends. Their very center. I've revealed things about myself on my own blog that would be nearly impossible to talk about in real life, except with my husband or My Best Friend. And I have stared at my computer, covering my mouth to hold in a sob as I read of a bad diagnosis received by a wonderful man in another country. Oh no, oh no, oh no. I have leaked tears all over one of my worried dogs when I read that someone I've never met has lost a pet. I'm so very, very sorry, I write. I will hold you in my heart.

There is time to sit, to reflect, and to delete. We can distill.

Of course, we all know that anonymity of cyberspace also brings out the very ugliest of human conversation. Which is I guess the dark side of all this good.

Because I think it is good that whole communities are out there, being present to each other. Showing that they care. Listening. Pouring out their hearts and allowing me to care. Making me smile and laugh. Sitting alone in my little sewing/computer room laughing so hard that I have to get up and pee.

I imagine pen pals of the 1800's. Distant cousins, or long-separated acquaintances. Casual friendships which deepened. Sharing intimacies in their letters, which were shared with none of their real friends.

I think it all comes down to the power of the written word. And our power to care.

So let me quote my wise friend again.

"I love sitting in my living room on a gray, rainy day reading FB and feeling like my friends and relatives are near and knowing a little bit of what they are up to."

Me too.

hug your hounds and your Internet friends

Swede William Speaks

[Regular readers of this blog will note that I rarely dare -- presume -- to put words into the whippets' mouths. But. Every rule is made to be broken.]



Ja. My world is topsy-turvy upside down. The crazy servant has flipped her big bottom and I suffer as a result. You read my saddest story and tell me what to do.

I am an honorable dog who loves the life, ja? You ask anyone, I love all. Strange hairy dogs hump me and do I bite? No I don't. I don't bark at doggy visitors outside our fence, no. Besides, I am the best show dog ever, see this?

Oh the handsomeness of me. See the Judge? He is saying, "Never have I seen such an excellent example of whippet perfection!" He was so overwhelmed he nearly fainted. And the servant. Just look at her beaming with happiness and pride and big belly bursting. Ja. Swede William you're so wonderful. I hear that all the time from the wacko.

Now, recently our servant has got some kind of lostheimer's disease. She does not wait for me to gently wake her up with my lovely songs to make us breakfast. No. Now the dumma feta kossa gets up before light and leaves us. Day after day. And then she can't find her way back to us until long after dark.

It is a great concern.

So, being a good kind dog I try to help. I mark my glorious essence all over the house so she can smell her way home. Does she say Oh Swede William I thank you for your generous sacrifice of your precious bodily fluid for my safety and well-being? Does she say that? NO!

She puts a torture bucking strap on my private delicious parts!!! (Hide the young puppies' eyes from this next photo which will make their dreams too frightening.)

First it was every dog with a winky. Now it is just me. The torture.

And then last night when she went to teach MY class at MY Kennel Club and FORGOT TO TAKE ME, once again I did my best even with the bucking strap around my marvelousness to help her find her way home. I marked upstairs and down, soaking the torturous madness fastened around my spectacular bits.

Did she thank me for my efforts?

No she did not. She showed me where my helpful fluids were decoratively sprinkled. And she flipped out. I haven't seen such abominable behavior since I suggested to Luciano that he share his rawhide chewy. She told me it was unacceptable. That I knew better, dammit. That This has to stop.

Here I am with my head on her enormous hind leg. I tried to tell her I was trying to help. My girlfriend, Teka, pointed out that for all anyone knew Luciano could be getting back at me for that chewy incident and he could be peeing on my bucking strap to incriminate my perfectly innocent Swedish self.


I have one thing I would like to say to the servant.

I don't know how to say it in English, but in Swedish it is phhhfffftttt!! And there is wetness involved.

Oh I won't because I am a good dog. But how do I let my servant know that her being lost is unacceptable. That she knows better, dammit. That This has to stop.

What's a dog to do?

hump your humans, especially the lostheimers ones

Catch Up

Not possible.

I'm too far behind. (A warning: this is one of those self-indulgent, not entertaining, unamusing introspective posts. Do move on to your next blog, without a second thought, and with my blessing.)

First, happy new year, happy new decade to you all. I have never been so happy to leave a decade in the dust of the past. That sounds short-sighted, I suppose. Certainly good things happened, and I built a lot of character from the bad.

The worst times help my writing: characters acquire depth; scenes fly from life into fiction; dialog becomes believable.

So, yeah, I'm grateful for everything that has happened in the last ten years. But. BYE!!! SEE YA!!! TOODLE LOOO!!!!

My goal for the next decade is to have more influence on my own life. (Oh boy, I said it out loud.) I watch my husband direct his life. I watch in awe. Stupefied. Dang. All the while I let my own self be buffeted by events that blow around me. I feel impotent. I'm an expert at feeling "done to". Not so good at feeling "hey, I'm in charge here."

That - allowing life to direct me, instead of vice versa - can lead one into the most unattractive role. The role of [ick] victim. "Poor me," she wailed. "Look at what life has done to me!" [Puke.]

Nope. This is the decade where I take charge. It dawned on me that my dogs can't finish their championships unless I show them. I can't get my novel published unless I finish it.

Goodbye to the ought decade. You know, two thousand ought nine. I ought to blah blah blah. I had made some take charge decisions already. I decided to go back to hospital nursing. At first I was confused. It felt a little like life did that to me. And it has been, without exception, the absolute hardest thing I have done in my life. As in most difficult. As in for a while there, swallowing all the pills in the medicine cabinet looked like a better plan. Much better. It would be a kindness to Bill, the dogs, everyone. (I got hung up on Laurie and Heather, and my sister Martha.)

The Bad Voices can sing so loud.

I drowned them though. I drowned them by singing Hallelujah with four guys from Norway at the top of my lungs. I drowned them by going back to the hospital the next morning, when I thought the amount I had to learn was impossible. By asking my little saint of a preceptor to show me one more time, and by trying to believe her when she said really, you are doing fine. By saying you're welcome to the patient who looked into me and said thank you. By deciding not to run for re-election to the Board of the American Whippet Club. That was hard. But when the contents of your medicine cabinet tell you that you have too much on your plate, hey, maybe it's time to scrape something off.

By deciding to stop being a ninny.

It feels pretty good. I like life in the non-ninny lane so far. I'm looking forward to it.

hug your hounds

I *should* have said...

ARRRGH!

I was asked to appear before the Mayor and the City Commissioners last night, to remind the good folks of Paducah about the dog ordinance already in place. I had it all thought out: I'd be ever so witty, and I'd touch on several points that are of vital importance to Paducah's dogs and dog owners.

But lordy it's hard in front of God and TV cameras and the American Flag to remember what you were going to say. Especially when I left my notes in the bag at my feet. Could I have just bent down and retrieved them? Apparently, that was too much for my addled brain to accomplish.

The ordinance says, among other things that at City sponsored events, dogs must be on a leash no longer than three feet, and they must be muzzled. Now before you all get your tails stuck in a fan, let me explain, since I served on the committee which drafted said ordinance. We're talking about downtown events, with thousands of people, food, and loud music. Local dogs aren't used to big crowds on city streets. Paducah hosts Downtown After Dinner a fantabulous program where every Saturday night from May through October, the streets are closed to car traffic and live entertainment is on every block. The streets and sidewalks are jammed with people.

Before the ordinance, a Bad Thing was happening. Some Irresponsible Dog Owners (boooooo, hisss, wrinkle nose and spit) were bringing sad dogs on heavy chains to Downtown After Dinner, with the sole purpose of intimidation. Yuck and poor dogs and I've already said boo hiss spit.

But a greyhound rescue group also came to advocate for the sweet greyhounds looking for homes. (YAY!! HOORAY!!! GOOD HUMANS!!!)

The ordinance committee didn't want to ban all dogs, so we made a compromise. Dogs would be muzzled and on short leads.

During last night's commission meeting, Commissioner Kaler asked if I would be willing to bring one of my dogs to Downtown After Dinner and talk to folks about the proper muzzles, etc. (People have been using groomer's muzzles which clamp the dogs' mouths shut. OH this is dangerous as the dog can't pant. The appropriate muzzle is a basket muzzle, pictured above.)

Now, Dear Readers, this is where I missed a wonderful opportunity. I should have answered, "Commissioner Kaler, thank you for the chance to make this point. I don't think Downtown After Dinner is a particularly fun thing for most dogs. They are on the pavement which is at least ten degrees hotter. They are surrounded by a claustrophobic ocean of humans. The bands are loud for us; imagine what it would feel like to ears that are exponentially more sensitive than ours. I personally feel that my dogs would be happier at home."

But no. I did not say that. I looked like a deer in headlights for a moment, and then my mouth said, "Yes. Yes I would." (Sam I Am is going to kill me.) Somewhere my brain was flashing "WRONG ANSWER" but I couldn't get the right answer to my mouth in time.

My mouth was busy saying other clever things. I had given each commissioner an unlit poop candle and a poop baggie. Commissioners Gault and Abraham gamely did on-camera demonstrations of proper poop bagging technique. I said, "I'm sure City Commissioners must become adept at dealing with poop on a regular basis. Not dog poop, but, you know Commissioner poop."

That didn't come out quite right!

hug your hounds

WKMS and I am a Poop Head

There are things worth supporting in this life. Top of my list is National Public Radio. If you've been deprived of shows like Prairie Home Companion, Talk of the Nation, Fresh Air, This American Life, and NPR news, for heaven's sake, end your deprivation!!!

Our local NPR affiliate is WKMS. They do a fantastic job. One of my requirements for moving to this charming neck of the global woods was that there be an NPR station. As we were driving on our very first trip to Western Kentucky, and I was fiddling with the radio dial, I found one. What with the static and the accent, I thought they were saying, "WPMS". It had been my dream to write commentary - little stories - for NPR and how Bill and I laughed at the notion that my big break would come on a radio station called WPMS. But we were hearing wrong. WKMS. WKMS. Got it.

(And in a fun twist, I had not yet had the nerve to contact the station about writing little stories for them. I had written a post to the small artist's email group about living in this neighborhood. That was forwarded (unbeknown to me) to the editor of Paducah Life, where it was printed. The folks at WKMS read it there and asked me if I would record it for them. Well, yes I would! Jumping jacks, high fives, and cartwheels ensued. That's what happens when little dreams come true all by themselves.)

Fund raising this year is t.i.g.h.t. Budgets are slashed. Charitable giving is down. But here's what I figure. I figure unbiased news coverage is more important than ever. I figure I want to hear my programs and not have them sacrificed to hard times. I figure that's worth my financial support, and my time and effort.

So, when Program Director Mark Welsh emailed me last week and asked if I would be willing to record a piece for the fundraiser, I said sure. Maybe I should have declined. You, Dear Readers, know this has been a challenging time for me. My head is not screwed on tight. I am hanging by my stubby little fingernails to Real Life, as it spins with all the calamitous energy of a very angry bucking bull.

But I wrote my piece and I drove down and recorded it. I called myself a Poop Head twice, and I sang Linda Ronstadt. A capella. OH DEAR!!! I forgot I can't sing. I mean I can sing with the best of them, just not particularly well. You can hear it HERE. Oh please be kind.

If you feel compelled to make a donation to WKMS after listening, or just out of embarrassment for me or pity, (obviously I have no pride) be sure to mention that you are no longer a Poop Head, either. That will bolster my self esteem times a million. Misery loving company and all that.

And if you are a local Dear Reader, WKMS would love if you could take five minutes on this survey:

Simply click on the image. It's fun and you get to tell them what you want to have on the radio. Cool.

hug your hounds - mine are listening to WKMS!

Enough

Yes, Dear Readers, you have been kind and more through this rant. I will share a few important or funny details and then get back to being a good blogger - sticking to stories of the good stuff (like poop picking up techniques) and the joys of living with these wonderful, amazing animals.

I remember at the National a very generous Canadienne offering to lend me a skirt to show Swede William in, since I had left my show clothes hanging on my bedroom door in Kentucky. Oh, Dear Readers. I recalled that conversation, lying in bed the other night. It went like this:

Kind Canadienne: Oh I have a skirt that would be perfect! It's very cute.
Brown houndstooth, and it's flippy and has pockets. It would look really
nice
with your dog.

Patience: Really? That would be
great.

KC: Okay, just come up to my room anytime.

P:
Ummm.

KC: What?

P: Well, I still get nervous when I
show... and...

KC: You don't!

P: I do. And
when I get nervous, I get the butt sweats. I don't want to get
the butt
sweats in your cute flippy skirt!

KC: (laughing)

P:
But thanks anyway.

KC: (Still laughing) Who doesn't get the butt
sweats! Don't worry about
it!

P: No, really. But thanks.

Sigh. Thank goodness the Kind Canadienne has a gentle heart and a great sense of humor.

Carolyn's Friend Number One (hereafter known as Saint Friend Number One) drove Easy and Spice all the way to TOLEDO. (I had driven to Toledo from Atlanta to see my sister.) There was a park adjacent to the hospital parking lot with a nice place to walk, and lots of squirrels. Easy and Spice got to sleep in bed with me and Swede William. It worked out just fine. They were very excited to see me, and I them, and William was glad to make their acquaintence. We had a couple of days to bond before heading back to Paducah.

I was worried about incorporating them into the waggle, especially since I had been gone so long. I stopped about a half hour out and pottied and fed them. When we got home first, I went in and oh did I hug my hounds! And I hugged my Bill. I had to face the house without a Very Old Voice welcoming me home. After greetings were thoroughly exchanged, I put up the waggle and brought in Easy and Spice.

Easy

Easy (you can see his tumors)

Spice

Easy, bottom in the black bed, Spice on the bench, with Sam, Lindy Loo and Swede William



Easy and Spice walking with our friend Francie

I let Fat Charlie and Mama Pajama in first, and they sniffed for a second until their eyes and tails showed their recognition of their old pals. They hadn't seen each other in four or five years. And one by one the rest of the waggle came in. Easy and Spice were gracious, and I was really proud of my guys and gals. There wasn't a raised whisker. Not a hackle to be seen. Just lots of wags and sniffs and life was grand.

I showed Easy and Spice their new digs. Easy and Spice showed that they belonged here by peeing on every bed, chair, doorframe, expanse of floor or carpet, wall, you name it. It was rather comical, me following them around with a bottle of woolite oxy in one hand and a clorox rag in the other, occasionally shrieking "Oh please! Oops! Oh well. Ack! Oh Not THERE! Woopsie!".

The good news is that after that initial marking spree (which only lasted as long as the home tour did) there has been not one accident. You may recall that Easy had surgery for thyroid cancer in January of '08. That was supposed to give him a good quality ten months to a year. We prayed that he would spare Carolyn the heartache of losing him, and good boy he did! The cancer is back, and wearing a collar was causing bruising, so, he is breaking my cardinal rule of wearing a tag collar at all times. He goes naked. I am using a front attaching harness on him for his walks and it works just GREAT!

Fat Charlie by rights should be the bed dog now. He's letting his friend Easy have that priviledge, and Easy, who's been a couch dog but never a bed dog before is a natural at it!

I see Carolyn every time I look at her sweet dogs' faces. And that's good. I'm grateful for fifteen wonderful years with a once in a lifetime dog and that's good. I have the most courageous big sister in the world. And I ask your prayers for her.

hug your hounds

and thank you for your amazing kindness, understanding, and generosity

Oh what the heck.

And while I'm at it, I would like to say one thing publicly. My husband made a critical point, which I dearly wish someone would talk about.

This presidential election isn't about race.

It's about

PREJUDICE.

Drawing today!!!

Oh NO!!! Yesterday was supposed to be the reader appreciation give-away drawing. But, and this will surprise not one person who knows me - I forgot.

OH GOOD GRIEF!

Let's see. Here are my excuses, in no particular order:

1. Bill's been gone for a week and gets home tonight!!! Yipppeeeee!! I like to think of myself as a strong, independent woman hear me roar, but without Bill as a daily presence in my life I'm a bit untethered. OK, so I am more than a bit untethered to begin with. The fact is, that Bill is my life. He is my breath and my pulse, the essence of my me-ness. He makes me laugh and he makes me think and he makes me better.
2. I am doing a book reading today! Fifty-three people have signed up to hear me at the Library. I'm more than a little nervous. I wish I could take Sam I Am with me for courage and inspiration! If you, dear readers, could send mesmerizing, powerful, irresistible "Buy... her... book..." thoughts to the unsuspecting fifty-three in the audience, I would be most beholden to you! And while you are at it, you could send me a thought of "you can do it" and "ha ha ha you are just so entertaining ho ho he he he!" Oh Lordy, I am just going to stand up there and bore fifty-three people into a deep coma and they won't have enough ambulances to handle them all and we'll have to call in the National Guard and it will make the national news and forever I'll be known as the most boring human alive and I'll be in the Guinness book of records and we'll starve.
3. It got cold again. My brain, that itty bitty piece of it that is still rattling around in the hollow space in my head where the whole thing used to live, is frozen. (It's supposed to warm up today.)
4. Since Bill has been gone, there are many more dogs sleeping in my bed. They rob me of my oxygen and dig toenails into my eye sockets and emit noxious gasses which drug my brain into a forgetful state so that right after I give them biscuits, my gassed brain thinks, "Hey! I need to give the dogs their biscuits!"
5. Forgetfulness is a sign and symptom of pasta withdrawal. (So is the five pounds I've lost this week!)

Those are my excuses, and I'm sticking to them. I'll go print up all the entries and do the drawing and post results.

hug your inspirational hounds

For Dog Lovers Only

There are some things that only dog lovers can understand.

Now, that said, I do try to be socially acceptable, for the most part, in non doggy circles as well. I am a total NPR geek, listening during all my waking hours, which helps me to be marginally conversant with people who don't know a dew claw from a stop pad. And on the rare occasion when the television is on, it is usually turned to Antiques Road Show or Bill Moyers or American Masters on PBS. (Except I have this morbid fascination with the Biggest Loser, don't even ask me why, and I do like Law & Order and the Medium, so there's some hope for me.)

Yesterday, as the dear Very Old Dog hinted, Bill had surgery in Nashville. We left the house at 4:37 AM for the 8:00 AM surgery time. The dogs bounded downstairs at O-dark-thirty, in a high state of anticipation because usually an arising at such an hour spells a dog show or field trial and no one wants to be left home. Oh the sad faces when the realization struck that there would be no canine travellers!

Very Old Dog, I believe, could even get politicians and kings to behave with one of his looks of disappointment. (World Leader: "Send the Troops into harm's way to make me more powerful!" Very Old Dog, worry wrinkles in his dear brow: "I'm disappointed in you, World Leader. Perhaps you could work on a diplomatic solution and not make people die and lose their loved ones." World Leader, scratching Very Old Dog behind his ears: "Yes, well, um. Never mind. Let's schedule some peace talks.")

But much to the collective doggy delight, our dear friend and neighbor and wonderful canine artist Karen came to their rescue. And knowing I would be relieved to hear that all was well, she called me on my cell phone.

Want to get some attention in a crowded waiting room at a busy surgicenter of a major teaching hospital? Easy! Just have the following conversation:

Hi! Thanks so much for looking after the kids! I just hated leaving them alone so early. I bet they were happy to see you. Did they scream? What? Maria won't stop whining? Oh, she wants to be tucked in. Yes, there's an extra blanket there to cover her. Still? Did you cover her head? Yes, cover her whole body, head and all, so you can't even see her. She likes to feel like she's suffocating!

William and Lindy and Sammy can play outside for a while. No, don't worry about putting their coats on. [It was a record cold day.] I know, but if they want to stay warm, they can run! Oh and sometimes William pees on Lindy's head. Yup she is always putting her nose where it doesn't belong right at the wrong second. If you see yellow on her face could you wipe it off with a wet paper towel? I'm sorry to ask you to do that, but it gets really stinky if it stays on there.

No, you do NOT have to pick up! That was NOT part of the deal and I can do it when I get home. . No, don't worry about it! If William eats poop it won't be the first time and it won't be the last, just don't let him kiss you goodbye when you leave!

After profusely thanking my generous friend, I flipped my cell phone closed and looked up from my conversation to see every single horrified eye in the room fixed in abject revulsion on my face. Why do I have to give my dogs human names? Why could I not have been discussing "Spot" and "Fluffy"?

===========================================================

I'll post a photo of dear Nurse Delia ministering to her manservant in just a bit. And here it is:

==============================================

hug your hounds, even the poop eaters

(Fortunately, Delia is not a poop eater!)

Something is Up...

Hello, it's Very Old Dog here. This is me on the right, walking with my Lady Maria so you know who's talking.

My name is Giacomino (phonetically speaking 'Jocko MEEN') or Beans for short.

Something is fishy around here. We think it might be something that the C-A-T did. Or not. Our Servant was sprucing up everything and putting name tags on our downstairs crates. This is usually Good News as it usually foretells of a Trip. I always get to go on the Trips, unless the Senile Servant forgets me. I do worry that she'll forget me.

They've been all preoccupied with Benign Potatoes Hyper Trophies and all they talk about is TUNA, TUNA, TUNA. And the manservant has been uncharacteristically jumpy and worried and they've set the alarm for FOUR AM. The weirdest thing is I heard them talking about going to Nashville for the TUNA. I know they've gotten tuna in Paducah before, because the Servant pours the juice from the can over our food and we LOVE it, so why would they drive two and a half hours each way for TUNA? And leave at O-dark-thirty in the morning?

But the Servant is so Senile and starkers, that nothing would surprise us at this point. In her big rant post she quoted Senator McGovern and called him Senator McCarthy... Woooo weeee talk about fractured fairy tails!!! Luckily a blogger named Nat whose fingers are still connected to his brain pointed out her error, so she fixed it right away on the rant. Of course she had already written her two senators and her representative quoting Senator McCarthy's Washington Post editorial... You should see just how red she can blush, and just how long it stays. Silly Senile Servant! Trying so hard to do the right thing and being so human and fallible! I gave her extra snuggles for that, and Sam I Am did too. but she's human so she's still embarrassed and mad at herself.

The good news is that our really good friend and neighbor Karen came calling today, and the Servant showed her where all our treats and biscuits are. So if they do go on a Trip to Nashville for the TUNA tomorrow, at least Karen knows which crates are whose (I don't have one, I have a BED) and where the treats are.

That's the news from here. The Servants are finally asleep. They won't admit it to each other, but they're both so nervous and upset. Silly things.

Hug your humans-

Very Old Dog

========================================

Happy times (from the Novel)

[This is when Hope and her litter brother were growing up. Enjoy! I you want to read all of the excerpts from my novel-in-progress, simply click on the "novel excerpt" label at the bottom of this story.]

Hope loved everything about her farm. She loved the smell of the horses. She loved to devil the barn cats, and couldn’t understand why the Woman didn’t see them as Vermin. She loved the sun, oh how she loved the sun. She loved to bake in it in the summer, and to worship its hidden warmth in the fall. She and her brother Proper would hunker down together in a pile of leaves and let that autumn sun reach through and warm their souls. They shared their heat, as was their nature, and took turns sleeping and feigning sleep. She loved the pretending best. Watching through one seemingly closed eye. When a squirrel would carelessly scan and miss them entirely and twitch his evil tempting tail and chatter his insults, she would move nothing; just change the pattern of her breathing. She would feel Proper’s heart race next to her, but he wouldn’t move as much as a whisker. Wait. Wait. The pounding of their two hearts was deafening, pumping oxygen like bullets, getting ready. Wait. She felt Proper shift just a fraction. Wait.

And then the leaves exploded. She would beat her bigger brother, though she saw nothing at all but the idiot squirrel. Got it. And now the Woman was out in the yard, yelling and stumping along and the idiot squirrel was dead and it was hers, but her brother thought it was his, and what was the silly Woman doing? Arrgh, that moment she took her mind off the carcass, Proper got it and took off, and the silly Woman was stumping around the yard after Proper and the idiot dead squirrel, and so was she. She was just inches away from grabbing it out of her brother’s jaws, only he turned just then, well, he learned that trick from her, now didn’t he? And the silly Woman was panting like a bellowing bull, and screaming “Leave it! Drop it!” As if Proper would. And life was so grand.

After Proper chomped down the idiot squirrel’s head, he stopped playing Dodge the Human and allowed the Woman to have the rest of the carcass. She retched and gagged and took the thing by the very tip of its tail and threw it over the fence. Humans were so wasteful. Why disgrace the idiot squirrel by letting the good parts rot? It should be eaten, and rolled in as perfume, and then let the flies get what’s left. She noticed that the Woman was still huffing and was all red and sweaty, so she thought she should see if she were all right. She trotted over, wagging. The Woman took them inside and cared for their wounds in her odd, clumsy way, by putting some cold bubbly liquid out of a bottle on them. This she followed with an ointment, smelling unnatural and medicinal that at least they could lick off. The Woman asked Proper please not to throw up the idiot squirrel’s head on the living room rug. Perfect example of the Human’s lack of understanding. What did she want? If the idiot squirrel’s brain was full of sickness, did she want Proper to absorb the sickness? Humans!

There were lots of days of chasing squirrels. When Hope and Proper went on the walks with the Woman and the elders in the Big Back Fields, they were attached to the Woman so she didn’t get left behind and lost. The Woman would release an elder from the obligation and they would run and tease the rest of the pack. Hope’s sire was especially good at finding deer, fox, rabbits and those vile groundhogs. When they would hear the Sire sound the hunting alarm, they would all try their best to help the Woman run to catch up. Whippets can go from zero to thirty in less time than you could say “OOF” so more often than not, the Woman would end up on her belly, and a couple of them used to get to go off and help the Sire. With the attachments still around their necks and dragging behind them, though no longer in the Woman’s hands, they could not be as helpful as they would like, but they tried. If it was a deer, they would turn the deer to come back to the pack. Usually by then, the Woman was just getting up and assessing her bumps and bruises. The sight of a big old buck, heading right toward them, with their Sire and pack mates on its flagging white tail, would cause the pack to try with all their might to help the Woman run towards the deer, and down she’d go again on her slow, useless Human belly.

The Pack thought that by repeating this scenario on every possible opportunity, the Woman would either learn to run faster, or would relieve them of their obligation to her, at least for the walks. But Humans just don’t learn, and so off they’d go, morning, noon and evening, tethered to the Woman, with only one or occasionally two at a time running free.

Hope loved more than anything when it was her time to run. The Woman was at least smart enough to pair her with the Queen or her Sire. So many lessons to learn! The first time she was let free out back, she was running hell bent for leather, when suddenly pie-yow there was an explosion and Hope was turning head over heels in the hay field. She looked up, once she stopped seeing stars, to see her Sire grinning down at her. He had intentionally crashed into her, sending her ass over tin cups. “Watch out. Respect your elders. Pay attention.” But Hope was very young, and full of run, and finally free of the tethered Woman, and she took off just as fast as her spirit could fly, in big silly looping butt-tucked circles. Another explosion sent her tumbling, and this time when she finally stopped, her Sire had her gently by her throat, his tail wagging and his eyes shining. “Watch out. Respect your elders. Pay attention.” He held her still, on her back for a moment, with his jaws as strong as his character and as gentle as his soul. When he let her up, Hope trotted off, looked around, and carefully started running. But having no desire to be a doggy bowling pin yet again, when she heard her Sire thundering up behind her, she ducked down and hugged the ground. Her Sire jumped clear over her and looked over his shoulder, daring her to run with him. They ran in big circles, grinning around their tongues, and any time her Sire would look at her, she would crouch and wait until he dared her to run with him again.

When she was completely out of breath, she trotted back to the Pack and the Woman, and sides just a-heaving, gladly accepted the Woman’s tether. The Woman carried a squirt bottle of water, which Hope gratefully gulped. Then she strained at her tether as Proper got to run with the Queen. When Hope saw the Queen bearing down on him she barked an excited little warning, but Proper was all about running and then boom it was all over as the Queen sent him sprawling. “Watch out. Respect your elders. Pay attention.” It took four explosions for Proper to learn, but sure enough, he did. It was a lesson that served them all their lives; no matter how fast they were going, they stayed aware of their surroundings. They honed their peripheral senses.

The Christmas Party

The folks who do agility in my Kennel Club get together for some holiday cheer, and since this was my first year ever to enter an agility trial, they kindly invited me.

We met at a restaurant just down the street from my house, The Pork Peddler. It is a very popular “home-style” type of eatery with a huge buffet of southern delectables. I had skipped lunch in eager anticipation.

I should never be allowed at an “all you can eat” buffet. I have no restraint. Oh, I eat the salad to be healthy. The salad with the huge chunks of real, sugar cured bacon, and the thick goopy salad dressing, and a little lettuce. Then there was the southern food: “cooked down” green beans (more bacon, or ham hocks or something yummy), buttermilk biscuits, corn (sweetened and buttered) collard greens and more bacon and lard for flavor, mashed potatoes with home style gravy, deep fried okra, ham, turkey, dressing, barbequed pork and ribs. And then seconds because I hadn’t noticed the corn on the first round and I needed more cranberry for my turkey and then I needed more turkey and dressing for the cranberry. And then, while I was on a roll: dessert. Bread pudding with thick vanilla sauce, coconut cream pie, pecan pie, cherry cobbler and some other stuff that I can’t remember because I was in a sugar and fat induced ketoacidotic stupor.

Then we loaded up and headed to club member Cathy’s house for more merriment and a gift exchange. They play “Dirty Santa” which isn’t what it sounds like – no thongs for Mrs. Claus, much to my prudish relief. Everyone who wants to play brings a wrapped gift, and then each gift giver picks a number out of a hat. The picker of number one picks a gift and opens it. Number two may either steal number one’s gift, or open another one. If number seven steals number two’s gift, then number two can steal anyone else’s or open a new one. It’s really fun!

There was one problem. I got this party confused with another party, and I thought we were supposed to bring gag gifts. Now, dear readers, I ask you to put yourself in my unenviable place for a moment. I’m the only new face at the party. I have eaten approximately four pounds, six ounces more fat-and-sugar-laden food than my stomach could hold in my wildest dreams. People are opening artfully gift-wrapped presents and they are plush dog beds, luscious blankets, and gorgeous leashes with agility motifs. The gag present I brought, wrapped in black tissue paper, is still under the tree. My stomach started to churn.

It was my turn. Beginner’s luck, I had drawn a high number, third from last. I had little beads of sweat forming on my upper lip, though I was chilled to the bone. Cold sweat. What to do? I couldn’t think. My stomach was making alarming acrobatic tumbles. My dufus present was still under the tree. Maybe it would never be opened and no one would ever know. I wanted to be part of the gang, to play along, oh my God my gut, I can’t think. In a panic, I did what the last three players had done; I stole the biggest, most cushy dog bed. Well, it did match my dining room décor perfectly. The moment I sat back down, I realized my mistake. I should have picked my own lame present and refused to open it. Oh rats and rats, why hadn’t I thought of that in time?

The last person just happened to be a very kind person who has been so supportive and helpful to me. Please, oh please take this cushy dog bed from me! Please don’t take my lame-o gag gift from under the tree. The last gift to choose, thus ending the game and leaving you, kind person who has helped me so much, with my lame-o stink-o gag gift. Oh my stomach!

But this is a kind, polite, earnest person. She would not steal someone else’s lovely gift. No, with a trusting, sweet smile, she takes my gift from under the tree. I wanted to crawl under my beautifully upholstered antique Queen Ann’s chair and hurl barbeque and bread pudding all over myself. Instead, I blurted out, “I was confused! I thought we were supposed to bring gag gifts!” and then, I started to laugh hysterically.

This person is so nice, so dear, that after she opened the candle which looks just like life sized dog poo, she said, “Oh!” and then when she opened the calendar which has full color images of dog poo on every page, she said, “Well, I need a calendar! Oh my. Dog poop? Oh my!”

I gave her back the gorgeous chenille throw which I had dirtily stolen from her (I left that part out, too shamed to include it). My dear, kind friends returned the plush bed which they had stolen from me and took the poop candle and calendar, presumably for the Kennel Club Christmas Party Fund Raising Auction tomorrow night.

I will be bidding on the poo items at the auction. If I have to donate my whole Christmas budget to the good of the Kennel Club, I will do that. But that dog poop calendar and that dog poop candle is coming home with me.

MOUSE!

There is a mouse in the house.

I am not afraid of mice. I am not. I do, however, have a freakish instinctual reaction to a mouse running amok in my presence. I do the Screaming Mouse Dance.

It is an embarrassing display. I am not by nature a screamer, or even a squealer for that matter. I mean, I've been known to laugh a little too loud, but for the most part I'm fairly reserved. Shy. Quiet. But let a mouse zip by, and I'm suddenly a bobby-socks wearing teenage girl in the presence of Elvis. SHRRREEIK!!!!

That's the history.

So last week as I was typing away in my dark little computer room, Mr. Mouse poked out from under my file cabinet and said hey. Oh, Lord you scared me, I said. Please don't run, I begged, because Bill and the dogs are sound asleep and they won't be if you run. And Mr. Mouse, being a polite fellow, flicked his whiskers a bit in a dignified, sure-whatever-you-say kind of way, and ducked back under the file cabinet. I decided the story I was working on could wait (still haven't finished it) and went immediately to bed.

Mr. Mouse said hi a few more times during the course of the week, in a delightfully stationary fashion, and we became friends. We used to get lots of field mice coming to visit this time of year when the nights got chilly, back at the farm. But though I had expected to see many, this was the very first mouse encounter since moving to this old house in Paducah five years ago. Some old houses in the neighborhood are being rehabbed, and perhaps Mr. Mouse has had to find new digs.

Then, on Thursday night, a friend stopped by. The dogs and I were upstairs. The dogs heard the knocking before I did, and the stampede down the stairs was on. I must grab Very Old Dog's collar as he goes down, as his legs don't always carry out the instructions from his brain, and our stairs are steep and twisting. I looked down to get the right collar. (Oh, yes, I've done that - Very Old Dog is left to his own reduced devices while I mistakenly have a death grip on the perfectly capable but similarly marked Mama Pajama's collar.) Something on the steps caught my eye.

It was Mr. Mouse.

Now. I have nine whippets. Sighthounds. Bred for centuries to chase small furry things, depending on their keen vision to detect moving critters and run them down. And all nine whippets crashed down the stairs, barking their greetings to our visitor, stepping on, over, and next to Mr. Mouse.

And, Mr. Mouse was most definitely not stationary any more.

He was leaping madly to try to get up the stairs, but they were too tall. And now there was bedlam. My voice, aided and abetted by my lungs and mouth, but totally bypassing my brain, started the Moving Mouse Scream.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! Aaaaa! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! AAAAAAAAAAAA!

The poor guest who was knocking on my door was entertaining the possibilty that I had fallen and broken my leg. It's that kind of scream. I managed to open the door between outbursts, or during them, I should say.

"THERE'S A - GET IT, DOGS - MOUSE - LOOK! GET THE SQUIRRELLIE! - ON THE STAIRS!!"
"There's a mouse and a squirrel in your house?" My bemused guest was understandably confused.
"No. No. The dogs don't know the word 'mouse' but they know... AAAAAAAAAAAAAA! AAAAA! There it IS. GET THE SQUIRREL. GET THE BUNNIES! AAAAAAAAAA! OH MY OH AAAAAAAAAAA!!! LOOK FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GET IT!"

And then of all the hunters in the house, it was little Lindy Loo, the baby of the family, who finally saw Mr. Mouse. That set off a whole new fit of screaming from the idiot which had taken over my body. "Get it Lindy! Oh no, don't get it. AAAAAAAA! Look! Help her!" But the dogs, having infinitely better manners than their Servant, were welcoming our bewildered friend, who was standing in the foyer wondering what emergency service she should call to come get me. And poor Mr. Mouse was leaping up a step, only to fall down two, and then he would remember that I preferred my mice to be immobile, and he would hunker down and not move a whisker. When he did this, Lindy Loo would lose him, even if she were standing on his tail.
Finally, Fat Charlie saw our little rodent friend. Uh-oh. This was not good news for Mr. Mouse's loved ones. Now I changed my mind. "No, Fat Charlie! Leave it... Ohhh AAAAAAAAA! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Oh NOOO! Oh.. OHHHHH. LOOK OUT HERE IT COMES! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

Lindy Loo, Fat Charlie, Luciano, Mama Pajama, Mr. Mouse and I all tumbled down the stairs, and I was in Full Shreiking Mouse Alarm. I imaging people heard me three towns away and headed into their basements, mistaking me for the tornado siren.
Thank goodness, I provided ample distraction for Mr. Mouse who ducked into the coat closet. I immediately returned to my unpossessed self, turned to my guest, and said, "Hi! Shall we go out for a bite to eat? Lovely evening isn't it? How have you been?"

You can't blame me for being fond of Mr. Mouse:

Lindy Loo and Swede William

He looks like family!