I decided to take my dog out for a walk this afternoon. I was really apprehensive about going outside where people could see me. I would really just like to fast forward to the part of the year when I’ve gotten used to looking like this is shorts, but out I went anyway. Of course as luck would have it, my dog decided to relieve himself at the exact same time an old boyfriend of mine just happened to be driving by. He honked and waved. I waved back, trying to look composed and maybe slightly alluring, but there’s really no way to look cool when you’re standing there waiting for your dog to finish taking a dump.
When I leave the house I always tell my dog to be a good boy, like he is not going to start searching the house the minute I pull out of the driveway for things he can eat. I see him in the window watching me leave and I can just imagine his thought process. “O.K., she’s gone, but I will wait a few more minutes because she always forgets something and has to come back. I made that mistake once before and got caught with a box or Corn Flakes…my attempt to devour them foiled.” Once I am safely away he sniffs the coat rack in the front hall in case I left any food in my lunch bag. More than once I have returned home to find my bag in the middle of the dining room floor. Since my dog can’t undo the zipper, he chews a hole right through the fabric so he can get to the piece of cheese I forgot was in there. If he doesn’t detect food particles in the foyer, he beelines for the kitchen in search of whatever is within his reach. Since he is as tall as me when he stands on his hind legs, something he is talented at, he pretty much has free reign. If I have forgotten to put something in the cupboard or up on top of the fridge it’s “gone in 60 seconds.” He has eaten an entire round container of Quaker Oats, a bag of raisins (including the cardboard boxes), an entire bag of Hershey’s miniatures, a pack of gum, a tube of antibiotic ointment and an assortment of other items too numerous to mention. When he is finished he will go find the toilet bowl brush providing he can get the closet door open which is usually not a problem. He then lies down in the dining room and chews it to shreds. The handle is pretty much gone, so when I clean the toilet there is just a stump that used to be the handle.
I suppose I should be grateful that I don’t have a dog like the one my friends Barry and Craig once took in. Her name was Missy and the first week they had her she literally ate the back off their Barcalounger recliner. As her feeding frenzies continued to intensify my friends lost all hope that one day she would settle down and alas, Missy went to live elsewhere. We never really knew what they did with her, but she disappeared not long after the Barcalounger incident.
Another friend of mine had a sweeter than sweet German Shepard named Bear. She loved him dearly, but he had a habit of ingesting inanimate objects. One day she told me that the TV remote control was missing and she was confident she knew where it was. She was right. An X-ray at the vet quickly outlined a Samsung remote control in the dog’s stomach – so off to surgery Bear went.
So I guess I should count my lucky stars since we have never had to have anything surgically removed, although that tube sock he ate when he was a puppy had us worried, it eventually returned intact. However, I think I will put the TV remote in the drawer before I go to bed, just in case.
Reading a friend’s post about how his grandma taught him how to work on cars has reminded me of my own grandmother. She didn’t work on cars, but she would drag race the kids on the highway between here and Savannah.
You see, Grandma couldn’t stand it when someone passed her, so she would have to immediately pass them back. It was a sickness really, she just couldn’t help herself. Usually the other person didn’t really care all that much and would even get a kick out of this little old lady racing past them in the other lane and giving them the stink eye while she was at it. They would just laugh and shake their heads, unless it was a car load of boys from the high school and then it was on.
They knew it was going to be a good time when they spotted Mrs. Wade driving her blue Dodge Coronet down the highway. They would purposely drive up next to her, wave at her smiling the whole time and then floor it, leaving her in the dust. This maneuver would infuriate her. You could feel the air in the car become electrified as she gritted her teeth and squinted her eyes, the veins popping out on her neck.
Then she would stomp on the accelerator, pushing it all the way to floor with the toe of her little pointed shoe. She was a petite woman and her feet barely reached the pedals, but she was what polite individuals might refer to as feisty. We thought she was hilarious and terrifically entertaining as we egged her on with comments like, “Watch out Grandma.” to which she would reply, “They better watch our for me.”
She would go flying down the road hunched over the wheel mumbling things under her breath like, “Damn teenagers racing down the road like a bunch of baboons, checking their hair in the rearview and not paying one bit of attention to the road…a bunch of slack-jawed, mollycoddled chowderheads that’s what they are.” Grandma had a colorful vocabulary like that.
We didn’t tell our parents until years later because we didn’t want to ruin the fun. It didn’t even occur to us that we could have been killed or maimed in a horrible accident barreling down the road at lightning speed with an enraged elderly person at the wheel. We were kids and too stupid to know better. That’s why it was so much fun. We would laugh and laugh, all of us except Grandma. She was on a mission.
My mom came by last night to visit and said that she would have been by earlier but she had eaten a turkey burger made with some meat that had been in her fridge for ‘quite a while’ so it needed to be used up…Let me translate. This means that the questionable meat was most likely teetering on the edge ‘spoiled’ and was probably growing a nice little colony of E. coli.
Although it was “delicious,” she said it made her kind of sick and that soon after she was beset by terrible diarrhea so she didn’t think she would make another burger with it. I’m thinking “O.K. that’s probably a good idea.” And then she says…“No, I think I’ll put the rest of it in some soup instead. It should be O.K. in soup. I’ll bring you some so you can taste how delicious it is.” Note to self and the rest of the family: Don’t eat the vegetable soup from Grandma!