Dogs and Roses

You never have to tell a dog to stop and smell the roses because they stop and smell everything.

I like my critters

So, I made through my third speech this morning. I felt awful about it because I did not have as much time to prepare so I was nervous, but people in class said it was really good. How strange. I did the usual “tug at your heartstrings” speech about the abuse of traveling circus animals and why those circuses should be banned.

I find it strange that we can have more compassion for animals than other humans, not that there is anything wrong with that. If you want to turn me into a snarling maniac who will whoop your ass up one side and down the other, just purposely hurt my dog or cat.

I like people, but we can be real assholes towards animals, and I don’t always understand why. My cat likes to mutilate birds on the bedroom carpet and leave us a gift of guts and feathers to clean up. Sometimes this pisses me off, but I can’t hurt her as it is in her nature to hunt. I can tell her no and hope she gets the hint we love her without the presents.

My dog likes to do what my husband calls “crop dusting”, meaning he will come in from outside, walk in front of us while silently farting, and then go back outside leaving us with his butt fragrance. I don’t know if he does this on purpose, I swear that sometimes I see him smile when he slips back out the dog door. It could be revenge for baby talking to him, or putting the wig on him at Halloween and proceeding to point and laugh hysterically. It is just something he does and we accept it as part of the dog he is, maybe adding a little probiotics to his dinner to settle the tummy.

So I beg people to be nice to animals, what have they really ever done to you? And if they did do something to you, are you sure you didn’t deserve it? We should never underestimate the intelligence or compassion of an animal. I have seen animals that act more of what we consider human than some humans themselves.

Spring Fever

Spring fever has taken over. My mind is on cleanup of the yard, should we fertilize? Are those bulbs I moved last fall going to come up or did I kill them? What should I plant in the garden this year? Should I expand the garden again?

While I sit in my economics class, watching the teacher talk and make gestures to the class, my mind meanders back to those thoughts, blotting out his voice. I think to myself that I should be listening to what he says because it will probably be on a test, I wonder what color the flowers will be?

Every spring I have this same problem, whether in a class or at my job. My eyes glaze over as I stare out the window, my thoughts dancing around the joys of spring and summer. How do I defy the magic of the two best seasons around here? I don’t want to, that is where the problem lies. I let them awaken my senses that have been dormant all winter. The colors and smells tantalizing my surroundings, making them new again.

So I may miss a question on the test, it is nothing compared to missing the evolution of spring and summer.

Not a kid hater

I have been enjoying the nice spring we are getting, something we haven’t gotten around here in years. This afternoon I did poop patrol, going around the whole yard and scooping up Samson’s winter droppings, sounds glamorous doesn’t it? At least he stays to the edges of the yard.

I have also been contemplating ideas for a persuasive speech I need to write this weekend. One of my ideas is being pro for kid-free zones. The idea came to me when I was trying to do work on a computer at the library and this lady had her 3-4 year old son on a computer next to me playing games while she worked on the next one. His game started messing up or something and he started whining and talking loud, eventually breaking out into crying. It was so distracting I finally grabbed my stuff and found another computer elsewhere.

The reason I love the library is the quiet and I don’t think it is the appropriate place for little kids to hang out when they are not old enough to read. There are so many other places kids don’t belong either, and I guess that is my idea for a speech. Some places, other than bars, should be adults only.

Ok, now you are thinking I hate kids. I don’t, I think most little kids are really cute and babies are adorable. I never had any, but I guess I never got around to it and I am ok with that.

So now I decide whether I can write a worthwhile speech on a touchy topic, or find something easier.

No Title Yet

The blood dripped into the sink with a light “plunk…..plunk”, each drip bursting into pink against the white porcelain. I watched the drips for a moment, caught up in the rhythm they created. Sighing to myself, I reached for a garbage bag so I could start cleaning up the mess I had made.

I admired the smooth slice along his neck, opening up his jugulars for all to see. As he bent over the kitchen sink to check for a clog, I reached around and sliced him like he was cattle in a slaughterhouse. The blood had gushed forth in one side of the sink while he struggled. When he went limp I shoved him over to the other side so I could get bleach going on the first side.

When the kitchen was clean and the body bagged up, I took a hot shower so the blood didn’t dry in my hair, I hate when that happens.

Season of the Chickens*

In the spring when I was ten years old, Mom came home with a box of twenty- five chicks and surprised us kids. Dad built a coop, and said we were eventually going to have fresh chicken. At the time I did not, or could not, comprehend the fresh chicken quote.

The chicken coop was an A-frame made from old boards that were gray from the elements. Inside there was a long trough for food and enough room for all the chickens. A square opening, big enough for a chicken to pass through, was in the front of the coop and led to a lawn surrounded by chicken wire. Another larger opening with a door was also on the front of the coop. I would often let the chickens out through the door so they could walk freely around the unfenced yard, much to my parent’s objection. My excuse was the chickens needed the exercise, and it gave me the chance to more closely observe them.

The chicks were kept in the house under a heating lamp until strong enough to survive in the coop. They were so ridiculously cute that I could not leave them alone. The softness of their yellow downy feathers and the little chirps they made were too much for me to resist. I spent enough time with the chickens to see them as pets. I had no problems picking them up like they were a cat and petting their feathers. Every day I was at the coop, watching them grow and interacting as much as you can with a chicken. The end of summer came, and Dad said the chickens were ready. I did not have the courage to ask what they were ready for, already suspecting when the axe was brought out and sharpened.

In the end we had seventeen chickens out of twenty five due to problems with raccoons and other animals getting into the coop. One chicken in particular survived an attack and managed the rest of his life with one leg. He was the only chicken that I gave a name to, Mr. Hop-a-long.

Butchering chickens is definitely not for the faint hearted. I stayed away when I saw the axe and piece of log. I had to help pluck the feathers after their heads were off and they had been dunked into the big cast iron pot of boiling water.

It was a messy project with feathers sticking everywhere, and I was not happy to help. Plucking feathers is not easy. Reminds me of plucking eyebrows; you just have to give them one good yank in the right direction. As the feathers came out I apologized to each chicken, letting them know this was not what I wanted.

It is a wonder I still eat chicken. I went without for quite awhile after that experience. It was such a mess and hassle killing and cleaning the chickens that Mom never did bring home chicks again, and I am thankful.

So why do I bring this up? I found some pictures of me as a kid and there it was, a picture of me grinning and holding a chicken in my arms like a cat, being the tomboy I was. Another picture shows me with the door to the coop open and the chickens filing out. That summer was my season of the chickens, my own learning experience in the circle of life.

*Edited Re-post

My First Car

Today I was reminded of my first car. It was an ocean blue 1977 Ford Maverick, which was an automatic with a six cylinder engine and could go up to 100 mph. I do remember testing that once (maybe twice). I had bought it for $450 from a little old lady who had barely drove it resulting in very low miles.

The thing that made me think of it was talking about the bright headlights switch on cars. My Maverick had the switch on the floor that you pushed on and off with your left foot. I don’t recall when they switched over to the levers on the steering column, but it is definitely easier.

My Maverick also had the bench seat, not seen in cars anymore that I know of, except the back seat. My taller passengers had to deal with knees rubbing the dash due to me being vertically challenged.

The only thing power on the car was the power steering. The air conditioning was 2/60, two windows down going 60 mph. The radio was standard am/fm with the push buttons that shot the little red line back and forth in the display, I eventually replaced it with one that had a cassette player.

When I was sixteen this was a great car and carried me around for two years. It had around 66000 miles on it when I bought it, about 115000 when I finally let it go to junk yard heaven.

The car was ten years old when I purchased it, (I see you doing the math), and was very rusted out when I quit driving it. I remember a blinker light that hung by the wire because the quarter panel had rusted out in that spot.

My Maverick was a great first car and it is hard to remember all the events it took me to or all the good times it provided. I feel lucky to have had such a good first car, even if it wasn't the coolest.

The Viewing

Like a buffet, the people were lined up waiting their turn. I stood next to a fake plant across the room and quietly watched, absorbing the experience. I listened to the comments on how “peaceful” he looked or that he “looked good”. I wanted to tell them he’s dead, and no one looks good when they are dead, but remained mute.

A nearby bench was filled with old women with their permed hair and large purses, some even had canes. The smell of their perfume mixing into a pungent distortion that almost made you feel light headed as you passed by. They spoke to one another in quiet whispers about their current health ailments, eyes searching for sympathy. It almost seemed to be a contest of who was in more pain.

I watched my husband across the room talking with others and shaking hands, feeling a bit guilty for being a pansy. I patiently waited and smiled a nod at those who came near me while keeping my eye on my husband and a place I couldn’t bring myself to go, near the casket.

I had never met my husband’s uncle and felt no malice towards him alive or dead, but I did have problems with dead bodies in general. They creep me out and make me horribly sad at the same time; I found it is better just to stay away from them completely.

More hands shaken and back pats as my husband made his way through the clusters of well wishers, eventually ending next to me. Condolences had been given, he had shaken the right hands, and we could now go home.

Spring

Spring is in the air. The sun has been shining for a few days, the temperature creeping up a little further each day, and the bird songs are returning. I fired up the grill yesterday and cooked some chicken for dinner, the smell of fire cooked meat tantalizing my nose.

While it was cooking I sat on the warm wood of the deck steps, surrounded by snow piles. The sun heated my skin, no jacket was needed, the first for the year. My two cats wandered out to join me in my basking and we listened to the birds and watched them flitter from tree to tree. The dog was lying in the snow happily chewing on a bone while the sun warmed his back.

I would have been disappointed when the chicken was done if I had not been so hungry, as it ended my first glimpse of spring. But it is on its way and there will be more to see tomorrow.

Stinky Butt McPutin? by Samson

Samson found out Nooter had a blog and was jealous, so I decided to let him do a post on mine.

You know when you find something on the side of the road with such an interesting aroma you have to taste it? I found one of those and took a bite even though mom told me no, I couldn't resist. I can tell ya it did not taste as good as it smelled, but it was no biggie at the time.

Later I was lying in front of the couch watching tv, mom and dad were on the couch. My tummy felt a little funny, but I farted a few times and felt better. All of a sudden mom and dad started saying that wierd name again, Stinky Butt McPutin. I don't know who Stinky Butt McPutin is, maybe one of those moving pictures on the tv?

If anyone knows who this Stinky Butt McPutin is, let me know, because when mom and dad say it they look at me. Maybe I look like him?

"Charge of the Light Brigade"

Today I heard a poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson, titled “The Charge of the Light Brigade”, about the Battle of Balaclava in 1854. It was recorded in the late 1800’s. It is a fascinating poem, what you could hear of it, but very creepy. The recording is very crackly and sounds like something out of a horror movie, like hearing a dead man talking from his grave. It can be found on the internet and I recommend giving it a listen for the plain creepiness, and for the poem itself.

Here is a link:
http://charon.sfsu.edu/tennyson/lightbrigadewax.html