Gibson Ate Santa

      If you don't receive any presents from Santa this year- it's probably Gibson's fault. The photo evidence is clear- Santa's hat in the mouth of  a puppy that chews everything.

       I'm pretty sure I saw a jolly happy fellow running for his life as Gibson chased down the reindeer.
    
        Yep, I doubt Santa will be delivering in my neighborhood ever again. Sorry children. It was the puppy.
    
        Gibson probably just wanted to be friends with the reindeer and he probably only wanted Santa to pet him and let him sit on his lap because no matter how big this dog grows, he literally thinks he's a lap dog and will smother you with affection. Or he's trying to prevent you from getting up, I'm not sure which yet.
     But I know for sure what Gibson wanted from Santa's sleigh....the toys. He loves toys. He chews them and tears them apart and sometimes when he eats too many of them he pukes them back up too.
   
     Today he has chewed and ate three jumbo crayons, the handle to my hairbrush, mini candy canes, and two gardening gloves- unfortunately not two gloves of the same pair, but two gloves from two different pairs, making both of them unusable.

   I saw this photo posted to Facebook and had to share it. My problem with dealing with Gibson is because I'm not thinking like a puppy. Like duh!
   

    So see, he wasn't trying to be mean to Santa. He was protecting us. Just like he barks at the squirrels that run around in the pine tree right above his leash and torment him. But if he stopped barking those murderous squirrels would surely descend from the trees, invade our house and eat us all alive. Gibson knows this.
    So he keeps barking...everyday...all the time...because he's saving us. 

    Wow, I should appreciate him more.

     Same reason he barks at the neighbors...they're obviously murderous. And the postman...and all of the girls' friends...

     But I have to say the puppy and Baby Blueberry work well together. The other night, I turn around and she's dipping a calculator in the Christmas tree water.
    Dip. Dunk. Dip. Shake it out. Dunk it some more...all of it.
    I sighed and shook my head. Who needs a calculator? 
    We left for a couple of hours and when we returned there was electronic parts scattered around the room.
   A circuit board. Rubber numbers. Wires.
   The front of the destroyed calculator.
   I had to laugh at that one. At least he had chewed apart something that had already been completely destroyed by the Baby just a few hours before.
   They're such a great team.

   So we finally got our tree decorated. It's only decorated from the top up. It's naked from the top down. We knew between the human baby and the canine baby we would lose ornaments by the dozen if we put them too close to small fingers and sharp teeth.

     I also set up the Nativity way up high and the rest of the house is sadly lacking any Christmas decorations. Why risk it, all that shiny stuff surely looks delicious! ---for Baby Blueberry and Gibson.

    We bought Gibson a huge ham bone and training treats for Christmas, but we had thought about getting him a new home.
       Gibson doesn't know it yet but he has New Years Resolutions. Like no chewing, no biting, no jumping, better listening, no chasing Santa, and oh, just behaving in general.
       
       Perhaps Santa will drop off a dog trainer!
   

Fifteen Years Later....

The Best Thing College Ever Gave Me...

    This is going to sound so fifty's housewife but I'm going to say it anyways...the best thing I got out of college was Hero Hottie.

     Hands down. Without a doubt.

     Sure, I got a whole lot of other things out of the experience.

     Biology rocked. Annoying the furniture man's son in biology lab because I was a girl and understood the material just a bit better...still makes me laugh every time I pass the furniture store.

    Hanging with friends. Learning stuff that I have never, ever used.- but don't tell my girls that.

    But meeting Hero Hottie...tops it all.

   It's our anniversary tomorrow. Fifteen years. I've spent almost my entire adult life with him.

   I didn't even know who I was. He didn't know who he was.

   After we married, we continued college. We had a little cottage house where we played house. And during lunch we would both come home and eat Ramen noodles and watch television. Or not...

   But it was fun and easy. Romantic and fairy taleish.

   Than life happened. And it wasn't easy. It wasn't fun. Not all of it. And we have had our moments of just being roommates and we have had our moments of just simply being parents.

    And we had our dark moments where we weren't on the same page. I'm not sure if we were even in the same book...

   But together...if you look at the entire story...not just chapters...we've done pretty good.

   So here's to the man who sometimes steals the covers without realizing it, who always gets me a coffee when I need it, who has encouraged me to write and write and write some more until I succeeded. (Like today, when my article, MY article was on the front page of the newspaper! Of course, my very first front page article would have to be about buffalo balls but that's the stuff good stories are made of.)

   Here's to the man who

                loves 

                                    me 

                                                for 

                                                      me.

Herd of Turkeys

   


    Five turkey hand prints from five special girls. Bean's turkey is the velociraptor turkey, ready to eat people first. Abu's turkey is almost as big as her sister's, which is crazy to me because they're growing up way too fast.
    CT's is the decorative one. Bug's has running shoes on. And Baby Blueberry's is small and cute.

   And before people remind that birds come in flocks, please know that Bean knows this-- that's why she wrote herd. :-)

   Because I know people have read many blog posts about gratitude, I'll sure fatigue must be kicking in so I'll keep my thankful list short before I hand over the rest of the blog to my guest blogger, Abu.

Simply.   I'm thankful. For everything.

Now for Abu's guest blog: 

       Nov. 26

       from: Abu the turkey

       to: person who wants to eat me

       Dear Person,

               You should not eat me. I am high in cholesterol and fat. I'm salty and don't taste good but I know someone who taste good. There's a Duck across the pond who taste good and has a lot of meat. Yes, his name is Aflac and he taste really good. He might offer you free insurance but don't take his offer. He is far more tasty than me and he taste a lot better than his deals.

            What's that you say? You want turkey this year. I got to go!!

Abu   

God's Grace

You can't hold onto a box of broken promises because no matter how many pieces you have in your hand, you can never glue them together.

   They never become whole.

And you can lie to yourself for a long time that it doesn't matter.

but it does.

It does matter.

And each broken promise is another feeling of resentment that grows and grows until it builds into a rage.

And rage is so destructive.

Until one afternoon, the only thing you can do is fall on your knees and ask for God to help.

Because something has to change.

I'm not holding onto a box of broken promises anymore.

Lois Lane was Heavily Caffeinated

      I have switched from my usual 12 measly ounces of coffee to consuming- well, it depends. If I brew it, than I tend to finish off the entire pot. If I decide on ingesting the stronger more potent brew of a coffee house, than I've been purchasing a 20 ounce cup. Not sure what name that is at Starbucks. And why is it that they seem to think their cups are better because they use words instead of units of measurement?
     If I was to rename Leftovers Night something exotic, like The Meal That was Formally Known as Last Night's Dinner- it's still leftovers.

   It's only been a little bit over a month since I started the Lois Lane gig and I have to say- it's a bit exhausting. And I'm only working part-part time. Well, getting paid for part-part time, I'm sure the hours are a bit longer. (With that being said, I already had a busy schedule with starting my own business, raising three kids including a baby, and volunteering as treasurer of Abu's PTO.)
    There is a certain thrill though, for seeing a person's name, in black ink on newsprint. It's such an old-fashioned and traditional method of recognition for a writer in this age of digital fonts and computer screens.
    I've also enjoyed interviewing people in my community- learning new things and of course, since I'm writing about food, pretending to partake in the fine dining experiences that I must live through in the words I write...and ignoring the growing thought in the back of my head that I must experience eating -Vanilla crepes stuffed with mascarpone cheese and fresh raspberries -drizzled with a black Chambord reduction. - I didn't even know what Chambord was but it all looked divine.
    I'm still thinking that Lois Lane would have snitched a crepe when the Chef left the room to bring out the other dishes.

   On another note though, I was reminded that having a job also means you might get chewed out- which is a lot different than your kids screaming at you- in that situation you have the upper hand. In the job world, you have to play it cool and act like you really have time to deal with the problem when you were about to make lunch for three hungry children that were close to starting a riot unless they received food. 

    I have to say I didn't cry when I was told that one of the Chefs I interviewed was quite upset at me for a miscommunication over the photography shoot. I've grown up since the last time I was in the official job world, but I was concerned that I had messed up while dealing with a extremely popular Chef in town and a well known business owner. 

    Ouch! Don't mess up a little bit, Christy- just a lot.

    As it turned out, the problem was not on my end of the communication. Whew! But we'll see if that Chef ever wants to interview with me again. 

   On the home front, Baby Blueberry is insisting on turning off the X-Box 360 whenever her sisters are playing Minecraft. 

    She's one stubborn kid, which will work wonders for her in life...not so much for Bean's and Abu's video game playing. 

     And I have found out that part of Gibson's thrill to chewing, isn't just chewing as indicated by the fact that he was quickly bored with the nondestructive toy we finally found him. Nope, he loves chewing things into small pieces. 

    I think he might be part goat. 

     He has also discovered a love of crayons. Eating, not coloring. 

   Which he passed onto Baby Blueberry and her diaper yesterday was a wild assortment of pastel green and red. 

     

    So Lois Lane meets Motherhood. I'm pretty sure no one will know that I was conducting a phone interview while nursing the Baby.

Moth Dog versus the Middle Schooler...I mean the homeschooler

  

       When I was Bean's age, I had the unfortunate experience of middle school. If I was writing a horror novel; middle school would be the bad guy. It would be some huge building that comes alive and eats innocent elementary students.
     I'm sure middle school doesn't stress everyone out like it did for me. I would even bet some people...gasp...liked it.
     And perhaps part of my problem stems from the fact that I was in elementary school one week; then my parents moved to a different town and half way through the school year I found myself in middle school.
    
     Drowning. Definitely overwhelmed and out of place.

    On top of that I had a bat shit crazy teacher. And I'm not trying to be unkind, I have compassion for her now, she really did have some issues. Perhaps related to drugs but I don't have any proof.
     But she would stand on a stool and scream at us...at the top of her lungs.
     And then when she was done with that she would pick up the metal stool and bang it against the floor...over and over again. I think my ears are still ringing.
    Why she was never stopped or even just fired I'm not sure. The only thing that would make sense is that this was a harsh school, with difficult children and perhaps it wasn't possible to find teachers to work there.
    So the principal would turn a blind eye to what was happening in our classroom. She needed help though, not a classroom full of fifth graders.

    I tried to keep "My Tales from Middle School Hell' under wraps so as not to unduly influence Bean. She heard about some of them, not all and not very often.

    Bean has still been struggling with middle school. Not struggling in the fact she can't keep up, struggling in the fact, as she phases it, "My head is going to explode from boredom if I have to sit there one more minute. And oh, my science teacher talks in monotone monologue. Oh, and my English teacher, who I love as a person, is now brain dead and stares off into space as she lectures us. Oh, AND my math teacher is screaming in our faces and asking us why we don't understand the problem."
         Uh, because she's screaming at you instead of teaching the material. I mean I'm not an expert in education but it would seem to me, and I'm just going out on a limb here, but if someone was screaming at me, I probably wouldn't be learning at that point either.

      I have spoke to the school until I'm stomping around my living room, muttering words under my breath, and in general saying things I can't repeat here. No, we don't have advanced classes, thank the budget cuts. No, we can't mix up 7th and 8th classes. No, she can't have orchestra and choir even though we said she could but then we changed our minds and 'you just have to deal with it.' (Their words.)
     No, we can't really give her a gluten free meal even though legally we're supposed to. And legally we are because we're giving her a baked potato every day. Job done.
    Yes, she has to participate in PE with an ankle that is injured and you have seen a doctor for. Because we're more worry about attendance than your child's body.
      No, we're done requiring reading of literature and she won't be writing much either. Oh, and in math they get to use calculators for everything. So my advanced math student can't do math without a calculator and no one cares because we have them -why shouldn't we just make life easy and just use them.
     She can't do long division because the school's math is a bit fuzzy.

     Apparently, middle school hasn't changed since I went. Oh, and what happened in 7th grade??? Oh, yeah, my parents pulled me out and home schooled me.
      Which meant I graduated my the time I was 16, was given full tuition scholarships for college and was even asked to TA a biology class in my third semester of college.
      Then I made stupid choices, like dropping out of college and not finishing my degree, but that's another tale.

       Anyway, the moral of this long tale...Hero Hottie and I have pulled Bean out of middle school and are home schooling her.
      Urgh!!! I'm not sure what I have agreed to yet!!! The situation is starting to remind me of the show Survivor. And Bean and I are stuck on an island together and we might just get to the point where we try to vote each other off.   

  Here's my soap box disclaimer: The following paragraph contains strong ideas and opinions. (  And I'm not trying to pick on the public school system. I'm a big believer in education period. But education is not just the job of the school system but of the parents. Studies have shown that kids with supportive parents learn more. Excel more. I know, as a volunteer at Abu's elementary school, that supportive parents can do so much for our students. Education should be the responsibility of everyone. If we made choices in our community based off education and raising kids. Not to spoil them, I'm not talking about giving them whatever they want. I'm talking about the value of education. Not South Korea style. But more than what we have... it could be amazing! So I don't want to just ditch out on my school district. But I also believe that if a school isn't working for a student and a family wants to take the education home and do it there- Then that is their right. Until we had an organized education system in this country, it was usually the mom who made sure her children knew how to read and write. It was parents and communities that built schools and paid for the teacher. Home schooling and being responsible for our children's education is not a new concept. I'm really disappointed that our middle school has failed us at this time. But I can't fail my daughter and I feel like if she can't do long division, or math without a calculator, than I'm failing her.)
     
      In the mean time Gibson has earned himself yet another nick name. Moth Dog. Because he likes to chew tiny, perfectly round circles in anything cloth. Blankets, pillows, couch cushions, and oh, yeah my favorite hat.
    Which not only did he chew a circle size hole in, but he removed, with surgical precision, all the little cute pom poms on it.
       I know he's bored. People have suggested we get another dog.
       And my only reply?

      Are you nuts? I can't handle the one I have!!

     We will just muddle through this winter until spring when we will be putting up a tall fence and this Moth Dog can run around like crazy and eat weird things off the ground, and bark at deranged squirrels chirping at him, and chew up hoses, and toys and large branches from trees.
      Probably dig some holes and hopefully not figure out how to jump the fence.
      Did I mention we're going to put in a VERY TALL FENCE?

       Muddling is probably a good word for me right now. I just started writing for our local newspaper. Channeling my inner Lois Lane. It's very EXCITING!!! My first article published was about squash which is a very yummy subject. And did I mention that my NAME WAS ON IT!! I'm actually quite shocked.
         And it almost didn't happen if it wasn't for my little cheerleader, Abu, who tends to always encourage people to do their best. She pushed me into applying for the job, which I was too scared to try, and WOW! Here I am, earning money off my writing. Which feels real good!

        So my week continues and when asked about the turn of events, Moth Dog simply tried to eat the Baby's shoe, Bean's toes, and oh, yeah escaped out the door again.
        
        Until next time, remember coffee, prayers and friends. 
         They're the best cures for moments of insanity!

   

The Case of One Levitating Pup

    Physics. The concepts are really not difficult.  
   
   Modern physics state that: A body continually fed coffee will stay in motion.
   
     Or puppies who eat spilled coffee beans off my kitchen floor won't stop until a force greater than them stops them. Unfortunately, I haven't found that force. And now, Bean and Abu think it's hilarious to slip the puppy a few coffee beans and watch him zing around the room.
    And when I say ZING- I mean I'm not sure if his feet are even touching the ground.

     I love the concept of physics in Scooby Doo cartoons. Such as gravity doesn't work until you notice it, you can go splat and flat and be just fine and there are no such things as monsters, just normal people dressed in super techno, wildly expensive get ups.

   I'm starting to believe that puppy hood defies the laws of physics. How else can I explain a creature that never seems to run out of energy, can chew a toy in two seconds flat (I counted), and can manage to run around the neighborhood loose for only the time it takes me to put on my shoes yet comes back covered in glazed donut.
      I have to admit, the puppy smelled DELICIOUS! Mmm, glazed donut. But as Abu said, as she tried not to laugh, I hope there isn't a kid down the street crying because Gibson stole his donut.
    Oh, great. I might own a donut thief!!

   Actually, my scientific hypothesis based off no real facts except that he was covered in glaze from head to toe, was that he must have found an empty donut box and proceeded to roll in it. All I have to say...it's better than when he rolls in deer poop. Right before I have to leave...and I HAVE to give him a bath because he's not coming in my house with deer poop on him.
   No, the dog hasn't ate my homework but he has made us late because of deer poop.

   My brother who was interested in adopting a puppy has changed his mind. I think I have Gibson to blame. He loves the dog... but I'm sure it's all the lovely stories I have told that has made him rethink his plan to adopt a puppy. Too much work.

  Tell me about it.

  And the BABIES are getting clever. They really do work together to cause mayhem and chaos. And it's simply out of curiosity and wonderment. I truly think that's why they get along. They both share the same sense of wonder. How does this work? Can I eat it? Can I chew on it? Does it break when I perform experiments on it?

 First Case in point: Gibson grabbed a plastic hanger, there were two left on the chair where the older girls grabbed their coats and left for school. He starts chewing on it and TEARING it apart while I'm stuck on the phone. Baby Blueberry notices how much he likes to chew on the hanger and goes over and grabs the second one and hands it to him. ENCOURAGING the mutt!!! At that point, I told the person I had a Baby emergency and I HAD to go! I cleaned up the broken hanger and saved the second one from a similar fate.
   But that didn't stop the BABIES- no- they proceeded to search the room for something else to chew on. And when Blueberry found some paper she immediately hands it to Gibson.

   He loves this Baby. She understands him. Everyone else just yells at him for chewing.

    Second case in point: Gibson loves the trash can.

   - Note to self: Need to buy new trash can with lid. -

     Blueberry noticed how he loves to steal things out of there when I turn my back.

   Yes, the puppy waits until I'm not looking.
   
    So she waits until I turn away and she grabs the potato peels I just tossed in there and starts taking them out and handing them to the puppy.
   
    Blueberry! Out of the trash. So gross.

   Gibson! What have you taught my Baby?


  Perhaps they can communicate because he's telekinetic.

  He can levitate and speak with his mind. 

  I didn't adopt a puppy.

  I adopted a super hero with special powers. 

 
  

A Storm Called Atlas

  Around my neck of the woods we had a little storm called Atlas. It reminded people that for as safe and secure we feel in our civilized world, we are not above the laws of nature. And sometimes nature doesn't play nice.
    Perhaps we need to borrow some pages from a Boy Scout manual. Be prepared. It's not crazy to prep. I know society likes to paint a picture of crazy of people that prepare for natural disasters, zombie invasions or the grid being taken down but it's NOT CRAZY people.
   How long can you survive without water? Shelter? Your Apple product? (Surprisingly, you can survive without your Apple product. Really. It might hurt a little but it can be done.)
    I realized how woefully unprepared I was for any real disaster. I thought I was ready. But I'm not.
     Such as, I had a flashlight.
     But I didn't have the right batteries for it.
     I have a water filter. But what happens if the water doesn't come out of the faucet?
     I have bags of rice.
     But no way to cook it if my electricity goes out.
     I didn't even have the girls' winter boots yet. They had to borrow mine to go outside.
     If the zombies come. It's clear, my brains would feed the undead. Not a happy thought.

How many broken trees do you see?

    I've been through blizzards before. Wind and snow and cold. But this storm was incredible. It howled and attacked. It was without mercy. It started with hours upon hours of cold rain. And then the storm arrived like a Viking raiding party of old. It ravished and killed and was driven by a force of cruelty.
   People weren't expecting this storm to be so nasty. Blizzards we can handle, this storm was something else.
   Hero Hottie was stranded at work with coworkers and customers. I had friends stranded without heat and water and lights...for days.
  Some people were stranded in their vehicles over night until rescue crews could reach them.
  Our state's cattle and horses died by the ten of thousands. TEN OF THOUSANDS. Just imagine that. Where do you put the bodies afterwards?
   We, as a state, were also surprised when the media didn't cover our loss. When they didn't think it was worthy news. I think we were saddened to find that many on the east and west coast were heartless. That they blamed us for the deaths. Do they really think there are enough barns to shelter nearly a hundred thousand beasts? Really?
   Do they think that a man wouldn't try to save his animals? His livelihood?
   I hear prices of beef have already started to go way up. Haven't people realized yet, that nothing happens in one part of the world that doesn't affect all of us?
   Simon and Garfunkel had it wrong. We are not an island.
 
      When I let Gibson out that night, or more like I hooked him up to his leash and literally tossed him out, I could hear the moan and groaning of branches as they cracked, broke and fell to the ground. For hours this went on. It was like the entire world around me was falling apart.

The next day...broken tree limbs and piles of snow.

     Even weeks later, huge mountains of tree branches are piled on street corners and in backyards. Tree cutting services are working their butts off to trim the broken limbs that dangle dangerously above us.
     The yard waste department had to have special collection sites to handle the massive amount of debris. I think nearly every single tree or bush or structure had something broken. Imagine that. Damage to every single wonderful tree.
    

Broken

My old shed, although rusty was still hardy, suffered enough damage to it that I will be removing it this spring. Here's a picture of the top where just the sheer weight of the snow and the harshness of the storm caused it to buckle.

I will huff and puff and blow your shed down.

But I have to believe humanity is stronger than storms. For the next few days after the storm, as I was shoving snow with a very helpful neighbor friend of mine, people, who we didn't know, would wave to us. As if they were saying, 'hey, we all lived through this together.'
   Even now, fundraisers are under way to help the ranchers and horse camps that lost their herds, that lost their horses. And the community is giving.
  
   So two things we need to take from this 'going down in the history books' storm. One, prepare. You're not crazy. You're not a Doomsday Prepper by understanding you are a human being and have certain needs. Such as water, shelter, food and medicine.
   Our civilized society can still be affected by natural disasters and malfunction. I know I'm making a list of things I can't live without. Water, food, heat, shelter, medicine. Oh, and plenty of chewies for Gibson. Gotta keep the dog busy too.
   Perhaps extra diapers for the Baby Blueberry. I'm sure she doesn't want me collecting cold and wet moss from the trees and stuffing it in a makeshift diaper.
  
  And the second thing. I wish people would hold on to that feeling of togetherness they feel after a disaster. It seems too quick we go back to our 'me worlds', forgetting that we should love thy neighbor.
   
   Gibson and Abu enjoyed the snow. Gibson though it was hilarious to steal her hat and run. She had a terrible time catching him as the snow was three feet deep and impossible to run in but he just seem to sail over the top of it like a gazelle. The dog may hate water but he loves snow.

   Stay warm this winter my readers. I have a feeling winter plans on being harsh this year but spring will come.
     It always does.

Call Me -Gibson the Destroyer

         Adversaries. I stood, not even breathing, just inside the door. Gibson stood on the cement porch, not a muscle twitching. He stared at me with his big, brown puppy dog eyes but it wasn't a look of innocence or playfulness in their depths.
          This was a dog with a mission, an idea, a purpose going through his head and every thought was reflected in his eyes.
          Slow and silent breath. I didn't dare twitch.
          He continued to stare at me.
          I had just unhooked him from his chain and he was supposed to walk into the door with me. Instead, he stood there.
           Outside.
           He was outside where the smells, the thought of freedom, the ability to run as fast and as far as he could was all there for him.
         
           Damn, I really needed to get that fence installed.
          
         "Come on, Gibbs. Come in. Puppy treat." I cooed at him. Coaxing him.
          His eyes light up but not for puppy treats.
          Checkmate.
          He's gone in about three seconds. Down the steps, across the sidewalk and into the wide world. 

         I watch him channel his inner gazelle as he's in my next door neighbor's yard in about two second. From there he decides to cross the street and he's about to jump the retaining wall into the next neighbor's yard when...
        The thud of him hitting the wall, face first, echoes throughout the entire neighborhood. He stumbles back, looks like he's going to shake it off, takes two steps and then wobbles back and forth.
        And continues to wobble long enough for me to run over to him and hook his leash on his collar.

       He doesn't fight me as we walk back to the house and that's when I notice I have blood smeared across my pants.
       "Gibson." I kneel down, eye level with a puppy that looks dazed and confused. Blood is dripping from his chin and onto the sidewalk. He has split his lip. Almost deep enough for stitches.
         Apparently the retaining wall won that match of Puppy Loves to Escape.

        He stumbles into the house and my heart sinks. I wonder just how much damaged the puppy has done to his brain with his latest antics. I'm not looking forward to telling the girls the puppy died by missing a jump.
      He sits down next to Hero Hottie, his little shoulders hunched and stiff. Clearly, everything hurts.
 
      The earlier frustration I felt when he ran off dissipates with my reluctant compassion for him. Even though this is probably episode number ten or twenty of Puppy on the Run, a show I would love to have cancelled- he is just a puppy with an owie.
      I kneel down, scratching behind his ears. I'm sure he hasn't learned anything from his adventure. But for this moment, it's about comfort.


    A few hours later he's fine. The downstairs trash spread across the floor proves it. And the tore up hose in the backyard...only a foot of it hangs from the spigot tells me that he didn't suffer any permanent brain injury. He was also generous to leave enough so that I can at least water the sunflower by the backdoor.
    The couch cushions have once again been tossed off the couch like beanbags and now that the girls are home from school there is an air of screaming, shouting, and reprimanding as he attempts to chew their shoes while they're still WEARING them and nibble on their homework.
   Abu just knows that one day she will have to tell her teacher that her DOG really did eat her homework.

     I know he's only trying to help me with my goal to declutter my life by chewing up useless things we don't need, such as X-Box controllers, shoes, toys, and furniture.
   
      I realize that it's so much fun to be outside, and why does he have to wait on me to do it.
   
     I know he doesn't realize I gave him a new name, No, no. I'm going to get rid of you. 

     He's a puppy. A busy, chewy, can't sit still nor behave puppy.
    
     My advice for anyone wanting to adopt a puppy...skip the puppy, get a dog.
    A mellow one.
    Or you can borrow mine. He would love to visit. Just hide your shoes. And your valuables. And your trash. Oh, and don't forget- hide anything that can be destroyed by teeth.
    But otherwise, they are so cute and cuddly.

Hold On

             I hold my breath.The events in the world surround me. Worry me. I can't ignore them. So if you come to my blog for funny, I'm a little short on it today. Perhaps sarcasm. Hopefully a little faith.
             But funny- I can't do. Not today.

             Holding my Baby Blueberry. She is cuddly and snugly and is a busy little person. She is nearly a year now. Almost a birthday.
            It's such a milestone. It marks that transition between tiny infant to active kid. To talking and walking and already having her own opinions.

            She doesn't like cherry pie and she doesn't like mangoes. She loves puppies and horses. And just like most Moms I can tell you a hundred more things about her.

            I'm pretty sure Moms all over the world are pretty similar. We rock our babies at night and sing them lullabies. We coo at them. We teach them to write their names.
           And we try to keep them safe.

             I've sometimes pondered if the Moms of the world could get together, without the interference of governments, religion, media, big corporations, and societies- if we couldn't make a better world for our children.
            
              While our governments beat wildly on the war drums -

              While media talking heads - mere puppets- try to convince the people that bombs bring peace-
             
              While big corporations add chemicals to our food and tell us it good for our children-

              While religion tell me that I'm not getting into heaven without paying a proper amount of money-

                While society tries to tell me what to think and who to hate-

               I pray.

               I cling to what I know, in my heart, to be true. Faith. Grace. Hope.

              Not hijacked, political hope.

              Real HOPE. Fueled by LOVE.

              Perhaps I'm just having an inner hippie moment.

              Or perhaps I'm just a Mom who loves her children.

Running through a Rainbow

I would never eat something I wasn't supposed to.

      I ran my first race...a 5k through a rainbow. I'm pretty sure all 5k's after this will seem rather colorless and take more effort to complete. There is something exciting about having powered dye thrown at you while you run. Who would have known?
      (Alright, the Indians knew. Since these races, like the Run or Dye that I ran in, are inspired by Holi, an ancient Hindu religious festival celebrated in the spring and called a Festival of Colors, than being covered in color is not a new thing. Just new to Americans. But we're a bit crazy, because of instead of having a party with food and dancing, we like to add exercise to it.)
     I am not Hindu but I do like the thought of celebrating friendship, community, love, and the start of spring. (Even though, we're in the middle of summer. Since I live in a climate where every ounce of heat and sunshine is appreciated, I will take a Saturday morning to celebrate sunny weather.)
   
     My team decided to wear rainbow tutus for the event. You can see a bit of mine in the picture above. The night I finished mine, I quickly put it on when Hero Hottie got home from work and showed him. I'm pretty sure he almost started laughing but he turned away too fast.
      "What?" I demanded, standing there in a bright and poofy tutu, feeling much like an over sized ballerina but a part of me felt giddy and excited. It was like when I was little and dressing up in my Mommy's old clothes. Dressing like a princess. Or a princess explorer. I always tended to be a bit on the adventurous side with my imagination.
       But anyway, he finally turns around and gives me that look. That guy look that says- I'm not sure what to say because no matter what I'll be in trouble for it, but I'm going to open my mouth anyways and just get it over with-
       "You look silly." He pauses briefly and then rushes into more speech. "But that's what you want, right?"
        "Silly?" I fluff my skirt, liking the bright and bold colors. Red, yellow, green, purple. Bold colors that I don't usually wear because I'm not sure how to dress with lots of colors without looking like I stepped from the eighties. But this...this tutu...I can wear and enjoy and be silly.
       Because I can have fun and enjoy this community event that has brought a rainbow to our town.
    

     And because I have a team wearing tutus too...there will be no lone tutu wearing for me.

       He winces, waiting for me to be mad. But I just twirl, like the graceful ballerina I am, and tell him he should wear a tutu next year when he does the race with me.
     
        The look he gives me, says it all. There will be no tutu wearing for him next year. 

         I show up to the race, excited, and wearing my tutu, a white shirt and a white bandanna -a blank canvas.

        There is something joyous about throwing dye at each other before the race. It's fun and silly.
      
          At one point, when we're running through the green color station, a volunteer is holding out his hand, full of green dye, and yelling for a high five. I have to say I got caught up in the moment and smacked his hand hard, sending the dye flying everywhere.
         And I mean everywhere, because when I look behind me, my sister in law's face is covered in green dye.
        Whoops.

         My girls were waiting for me at the finish line and they were soon covered with the extra dye packets that I had saved in my pockets. Even Baby Blueberry soon had colorful hair,  but no smile as she wore her Daddy's expression of seriousness, trying to figure out why we were tossing colors at each other.

         Later that day, I come into the living room and Gibson is laying on my tutu, trying to eat it. I think he started with the yummy dye, and then in typical puppy fashion, decided that tutu material was an excellent source of entertainment. Luckily, he had only managed to munch one strand on purple before he was caught.
         I will simply add tutu to the casualty list, which is growing by the hour. Now it includes, 7 pairs of shoes, numerous baby toys, various bills and other mail (go for it Gibson), an X-Box controller (do you know how happy Hero Hottie was about that one?), a board game, the recliner chair, the corner of the piano bench, and now- a tutu.
     Oh, and lets not forget the pacifier, which for about ten minutes, I thought he had swallowed whole. And in my panic, I started wondering if we got on that show, My Dog Ate What?, would they pay for the vet bill, because I'm pretty sure I don't have the money for a pacifier extraction procedure. Then, we found it, behind the couch and I took a big sigh of relief. And oh, by the way, Baby Blueberry, you can't have that pacifier back, even if I boil it.


    So I ran through a rainbow. And while there was no pot of gold at the end of it...there was friends and family and celebration.
     And I got to look silly and had fun doing it!! 

     I even managed to save my tutu from busy puppy teeth, which Abu has claimed the rainbow for herself, once I fix it to her size. And I'm so glad she's still at an age where she wants to wear a tutu and feel silly.
     Even without teammates.

Muddy Couches, The Art of Hiding Shoes and Chasing Potato Bugs at 3am

You can't prove that those are my paw prints on your white couch.

       As Hero Hottie has been reminding me, bad puppy equals great dog. I laugh, mostly in a sleep deprived hysterical manner because my couch is covered in mud prints, I have been waken up at 3am to hunt for potato bugs and the girls have had to learn to hide their shoes in a shut room to keep them away from the deadly chewing power of puppy.

     And in fact, Gibson is not a bad puppy. He's a great puppy. All spunk, and intelligence and kindness. There has only been two things we have been very harsh with him, no jumping up on people and no biting, even puppy nibbles.
     Right now, he's a puppy and his jumping is more annoying than damaging but he's a GREAT DANE. Jumping up is not an option for him when he's full grown.
     And I know he's a puppy which requires a lot of chewing and nibbling and puppy play. But lets learn now that you, Gibson, are not a zombie and therefore do not get to nibble on human flesh. He's slowly learning that one. Mostly he's using his puppy nibbles to get Abu's attention when he feels ignored. (Which is whenever she's not paying attention to him.)

      I have desperately tried to keep that cream colored couch clean these last few years from five children. Bean, Abu, CT, Bug and Blueberry. Not an easy feat by any means, short of forbidding them from being on the couch, which my parenting style keeps me from doing.
      But one Great Dane puppy with muddy paws wrecked four years of quickly scrubbing out spills and sticky fingers prints with one giant leap onto the couch.
      I had thought I had wiped him cleaned. When he had come in from the yard, I had halted his eagerness to spread his happiness all around my house with a scrub of the towel. Because I knew he would go right for my couch. He seems to think it's his bed.
     Which I suppose probably makes sense to a little puppy who already believes he's a big dog. And big dogs deserve big beds, right?
      One giant leap for puppy kind right across my living room and onto the couch and I realized as he touched down with all the grace of a football player tackling the quarter back, that somewhere he had hid mud between his puppy paws and it was now being playfully spread across the entire cream colored surface of my couch.

      "Gibson! No!!" I screamed, but he was in a frenzy. Running back and forth, tossing the huge cushions around like they're lightweight balloons. Digging himself into the now messy pile of pillows because he thinks we're playing.
       I grab him, hauling him off the couch and just stare at the damage he has done.
       Scrubbing only gets out most of the mud and I can still see traces of it on the arm of the couch. Which he lays his head on while I'm cleaning and tries to help by chewing on my cleaning rag.

      Such a helpful puppy.
      His expression, as seen in the photo above, is so cute I can almost forgive him. Just like I'm getting over the fact that for a while after he discovered he could wake me up in the middle of the night to go potty outside rather than do it on my living room floor and he would actually be a good dog for waking me up than he decided that meant if he woke me up for any reason he must be a GREAT dog.
      Puppy logic, I'm learning, is a lot like kid logic.

      Hence, the 3am potato bug hunts outside. And he's adorable pouncing on them, chasing them, sniffing them down with his little puppy nose...just not at 3am when I'm standing on my front porch in my pj's wondering if Baby Blueberry will stay asleep when I come back to bed or wake up as soon as my head hits the pillow.
      
     After a few nights of him waking me up just to play outside we finally had a long talk, which involved a bit of scolding, something he hates to hear from me, and now he's only waking me if he has to go. So he's a smart dog too.

     And lucky for him, charming and cute.

     Because I haven't even told you what he did to the recliner chair. 
         

Puppy Diaries: The Babies

     We have taken to calling them The Babies. What are The Babies doing? What are they eating?

       What are they getting into?

     They have decided that perhaps they do like each other. This idea occurred to both of them over a cardboard box.
      And I think the silent conversation went a little like this:
      "Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. This cardboard thing is so neat to rip apart." Gibson the puppy is wildly tearing into the flap of the box. Stops when I yell at him and then continues as soon as I turn my back.
   
      It's a bit difficult to get the laundry done with both Babies awake and ready to find trouble.

     Baby Blueberry eyes the puppy from across the room. Her brow is furrowed tightly and I'm not sure what she thinks of this strange mutt who has invaded her space. And tries to eat her toys.
 
       Rip. A flap is totally torn off the box and is being shaken like some dead prey.
      "Gibson." I yell as the box slowly starts to fall apart, the contents threatening to jump ship. Not realizing that the waters are dangerous and if they should leave the safety of the box they will become a doggie toy.
        I shoo him away and try to fold my box back up into shape. It's floppy and torn and is mortally wounded. I will have to find another box.
        The second I turn my back, the fierce creature stalks his prey again and pounces on the poor defenseless box.
       "Oh boy, I know that lady is going to yell again but this box is so GOOD." The Gibson puppy thinks as he starts ripping the box into tiny bits.
       And that's when Baby Blueberry decides this puppy is fun. She quickly crawls over to the little bits of cardboard starting to litter the ground and wants to eat them. I swear he rips it up faster now that she has crawled over to him and tries to join in. A piece goes right in the mouth.
       "No, Baby Girl you can't eat cardboard. No baby doggie you can't tear up my box." I swoop in, grab the baby, risk my fingers being bitten to pull the cardboard out of her mouth. Which she only reluctantly gives up, trying to keep her mouth clamped tight so I can't take her treasure.
        I put her on the other side of the room with her toys, grab the Gibson by his collar and throw him outside and then clean up the mess before anymore Babies can eat any more cardboard.
        But in that brief moment, I saw it. They were working together. Co-conspirators. Their friendship cemented over the shared victory of a dead cardboard box.

        From that moment she starts to follow him around, crawling after him as he walks through the house trying to find more good stuff to chew apart.
        When he's on one side of the gate and she's on the other, she will try to reach him. Pet him. Pull his ears.
        The Babies both like to chew on shoes. Yuck!
        They both go and go and go until they pass out. But never at bedtime. No, The Babies don't like to sleep when they're supposed to.
         He likes to sit patiently under her high chair and wait for her to drop her food. Wait until she realizes what he's doing, then I know she'll throw him food on purpose. Or wait until he's big enough to put his muzzle on her tray while she eats...maybe, Gibson needs to be thrown outside when I feed her.

         Now, he better just stop pulling her toys out from the diaper bag before she realizes that he's searching for a new chew toy or their newly found friendship pact might be over.

      In the meantime, I only was able to write this blog because BOTH Babies are sleeping...after waking up every few hours last night. So of course they're sleeping now. When it's morning...when it's time to be up.
     BABIES!  

Puppy Diaries: Baby versus Puppy

     I've never had a baby and puppy at the same time. Buddy was already two years old when Bean came along. He was no longer chewing up favorite summer hats, or trying to nibble our toes off and he wasn't having accidents in the house.
     We were used to having Baby and Dog in the house. I didn't think it would be so much different with Baby and Puppy.
      Boy, was I wrong.

      Day Two: Baby Blueberry scoots close to Gibson, studying him over with the most serious expression on her face. The puppy is a bit hyper. Jumping around, running around, grabbing toys. "Hey, he's grabbing MY toys." Her glare seems to say as she smacks the air with her hands. I have noticed when she's frustrated about something, this is her sign language for it.
       She starts to crawl after Gibson and he freezes in mid chop.
       "What is that tiny person doing?" His worried doggie brow seems to say.
        His big paws don't move as she's close enough to touch him now. His ears arch up and then he wiggles away from her. She startles and wants held.
      We all laugh as we realize they are afraid of each other.

       And for the next week that is how Baby and Puppy react with each other. Trepidation. Nervousness. Fear.
       He bounces over too close...she wants picked up.
       She crawls too close...well, I'm sure he would want picked up. Or certainty a lap to sit on. Despite the fact that he has Great Dane DNA running through his veins and he's going to be a huge dog, Gibson has decided he likes to be a lap dog. Right now, Bean and Abu love it. He snuggles up on their laps while they are reading or watching a movie and they're all happy. Of course, one day they won't be able to get up on their own because they'll be pinned by a large mutt.
        But every time the baby gets close...he's gone.

    Until Day 7: This is the day that Gibson has decided perhaps this tiny creature is actually another puppy. She just looks weird. So he starts by walking close to her, being brave with a tall stance.
    I laugh. Baby Blueberry isn't sure what the mutt is doing and she narrows her eyes at him.
    He carefully, and when I write carefully, I mean I have never seen a puppy be so gentle with their frenzied and hyper paws, yet he slowly places the pad of his paw, not even the tips where his trimmed nails are, on her bare knee.
    She looks at me. "Is this okay?" I scoot close to her, since I know Gibson isn't going to hurt her on purpose but he's still a puppy.
     And then this is when he decides she must be a puppy too. And he gently pounces on her like she's a breakable puppy but still someone to wrestle with.
     I catch her as she topples over backwards and scold him that she's not a puppy.
    
     Day 8: But now his mistake has now changed the way she looks at puppy. If he thinks she's for pouncing then he must be okay for pulling hair. And so now she crawls after him and tries to pet him but oh, that hair is so tempting to a little baby.
     Especially when Mommy and Daddy hate it when she pulls their hair. But the puppy must not mind it. He lays still, not hardly breathing as she yanks on his silky black hair.
   Mom is clearly mistaken, Baby thinks as Mommy scolds her, Puppy would move away if he didn't like it.

    Day 9: Gibson has changed his mind about Baby. Yes, she pulls hair, and he can't chew on her toys even though they have the best flavor, and boy that Mommy person really didn't like it when he had an accident in her room. Although, in his favor, he didn't did it on the carpet and only on the hardwood floor.
         And he can't pounce on the Baby.
         But he has discovered the greatest secret of canines kept throughout history...kids equal food. People food. A few times a day those big people put her in chair and feed her food. Which the Baby has a habit of dropping. Isn't he helping if he keeps the place tidy?
        Of course, he can't understand why the big people yell when he tries to clean the Baby after they get her out of the chair. He's just trying to be a helpful mutt.

    Day 11: He has realized that it is not in his best interest to try to nibble on the Baby's toes. The big people really started yelling then, followed by time out on his chain. But he does think its vastly unfair that the Baby can bite him and she doesn't get thrown outside.
              He was laying on Abu's bed, a battle I have quickly lost because as soon as I leave the room he thinks he needs to snuggle with his favorite girl. I was tucking Abu in and Blueberry was using the edge of the bed to learn to walk. His slender tail was hanging over the edge. Tempting like hair. And...
             Baby bit Puppy's tail. He pulls his tail away and stares at her. What did that Baby just do? She actually bit my tail!

    Day 13:  We are on a walk in the park, one of his favorite activities, and I notice he's constantly doing headcounts.
       Bean. Check.
      Abu. Check.
      That Baby. Check.
      Keeping track of his girls, just like the good dog he's going to be.

       There is one thing they can agree upon. They both love to chew on shoes. Puppy can't believe that the Baby loves to find shoes and chew on them too. She must have good taste. Because those shoes are tasty. He almost had the strap chewed completely through on Mommy's shoe before she noticed.
    
        This morning he sits in my lap, legs stretched over my thighs. Head dangling over the other side when Baby sees me. The puppy is in HER Mommy's lap. She crawls quickly across the room, crawls right over that puppy, and takes HER lap back. He slides off my legs and looks at her as if to say, Hey, I was here first.
      And then tries to nibble on her toes. She tries to pull his hair.

      Gibson outside!
      Baby no pulling hair!

 

Puppy Diaries: The Beginning

              It's been over two years since the canine love of our lives, Buddy, died from cancer. Two years that we didn't have dog hairs on everything, two years since the house lack that wet dog smell after a rain storm.

                Twenty eight months since we stepped foot into our favorite pet store to buy his dog food and special peanut butter biscuits.

                And at first the pain was too raw and the holes in our hearts were too big to fill with another canine presence. We didn't want another dog around.

                As time flew, with life, and then pregnancy and bed rest and now a Baby Blueberry, I was too busy to want a dog.  Hero Hottie and I really missed Buddy the day we brought home the Baby, because he always loved the babies. He was kind and gentle with them. Sniffing Bean and Abu so delicately around their cheeks and their toes and then wagging his tail wildly as he looked at them with promise in his eyes.

       He knew, and perhaps it was the lab in them, he knew to protect them. And right up to the end he did. When they were outside together, his job was to guard them, bark at strangers, and keep them safe. In the evenings, if Hero Hottie was gone, he would sleep in their room until the man of the house was home and then he would go to bed. He loved them. Adored them. Cherished them.

   So it was hard to not be able to share that with him when we brought home Baby Blueberry.

    Abu has been wanting a dog. For months now. She's my animal lover and she has solely missed having a canine around here. For a while it was okay, she would shower affection on the neighbor's cat, who she nick-named Orange Soda.  The cat, hobbling ably around on three legs, would come over for a little petting every time she heard Abu.  Sometimes Orange Soda would be waiting for Abu in the yard and as soon as Abu saw her, she would bounce out of the house, eager to stroke the feline's long, orange fur and cuddle her as close as any cat would allow.

   And then a week after Baby Blueberry was born, I sent the girls out to put the recycling in the bins and they found her. Lying in the yard. Motionless. Bloody. Gone.

   The most we could figure, is that she had been attacked by dogs and had dragged herself to someone she loved. We weren't sure which neighbor she belonged to, so we buried her behind the compost bin and had a funeral for her.  After a few days of searching we finally found her owner. The man was heartbroken but grateful we haven't just dumped her body in the trash. He even came and visited her grave site.

   But after that Abu's heart was aching. She didn't have an animal companion to love. After much debating and discussion and promises that I wouldn't be held responsible for dog duty. We told her she could get a dog for her birthday.  Which coincides with summer, a perfect time to potty train a new pup.

                On her birthday we went to the pound. The smell was so overwhelmingly stenchly that Baby Blueberry started crying, her little nose wrinkling in protest. But a few minutes later our sense of smell had been totally obliterated and the Baby stopped crying. 

              We paused in front of each metal cage, wondering if Abu's and Bean's new canine friend was waiting inside. One puppy seemed sweet. She was white and timid, huddled in the corner of her cage, listening to us talk to her...Then a noise startled her and she jumped, from a sitting position, six foot straight up into the air. 

            I had a dog once that loved to lick your eyebrows as a greeting. So I told the girls to move on. 

            There were too many strays; older labs, many pit bulls, small, snappish dogs- ankle biters- and puppies of various DNA mixes. I always find the pound a sad and lonely place. Metal cages, a stench that will fry the hair off a bear, and a sense of foreboding in the air. 

           There was a beautiful blue heeler pup, but they bark too much for me. And I think they do better if you buy them a sheep to herd, which isn't an option for me. Dog, yes. Sheep, no. 

           A lovely, bushy German Shepherd pup will hopefully go to the perfect family. Just not us. 

          We exam all the cages and there isn't a puppy there that matches our idea. Abu wants to look at them all again. 

           So we do. 

           And then one of the volunteers bring back Gasol, a small black lab and Great Dane mix from his daily exercise outside. 

           The girls are close to his cage and underneath the door, he reaches out his white tipped paw and touches their feet. When he manages to make contact, his slender black tail wags happily. 

           Abu and Bean fall in love with him instantly. 

           Reluctantly, we have to leave and bring back Hero Hottie later. The day is long as they wait for their Dad to get home. 

           Then they are dragging him into the pound, signing up to visit Gasol in a private room and he is just a darling of a puppy. Sociable. Well loved by all the volunteers and staff at the pound. And oh, so careful with the Baby. 

            He sits on Hero Hottie's shoes and peers up into his face. Please take me home. See, I'm a good dog. His expression seems to say. 

             Obviously, a smart dog too, since he knows which person he has to convince the most. 

              Well, his charming behavior worked. Hence the picture below. But we changed his name to Gibson. 

             Yes, after the guitar. 

             

Gibson- charming, easy going and mischievous