Do Dogs Remember Yesterday?

Heck, do I remember yesterday? I can't even find my car keys.

In an article in Psychology Today, the author, Ira Hyman, Jr., Ph.D wrote about a lack of episodic memory in dogs and other animals. The article, Dogs Don't Remember: Episodic Memory May Distinguish Humans, was published back in 2010 but for some reason was circling around the Internet yesterday- someone must have forgot this was old news.

I found the article interesting, just because I had to disagree with everything he had to say about dogs. And perhaps that comes from the fact that I blog about a dog, so I'm a bit biased.

 Of course Gibson can remember yesterday- he wakes up every morning knowing who I am.

I know Gibson remembers yesterday. I will conduct my own scientific experiment involving
Mr. Gibson to prove it.

First: Take him to the dog park. Now, as soon as we start driving down the road, towards this heavenly place, his body language changes. He starts to frantically sniff out the window, his drooling increases, he starts whining, he lacks self control. Now of course, for disbelievers, you might say he just smells the dog park and his actions are simply a response to the olfactory stimulus that he is receiving-  I know I act the same way when I get to close to a chocolate shop.

But I think he is recalling the smells, remembering the times before that we were there. Experiencing memory.

Second: Let him run around the dog park. Do his doggy thing. The dog park: where the dogs all smell each other's butts- and then your toddler goes home and makes all her toys sniff each other's butts before they play. Oh, boy.

Third: Drag him kicking and pulling away from the car. (Actually, Gibson is fairly good about returning to the car if you start walking towards it- he doesn't want to be left. Hmmm, he is remembering home?)

Fourth: The next morning Mr. Gibson will beg you to take him to the park again. He will run around you in circles, lick your face, whine at the door, and grab his leash. Viola! He remembers yesterday!

Of course, the experiment is hard to prove because when I ask him if he remembers yesterday all he says is, "bark, bark," which translates to "take me to the dog park."

This photo is Gibson after a couple of weeks of bad weather: which means no dog park, no walks, very little outside and yet, he dreams and plans about going to the dog park.  And gets depressed.

The author also goes on to say that dogs don't have memory because when he goes into the yard to play with his dogs they are super excited to see him.Then they get bored. He leaves, returns 10-15 minutes later and they greet him with excitement and joy, like they haven't seen him in forever. His conclusion: they don't remember that he was just in the yard with them.

Mmm, no they remember. They're dogs, which means they experience joy and happiness on levels that we used to when we were little children and it didn't take much for us to experience simple but all encompassing levels of "I'm happy to see you."

What if we all started to greet each other like that, even if we had only been gone for 10-15 minutes? Mmm, okay perhaps not. Business meetings might become awkward with such displays of affections and possible butt sniffing.

 But we could keep the idea in mind- warm smiles of joy really, truly make another person's day.


The other part of the article furthers states that dogs also can't plan particular future events. Dogs can look forward to general future events, like my people should fill my food bowl for dinner but nothing special.

I know this is wrong. Because one day I told Gibson that later we would go to the dog park and then we didn't.

And he didn't let me forget all day. Or the next day. Or the day after that. I had stated a 'particular future event' and he was looking forward to. Planning for it. Probably thinking about all the butts he would sniff. And the squirrels he would chase. And hoping for other dogs to play with.

Maybe I'm just reading human traits into his beastly actions...or maybe he remembers yesterday.

It's a mystery we may never know. But I do know this...he probably knows what the fox says. And that is the question psychologists should be more focused on.


(For readers who don't know, I'm referring to the song, The Fox (What Does the Fox Say) by the band Ylvis. Apparently, they play this song everywhere, including Abu's school dances. I only discovered it today- I know, so far behind on my Internet knowledge. Word of advice though, watch the other videos first before showing to kids. Their song Stonehedge has some suggestive content.

Baby and Puppy Strike Again

Edible Ornaments are Just Snacks Hanging from the Christmas Tree

Right before Christmas, Grandma had Abu and Blueberry over and they made ornaments with cupcake glass ornaments and sugar cones. They were beautiful!

And then they went missing.

I should have remembered that Baby Blueberry really likes to munch on sugar cones. 

Gibson goes without saying. I'm going to hang food on a Christmas tree, which by the way...he loves Christmas trees. I am bringing the outdoors inside...for him. He's sure we bring the tree in just for him. His favorite thing to do with a Christmas tree (and thank goodness it's not to pee on it) he loves to drink the water. Absolutely will drink all the water from the stand, everyday. 

No wonder my tree dried out so quickly. 

Now, of course, I know this crazy dog of mine. I was well aware that if we thought we would put food on the tree it would disappear. 

So we put the ornaments up high. 

And in a few days, this is what I found on the ground. 

Mmm, suspicious. The sugar cone did not fall off by itself.

And then a few days later...I look up to watch a very quiet Blueberry sneaking over towards the tree.

Sneaking. On tip toes. Thinking I'm not watching her. 

But I do watch her and catch her in action. 

Eating the sugar cones!

She ignores me and my camera, as if I can't see her eating the Christmas ornament. Mmm, edible Christmas ornaments. It's a brilliant idea! 

I tell her she can't eat the ornaments and she's vastly disappointed. And as I'm dragging her away from the tree, Gibson, who has now realized there is another ornament at his level, decides to finish off the cone. 

So Baby and Puppy strike again. Eating Christmas tree ornaments right from the tree. It was a delicious Christmas! 

And Gibson thinks we are just the greatest people in the whole world: we brought a pine tree in the house, we gave him pine tree flavored water (no, I did not try it- it might be the next big thing too, he could be onto something) and we put edible ornaments on the tree! 

Next year he's hoping for bones, hams, and whole chickens hanging from the branches! 

And I'm sure Baby Blueberry would help eat them too.

A little Christmas Cheer from Last Year

Happy Friday!

Check out my last year's blog about Gibson eating Santa. Gibson is still a puppy this year but he's growing up. Now instead of eating ornaments he just likes to drink the Christmas tree water dry. Mmm, pine sap flavored water. Delicious!

http://justtheothermoment.blogspot.com/2013/12/gibson-ate-santa.html

One Baby, One Puppy, and One Red Balloon

Kindred Spirits Share a Moment

I love this thing! 

As a child I loved helium-filled balloons as most kids do. They float, they can make your hair crazy, you can bounce them- they're awesome.

As a parent, I'm not so thrilled with the helium-filled balloon. The girls have fun with them and then they do what all balloons do...they POP.

And then the tears start.

But the other day we unfortunately were given a red helium-filled balloon and for a few moments- bliss was absolute. I'll let the photos do most of the talking this time.

Isn't this the best thing, Gibson? - Yes, kid, you bring home the best things to chew on. 

I tried to explain that sharp puppy teeth and balloons don't mix, but Baby Blueberry wouldn't listen. Around and around she would run in the living room, letting Gibson chase her. Laughing and giggling. And he loves to play with her. Jumping up on furniture, following her around the room, trying to play with her.

For a few moments- pure joy and bliss. And then...

Puppy, what happened?

Both babies stopped in shock, not sure what happened to their toy. Gibson started sniffing around, trying to figure out how it disappeared. Baby Blueberry wondered how it went from a wonderful- bouncy toy to something so boring and flat.

Sadness

 

 

A helium balloon always bring sadness. Great joy and then POP. That is just the way of the balloon. And just when Baby Blueberry and Gibson decide that a piece of latex can be fun, Mommy takes it away, says it's now considered a choking hazard and it's gone.

And somehow all that sadness will be forgotten as soon as another helium-filled balloon is found.

Lois Lane Drives a Minivan

Do you wanna play with me? 

     I have a confession to make: While I write this blog, Baby Blueberry is munching cold left-overs for breakfast, the weeds are starting to take over my front yard, and in two weeks I have to start homeschooling two children- who will never be the poster children for the perfectly agreeable homeschooled child who doesn't argue when it's time to do math.
     In the meantime I have two articles due and I just released my first fictional book on Amazon.com. Yay!! (More on that next time, with links. Because if any of my readers love romance stories, than I will be begging them to purchase a copy and if they like it, to write a review on Amazon for me. If you want and be so inclined. Just a small flavor to start getting the word out. )

      This summer has not turned out the way I hoped, which I had some inkling of when it started, there was a general feeling in the breeze, in the chilly wind that has not warmed up yet and continued to stay on the cool side right into August. Even this day started with a fog weaving through the leaves of the trees, a cloud mist sinking to the ground.

    A fog is fitting for the state of my mind.- dealing with confusion and a general sense of being overwhelmed. I can kinda feel the warmth of the sun through it, and I know eventually it will burn off- this sense of lostness- but in the meantime...
   It's starts like this: Yes, I agree that putting Abu through orthodontic work would be considered a 'first world problem' Blah. - And I AM NO LESS GRATEFUL that Hero Hottie and I can scrimp and save and somehow magically pull money together to pay for this. We are gladly giving up dinners outs, new clothes, work around the house, trips, etc. to make sure she has a healthy mouth, a painless smile and bite.
     This does not mean that I am not overwhelmed with the amount of money I owe on this or the juggling to my finances it takes to pay the 'car payment' size bill every month.
    I know financial experts say money is just a tool but when I pick up a hammer my stomach doesn't tightened into a knot. My thumb might try to hide but that because I have a tendency to not hit things on the head. - I look at my bank statement and my Crohn's threatens to kill me. Hasn't been a great month for the whole gut and emotion connection theories that I can attest to as probably being fact.

     I think someone can be grateful for something and still be overwhelmed by the sheer size of it. So when I complain about how much this is costing, I'm not any less full of gratitude- I just know every time I pay the orthodontist it's the same as taking a loaded cannon and aiming it at my bank account.    
    And I know myself enough to realize I will continue to stress about it until it's paid.
   
    I also realized a few other things this summer.

First:
   If the truth can set a man free- it does not restore things to their previous order. A man will still have to claw, as if in a fight and struggle for survival, against the dark lies that put him in a position to have to defend himself in the first place. Truth may shine brightly, but it does not give a man back his position in the community, his livelihood, his honor.
    The truth ends one battle- which is proving that the lies are nothing but that- and sets a man on another path- which is regaining what he has lost.
   I guess I had a fairytale version of truth, which was once truth won- everything was bright and shiny again. I was wrong.
  
   But the other thing I realized: truth gives you back your soul and that has value of immeasurable worth. 

Second:
    That life is an endless, sloppy mess of joy and grief- all mixed together. And there isn't any balance. Sometimes you will have more joy than grief and other times you will definitely experience more grief than joy.

Grief:
Currently my parents are having to relocate. The rental house they are living in is up for sale by the landlord. I'm not sure if the realtor knows this is just a desperate attempt on his part to sale the house before the banks takes it- but I don't think it matters. My parents have to find somewhere else to live and it's not going great.

And I had two wonderful friends move this summer, far, far away. So missing people always make me a little sad.

Another friendship is drifting and I don't understand drift. I always moved before any of my relationships could enter that weird zone of being someone I used to know.

But joy is always present in my life and these are the moments that help me deal with this strange existence called being human.

Joy:
Watching my children grow. And lately with the world in such burning chaos, I have made the hugs a little longer, the listening to their stories more attentive, just spending more time with them. Grateful to have them in my life. Grateful that they are safe, and have full bellies, and shoes on their feet.

Gibson. He drives me nuts but he is also a character who we took to the dog park and now he knows where heaven is. - It's at the dog park where they have that creek and all the dogs play together. Life is so good there.

Pretending to be Lois Lane as I drive to interviews in my minivan, hoping that the nose wipe on my shoulder that the Baby just sent me off with will dry by the time I arrive. Hoping that I can find a blank sheet of paper in my notebook when I open it up and realize someone else had used it for their drawings. Trying to keep my mind focused on my questions and the interviewees' answers as I also fall into mommy mode and plan dinner and wonder what is causing Baby Blueberry's diaper rash. 


Next time I will talk about my new book, The Cowboy's Sexy Songbird.

In the meantime:  the dog park is apparently heaven. And running through a creek, chasing each other for a stick is the answer to finding happiness.

   

Puppy Has Nine Lives...umm- Eight Lives Left

   Gibson has a postal worker thing. Not the usual doggie thing- where the canine wants to rip the nice- I'm just delivering your mail to your mailbox- worker to shreds.
    No, Gibson has friendship. Because he's one of the most social dogs I have ever seen. The girls and I always tease him that he has a motto-

    "Stalking 'til we're friends"

   This started at the dog park because when he would see another dog, he goes into crouch mode, like he's a big, wild beast of Africa, sneaking up on the unsuspecting herbivore. The looks we have gotten from other dog owners, as they notice this huge Great Dane/Black Lab 'puppy' trying to quietly sneak up on their small, toaster box size pet has been hilarious- if perhaps they didn't pick up their dogs and start running away from us.
    Then I start to feel bad that my extremely friendly lap dog has scared away yet another dog owner. And they simply do not believe me when I try to convince them that stalking is Gibson's way of making friends.

    But lets not talk about Gibson's troubles with social graces- we're here to discuss his other troubles:

   Gibson is a runner. We open the door and he tries to escape. We have now resorted to forming plays of action that we have to perform when we open the door. Sorta of like football- "Bean, here's the baby. Abu, grab the diaper bag. I'll throw the toy, when the dog intercepts it, make a run for the door before he crosses the living room."
    Or sometimes it's a full tackle. "Girls, grab the baby. I'll tackle the dog and hold him down while you get out the door."

    One day he made an escape and ran right for the pretty, blond mail lady. She realized that he wasn't the big, scary beast that most people think he is and recognized him for the overgrown puppy that he really is. She gave him puppy treats until I could run down the block and get him.
    And since then, it's been love at first doggie treat. Now, he watches out the window for her and when she passes, he doesn't bark like he normally would, he whines in this pitiful, gargle in the back of the throat.

   Last week, he rushes pass me as I check the mail. He thinks he sees her and runs right for the postal worker. Except it's not her. It's some guy he doesn't know. So he decides to run around the neighborhood, because for a huge oaf, being stuck in the house while it's in the negative temperatures is enough to drive one insane. And since he's free- he's going to take advantage of it.
    I go outside, not chasing him - because that actually makes him run worse. The best method is to IGNORE him- because then he runs back to me- wondering why I'm not playing chase.
    We end up in the backyard- I almost have him and then he decides to chase a car driving down the alley. The car is going somewhere between 10-15 miles an hour and he is so easily out running the vehicle.
     I'm afraid he's going to get to hit when he makes the stupid decision to turn and run towards the busy road. Then I start running but I can't outrun him and by the time I make the corner to the busy road, I notice ALL of the cars in four lanes of traffic are stopped and he's limping back to me.
    My chest tightens, the fear curling my gut and I hurry over to him and he's looking at me like a little kid would, 'I hurt Mommy and make it all better.'

   I coax him down the alley to my parent's house and holler for my Dad. Around this time a vehicle that had been stopped on the road comes driving slowly down the alley.
   "I saw what happened. He came out of nowhere. The truck tried to stop but he couldn't. I don't know how bad he got hit but he rolled under the truck a few times and then came out the side."
    I thank her for taking the time to stop, especially since the person that actually hit my dog never even took the time to see if the puppy was okay.
    My Dad feels all his bones, checking for broken ribs and legs and hips. He pokes and checks for tender spots on his belly and his torso. Gibson's tail is bleeding, road rash all up and down the sides of it. Missing chunks of fur and skin. The tail is swollen but it's not bent at odd angles or crushed.
     Gibson is crying. His eyes full of moisture and he's presses his forehead up against me. I cry with him.

     I take him back to my house, he slowly comes along, obviously sore but he's able to walk without yelping or whining.
     I make him comfortable and clean up his wounds. I don't rush him to the vet, not because of any lack of caring, because for all the headache he can be- I wouldn't let him suffer in any way- (I do happen to like my pain in the neck puppy)- I have nothing financially right now. It would be using my kids' food money to take him to the vet. So, since his doesn't have any broken bones or signs of  head trauma- we tend to him at home. We keep a careful eye on him, checking his urine and poop for blood. Checking for signs of head injury all night long. Checking to make sure the wounds on his tail start to heal quickly and there isn't a lack of circulation going on or broken tail bones.

   In the photo above you can see the tail and he's obviously sore and stiff. He doesn't even want to chew on his shoe, which is a great treat for him because to him there's nothing better than someone's sweaty, smelly running shoe. 

  Over the next thirty hours we baby him and coddle him. He eats it up, sitting on our laps and getting the chance to be the lap dog he knows he is underneath all that puppy body.
   We keep cleaning his tail and it scabs quickly. The potty stuff is going fine. Slowly he starts moving more, jumping over the baby gate, getting on the furniture.

    The house is quiet. There isn't a puppy trying to escape every time we open the door. He's not trying to eat the baby's toys and he's not attempting to eat Bean's boots every time she puts them on her feet.
    Hero Hottie asks, "What's wrong with you, man? You look like you've been hit by a truck." And that's his sarcastic way of dealing with it.- As he pets Gibson behind the ears and actually shares fried ham from his dinner plate with him.

   Just thirty hours after he is hit by a truck, rolled under the vehicle and managed to come out not only alive but without any serious injuries- he sneaks into the Baby's room and comes running out with a toy. And the chase is back on...
    "Gibson!"

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!
   

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. 

 
  

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.

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.