Thursday, December 29, 2011

Who Can You Trust?

Sammie Jo was a 10 year old rottweiler bitch owned by my friend Sandy. Sammie had osteosarcoma, but all in all did pretty well far longer than expected. She was a spoiled rotten dear friend who was generally well mannered except at the vet. Sammie Jo was so terrified there that she turned into Cujo. Sandy had the vet make house calls at enormous expense, but it was a much better situation for all involved, Sammie calm and no one in danger.

On Friday August 19, 2011 the vet came by to check on Sammie. All Sandy was doing was pain management. Sammie was eating and drinking, demanding her cookies at the right time of day and generally being herself, except the bad limp. That day the vet said it was time to put Sammie down. Sandy said no, not today. Next week. Vet goes on her way, appointment made. Sandy gets one last weekend with her dog.

So Sandy calls to tell me all this and we had a beer together. "You want me to come up now?" I asked her. No, it will be alright, she told me, she would have Tara come when the vet came back. Tara was her friend who took care of the dogs when needed.

That would have been alright if Sandy had not fallen that very afternoon and broken her neck. Relatives swooped in, banished the friends, threatened us with arrest and did not follow Sandy's wishes at all except to execute her living will. Sandy died Monday August 22.

In May, Sandy had made changes to her will reflecting her assets and changing a few things around, including the executor. Her assets all listed, she talked about her dogs. The attorney asked if she had someone to care for the dogs, which she did. Well then no need to add that to the formal will then. Sandy attached a hand written codicil to the formal papers saying Tara was to have care of the dogs, Sammie Jo was to be euthed at home, Tara was to find homes for Allie and BeeBee. Sounds all well and good, doesn't it?

Except that when Sandy's executor, her step daughter Pam Five Last Names So Far, blows into town Tara is grieving mess. Pam bulldozes Tara, puts Sammie in the car and drives her to the city animal control to be euthanized. No need to spend that money on the vet for a dying dog, right? Sammie Jo died in terror, most likely catch poled, muzzled and pinned down since I know she would have fought.

A friend who was there at the time, Bill, took Ally and BeeBee home with him so they don't get dumped, too. A neighbor kid, Victor, begged and cried and begged to please be allowed to have Ally and BeeBee. Pam relented and allowed this. Ally was a rescue placement of mine, and I had agreed to most of Sandy's arrangements with the disclaimer that I get a new contract from whomever Tara decided chose to place her with, per our original placement contract. That didn't happen either. I made arrangements to get a contract signed by Victor's mother, but before she did their house went into foreclosure and they took the dogs to Indiana with them to live with the grandparents. Except the grandparents don't like dogs. So Ally and BeeBee will live with another relative. The humans' cell phones are shut off and I can't find them.

I found all of this out last week when a friend got wasted drunk and babbled out the whole story. I was lied to and shut out by Sandy's relatives. I was "protected" by Sandy's friends. Bad enough my best friend of 25 years is dead in an accident and I am threatened with arrest if I try to go there, the fucking money grubbing cunt knew I would see to it Sandy's wishes were followed with regards to the dogs, and made damned sure I was kept in the dark about their disposal.

So I failed Sandy by not going there to see to it Sammie was cared for as Sandy wished, by not going there and taking my rescue dog. Arrest, pfft, I've never been arrested in my life, like they would put me in jail for trespass when I had a contract in my hand and knew what Sandy's attached codicil said?

Don't trust your family, don't trust your friends and be damned sure you lawyer understands that the pets are to be in the formal will with specific instructions for their care and placement, including a back up plan if the first plan falls through.

I am haunted by Sammie, Ally and BeeBee.

Sunday, July 3, 2011

Gone to Help

I am not much of a subscriber to any afterlife belief, but this seems to have been a very busy year for the rainbow bridge. Yesterday an old friend went to help keep our dogs company.

Joseph walked into my dog school wanting to buy a fully trained dog. He was a tall, handsome older man and had been forced to retire due to health problems, moving to Florida from Chicago. His cardiologist told him to get a dog and walk it. He was used to buying whatever he wanted, and he wanted a fully trained dog. I didn't have one and told him I helped people train dogs their own dogs, but I might be able to help him find one, hoping to locate one through the local dog network. He liked my flat coats.

At the time I had Jackie Cape's job as rescue coordinator for the FCRSA - still on paper, not computer. The newsletter was typed and stapled. Mary Beth Bissig was in charge of that. That was the year of the first Maryland Specialty. I went there with my Whoopi, Cathie Newitt and her daughter, Jenna, who was a young school girl. Whoopi got her CGC there, it was new, too, at the time. I remember meeting Janet Boss for the first time, she had her first fcr rescue with her. While I in Frederick I got a call about a dog in FL that had been pulled. A young flat coat bitch, no one knew who's (no chips then either). When I got home, she became Marilyn. Maryland -> Marilyn, yeah that’s how my mind works. She fostered with me for obedience and placement.

Marilyn was not a fully trained dog. Marilyn was a barely basic ob level young flat coat. Jumping, counter cruising, party animal. Over a few weeks, Joseph kept coming back to visit us. He and Marilyn fell in love, and I placed her with him. They made a lovely pair walking down the boulevard at Clearwater Beach, a tall tan handsome man with a full head of white hair, and his beautiful flat coat flirt. They made lots of friends on their walks, and Joseph and I became dear friends. He and Marilyn walked the beach for 11 or 12 years, until that got to be too much for her. Then walks in the near neighborhood, and then just sit in the sun together on the dock. Joseph loved Marilyn with all his heart and they were devoted to each other. Inevitably, she got too old and too sick to stay. I drove them to the vet and sat on the floor with her as she crossed over and Joseph's heart broke. He kept repeating that he had hoped it would be him first because he would miss her so much and he knew I would care for her. Marilyn was 13 and change when she died.

Joseph was in poor health. He wanted another dog not long after losing Marilyn, another flat coat or other retriever. I told him no. He simply wasn't agile enough to get an active dog. We started looking for old dogs. There were none. We contacted the rescues and no one, not one of them contacted us back once we explained the situation. He as custodial, me as co owner. Finally he found a shelter that would let him have a dog and took the butt ugliest dog in the place. Well compared to Marilyn, anyway. Princess was a chunky overweight 7 year old ACD mix, maybe some hound. She told me she would bite me the first time I met her without being overt about it. Joseph never was in charge of her, she cared for him and kept him safe from the UPS man and all the boats idling up the canal behind them. He couldn't stop her and didn't have the heart. But they loved each other. She continued to remind me she could take care of Joseph every time, and then we had a lovely visit.

Eventually Joseph got really ill and was hospitalized for a long time. I brought her home with me. Princess had gone from chunky to manatee in the time she was with him. The day after I brought her to my house, she slipped out the door and tried to run home. I outran her in about 30 yards. She thinks I have superpowers. When Joseph came home, I took her back to him. Very soon after, he asked me to take her permanently. He was just too weak and needed care himself. That was 2 years ago last February. It took me a year to get the weight off her and she thinks portion sizes here are seriously lacking.

Joseph and I talked a lot on the phone and I visited. He talked about his dogs and would tear up. He missed them so, but he would never let me bring Princess, he said it hurt too much. This last winter Joseph began failing. When I talked to him all this spring it was obvious the end was near and he was ready. He would ask about "my old dog" and I would tell him her latest antics. He’d get sniffly and teary and we would end the call soon after. I’d hang up and bawl like a baby.

Today I got the message from his daughter that Joseph crossed over yesterday. I told Princess and had a good cry on her shoulder. She is fully my dog now and will be until it's her time to join Joseph and Marilyn. Joseph told her to go with me and I am grateful. Snarky herdy bitch that she is, she takes care of us now, and she takes her work seriously.

Saturday, April 2, 2011

The Purge

During the Purge, I am packing things I no longer wish to carry with me, sorting what goes off to relatives who care or want, and what goes to the antique dealer or the garage sale or the trash. The giant Secretary is at least 125 years old by my estimate, coming down to me from my father’s family, his grandparents and is now stuffed with photos, old bills, documents and the accumulated need-a-place-to-keep-it-safe stuff of a 23 year marriage.

Her name was (Mary) Claudia Keenan and he was her father’s friend who lived at their house for a time, no reason given. John Zachary Holliday Scott was a Civil War veteran who migrated to Texas from Virginia after the war to start a law practice. He married and raised a family in Galveston in the 1880’s and wrote several important pieces of Galveston legal history. The family tells Zachary married Claudia in 1900, and then died while she was pregnant with their daughter, who would become my grandmother. Well, he was considerably older than she and in that day people died. She raised her daughter with the help of her family and the trust that was established for their care. My grandmother knew her Virginia cousins and told us kids tales of glory about our lineage, living in the house owned by her father until she died in her 70’s.

The only thing is, there is no record of this marriage. My great grandfather’s wife of record died after he did, according to Galveston County. There is no record of a divorce. And her name was not Claudia. What happened to all those half siblings my grandmother had, her father’s other children? Galveston is a small city where everyone is either related or knows your relatives. I never knew them or of them until I was older and heard the dribbles of information about a first family.

This Secretary is bound for the antique dealer.

I open another drawer and find a large manila envelope addressed to me in my other grandmother’s hand. Well, not really my grandmother, she was really my great aunt, but she served the role very well. In the envelope are photos and documents from her parents. An old fragile yellowed certificate documenting the marriage of Mary Ellen Dodd to Thomas Francis Myers, both of Galveston. The paper is heavy and crumbly at the edges and it smells of the old wood in which it had always been stored.

Mary Ellen Dodd nee’ Carroll, was the widow of a man murdered during a crime war, and found floating in a row boat in the bay. Organized crime and politics intermingled much more freely back then, or perhaps more openly, and her husband was made an example of something for the attention of someone, don’t know who.

Thomas Francis Myers was an Irish immigrant and a police officer for Galveston. Most people only know of Ellis Island, but many many people came in at other ports to the south. Galveston was one of them.

The 1900 Great Storm washed over Galveston with the storm surge rising 10 feet in under 6 seconds, above the already flooded island, carrying everything in it’s path. 6000 people drowned. When it was over and the water receded, the clean up began. Bodies buried in the rubble presented an enormous risk to public health and there was no where to get rid of them. Burial at sea was tried and the decomposing bodies just washed back in on the ravaged beach. Giant pyres were erected. The ones who could be identified had the chance to for a decent burial by their families, if their families survived. The stink of decomp, the smell of burning rot, went on for months. My great grandfather the cop was part of the recovery crew finding bodies weeks and months after. And got typhus for his trouble.

Mary Ellen worked at a boarding house since the murder of her husband. The boarding houses were commandeered as hospital space, and there she met Thomas, nursing him while he was sick.

A sepia toned photo of a bride and groom, stiff and serious because exposing a photograph back then took a long time and movement blurred the photo. Were they happy on that day? By the time I could ask that question there was no one left alive to answer. She bore 6 children in the next 10 years and managed to get 5 past infancy. One picture of a fat baby with Mary Katherine written on the back in copperplate. Seven people in a tiny house, a yard with chickens and a garden and a dog who kept the rats at bay and the rabbits out of the garden.

Mary Ellen died of pneumonia in the Spanish Flu epidemic during WW1, leaving her children teenagers and younger. The oldest girl Mary Katherine, third born, stayed home with her father and raised her siblings. She didn’t marry until she was nearly 30 and the last of the siblings were grown.  Her sister Bertha Margaret was my aunt/grandmother. She never married. She was engaged twice and broke off both of them because “they tried to tell me how to spend my money.” Bertha was the keeper and teller of the stories. I heard the funny ones and the daily life ones as a child for my bedtime stories. As a grown woman she told me more, describing her father as “a hard man”. And she never married because she loved a married man for 20 years until he died not too long before I was born. His brother brought her the news and $5000 in an envelope. She did not get to see her man buried. His name was Sam.

This envelope goes in the box to be shipped to my mother.

Another drawer open and here I find another marriage certificate, mine, to my high school husband and the divorce papers I knew I would eventually possess as I stood before the judge marrying. And the marriage certificate to the second husband, from whom my divorce inspired this Purge. These are dropped in a box labeled Keep and Store, with the tax records and other legal documents I have to keep but would like to burn.

I am itchy and sneezy from the dust of old papers and overwhelmed by the memories being sorted into categories. The boxes are carried out to be shipped tomorrow, or stored on a shelf until the next Purge comes.

Cooper: Rescue Gone Right

At the end of August 05 Katrina roared over the gulf coast of Louisiana and Mississippi, leaving hundreds of thousands of people homeless. In the process, more than 50,000 pets entered the already overburdened shelter system in an area of utter devastation. People from all over the country responded.  I agreed to sponsor and find homes for 4. This is the story of one dog.

All we knew about him was his name, Nick. He was an owner surrender right after the storm. The shelter where he was dropped off, designed to house 50, was inundated as people's entire lives were destroyed and they were unable to care for their pets.

I met the caravan and took the 4 assigned to me: A fat Weimereiner, a happy bouncy black chow mix, an APBT still lactating but with no puppies in tow, and Nick. Thirty minutes into the 5 hour drive to my house someone coughed. By the time I got home, the APBT and Nick were hacking their lungs out.

Nick was a bone skinny 37 pounds with advanced demodectic mange and a staph infection, hook worms, round worms, kennel cough and really depressed. His sponsors/potential new home I'd arranged renamed him Cooper and took him to the vet the next day, where I was to meet them. At that vet Nick/Cooper finally had had enough and responded with an aggressive eruption right before I got there. He was muzzled and firmly restrained in a headlock being examined when I arrived, panting hard through his nose blowing snot. The veterinarian said he had dominance aggression. I wanted to slap her. Sheesh, I know vets are highly educated but how could she have been so stupid? (more on asshole humans and their ideas about dominance in another post) The dog did have a meltdown, but fear, not dominance. Hindsight, it was completely my fault. I should have been  there to handle the dog myself. Should have instructed the sponsor couple to wait for me to get there. Should have used my own vet and not theirs. I took the muzzle off him, handed it back to the vet and took Cooper home with me.

Cooper was so sickly he had to be isolated from my pack for a couple of weeks, but his training began the very first day. He was put on crate rest during his recovery and began basic obedience training as a way to establish my leadership. He was either crated or supervised and put on a dependable schedule. Cooper adapted very quickly, sleeping a lot, eating like a pig and being very cooperative. I started massage as a way to help him overcome his fear of the vet exam and by his next visit a week later he did fine. At a my vet, who didn't muzzle or restrain him, and did the exam sitting on the floor.

Once off isolation he was integrated into my pack. That is when the trouble started. Cooper, as with a lot of dogs who have been underfed, was resource guarder. He violently defended his food and bones from the other dogs. Since I had established myself as the dominant entity here, I broke up the first brawl quickly and began to teach him he couldn’t guard, there would always be plenty. I was not about to "manage" the situation by banning bones and isolating him for food, he learned the right way. He stopped his guarding, but did take up bone hiding. I found him with his tail wagging butt hanging out of the closet in the dog room. Stashed in the back of the closet were 9 bones. He was so proud of this alternate method of keeping them from the other dogs.

I got very attached to Cooper. I always have a hard time placing my foster dogs, but this one would need clear handling for some time to come, so I placed him with my daughter's family. Her son (the kid in the pictures) was raised in my pack and they had two other dogs. They continued his training and visit me often. He is very happy in his new family and they love him very much. There has been no return to aggression and he is well behaved and cooperative, and even getting a bit chubby. His good weight is about 50 pounds. My daughter tells me she still finds bones stashed behind her shoes. This is him one year after placement.

The others - Thor the Weim went to Weim Rescue and was successfully placed as a couch potato. Harley the Chow mix went to a man in Tampa, where he is still happily entertaining everyone he meets. Ruby the APBT went to a vet tech who fell in love with her during her heartworm treatment (paid for by a wonderful donor who wished to remain anonymous).

Don't Touch Me

Don’t Touch Me.

Christmas cocktails, helping in the kitchen,
heels stockings little black dress. 
Laughing while I serve 
prosciutto wrapped asparagus on a silver tray
to friends on our way to the Theater.

Then he touched me.
The token stranger someone brought
to fluff out our party
slid his hand down my back,
around my waist.

So I say please don’t touch me
with a smile on my face
but I was serious, shocked he dared, 
here, in my most safe place.

A cork pops. I move into comfort
enfolded, accepting a glass and
a kiss from my oblivious love.
She is so happy. Friends, neighbors,
holiday high spirits bubble like the wine,
so I say nothing.

Then he touched me again.
He ran his hand down my back
and lightly over my ass.

So I growl, Really.
Don’t touch me.
I don’t like it.
Firmly, coldly, glowering, 
quiet to not spoil the party.

Laughter spills bundled outside,
sparkling clear, cold as the wine,
piling into chilly vans,
over the river and through the woods
to the long awaited performance.

In the van behind me, 
smirking hands creep over the seat
and touch me again.

So I turn, I bark 
Don’t touch me.
Really, it's not welcome,
not welcome at all.
Eyebrows on the others raise
for the first time.

With an audience now,
a reptilian chuckle 
slithering over my shoulder
down to my breast

So I gently lift the hand in mine
and smile
and stroke it
and then sharply quickly powerfully
bend his little finger back much farther
than it was ever intended to go
until I hear a satisfying crack.

He screams like a little girl, 
jumps out of the van
hopping around the Theater parking lot
trying to undislocate the 
grotesquely bent claw.
Howling Bitch,
howling Whore.
Everyone turns to look.

So I say,

I told you don’t touch me.

(Updated final version)


I have a pair of reading glasses in every room in my house, except the bathroom, and in my briefcase and my car. Not ugly Dr. Walgreen's readers, really cool one's my friend Sandy finds for me with her catalog shopping addiction. I can't read without them and could seriously injure myself trying to cook without them.

For some reason, these 6 or 7 pairs of glasses annoy the hell out of the Man Toy, especially when I can't find any of them. "You need glasses." "I have glasses." "No, real glasses." "I don't want real glasses." "Why not?" "They are expensive and I don't look good in them." "So get contacts." "I don't look good in those either." "Woman, you are insane."

This is not the first time I have been called insane. It is a pretty common insult/description applied to me and really doesn't bother me at all. I am what I am, wonderful, talented, ridiculously intelligent, creative, funny, loyal, and really fucking hot. Did I  mention egotistical?

What we have here is a truly fine example of misinterpretation of word definition usage. The Man Toy is no dummy. He is in fact the only man I have ever met who is as smart as me, perhaps the only human. (Ok, I have a few more super smart friends, you know who you are.) But he misinterprets my usage all the time. I am beginning to see that this is a lifelong flaw of mine, using purposefully vague language to steer the subject away from my real meaning. That is not insanity, it’s not lying, it is withholding the full truth of meaning. Self defense mechanism learned early.

On my birthday I was chatting via internet with some friends about the whole age/needing glasses thing and, deja vu, the exact same conversation script was repeated by another man. Since it was my birthday and I had consumed mass quantities I was a bit more forthcoming in definitions.

I don't look good in glasses. I don't look good in contacts. The reason I don't look good is because I can see what I really look like in the mirror, and I am appalled I look so old. This vision continues to be a shock, though it really is nothing new. It seems the fixed image of myself in my head arrested at around age 35. And somehow, "You really are hot for your age" is just not a compliment. "Wow, you used to be a babe" tends to enrage me. The ManToy pinching a sag while giggling makes me remind him of my most Significant Superpowers and how he really wants to keep me feeling as hot as I look in my head.

Vanity has never been one of my flaws. I never go to extraordinary lengths to make myself look better, hell, I almost never even wear make up. But sheesh somehow this birthday is making me want to spend the kitchen/bathroom remodel fund on some major cosmetic surgery.
(January 09)

Never Say Never

I'm a dog trainer. I also know a whole lot about cats and how to train them. I hate birds, I fear birds. I even know why I fear birds so, I was chased and pecked by a giant chicken when I was about 3 years old and peed my big girl panties. Since then every bird I have had contact with has been really aggressive toward me, threatening and biting. There is no way I would ever consider one for a pet. Nasty mean creatures only suited for being cooked in a wide variety of ways or maybe as a toy for one of my very predatory dogs and cats.

Hah. Never say Never. New Lover (NL) calls me from work in early April to tell me the X had shown up at the office and dropped off the X Bird. Could I come pick the bird up? Birds can't live in an industrial chemical warehouse. My stomach clenched. My heart started racing. We had been living together for a grand total of 3 weeks and here I was presented with a potential deal breaker. What would my therapist say? This is an opportunity for growth. So I picked up the bird and brought him home.

I will admit he is a really pretty bird, a Peach Faced Love Bird, green indigo variety. But after living with humans that didn't get along his whole life, Peaches was a behavioral basket case. His bent cage spoke volumes about his life since NL bailed that home. Not to mention his stupid totally unoriginal name. Screaming and shrieking, biting, and cussing to make a sailor blush. (Lovebirds don’t speak, they repeat syllables and intonation. NL translated and then it was really really clear.) Every little noise or movement set him off. And I don't know diddly about bird care or training. The internet provided basic care and feeding instructions, but there wasn't much on bird rehab. So I decided to treat him like an out of control biting rescue dog.

First, I took over his complete care. NL was to have no direct contact. I put the bird on a feeding schedule rather than free feed, set a bedtime and wake up schedule and then totally ignored him except for those things. I just went about my business and did not avoid those things that might inspire shrieking. Vacuuming, music, my dogs hanging out, my ancient cat wandering through. From a very calm place I projected toward the bird, "Relax, chill". I made no eye contact and did not speak except to say "Hungry?" and "Good Morning" and "Bedtime".

Pretty soon Peaches stopped screaming all the time. He started to relax and groom himself and make happy little bird sounds. When I approached with the food bowl he started cheeping "Hungry!" instead of screaming and cowering in the back of the cage. At sunset he started saying "Bedtime" over and over if I was late. He started ignoring the rest of the critters.

A little while after that I started teaching him to step up on my hand before I would feed him. Patience, calm and happy thoughts, Peaches had to step on my hand before I would give him the food bowl. This was a major breakthrough for me. I had to control and ignore my own fear thoughts to keep control of the bird. He never did bite me hard.

So now it is July. NL has been given back contact with Peaches and they are both very happy. We started letting him hang out with us in the kitchen with the cage door open (I did put the dogs in the bedroom). He likes to sit on NL's shoulder and head. He talks with us. Now he is saying the things I tell him like Good Bird and hasn't cussed in a long time.

Three days ago we were doing this. I got up and walked away. And guess what? Peaches flew after me and landed on my head! He clung to my hair and groomed me. I was in awe. Peach was making happy little chirpy noises while he made sure every one of my wild locks was in place to his satisfaction. I gave thanks to him and the gods for this breakthrough for both of us.

Like I said, Never say Never. Unless NL tries to bring home a reptile or insect. I am not going to train a tarantula. Everyone has their boundaries.

I wrote this in 2008. Since then Peach has decided I am mate worthy and loves me best. 
He built me a next in the bottom of his cage in his straw litter and is hatching a bell pepper core. He keeps trying to get me to come in and take care of our "egg", but I won't, he wanted it, he can take care of it. Yah, I'm a horrible mother.

Here I Come To Save The Day

Let the dogs out late and left the door open for them to come back in while locking up the rest of the house. Leon The Weather Cat proudly walks in with a rat. Sets it down in front of me and it runs under the entertainment center. The Man Toy starts screaming like a little girl. Tyrone The Nose barges in and points the crack at the bottom. Man toy keeps screaming.
I get the flashlight and Tyrone is right, it's right there where he keeps poking his Famous Nose. Man toy runs in circles. Tyrone starts clawing at the crack, poking it with his nose and looking at me over and over. Leon leaves in disgust. Dixie and Princess begin tryouts for World Wide Wrestling. Tyrone shoves a speaker out of his way and Man Toy, screaming and running in circles, now has an outbreak of possessive aggression. Princess wins round one of WWW. Dixie insists on a rematch.

I slide the entertainment center out to get a look under and Tyrone The Nose sees his opening and dives into the tangle of wires to get a better point. Man Toy has apoplexy. I tell Tyrone thank you and send all the dogs back outside, remembering to close the door this time.

I get the broom and shove the handle under the entertainment center and swish it back and forth. This somehow triggers the auto shut down of the power to the entire Superior Man Cave Electronics Collection, reducing the Man Toy to a tantrumming 3 year old who's block house fell down. I quit for the night.

I am awakened in the wee hours by Man Screams and go running in just in time to see Man Toy swiftly exiting the bathroom holding up his pants with one hand and slamming the door shut behind him. I am treated to a loud expletive laden play by play of what happens when you are having a poop and a rat runs out from behind the toilet. Man Toy grabs Leon, tosses him into the bathroom and says "do your job." Crashing and banging is heard from within. So I go into the bathroom and poor little ratty is frantically trying to get out of the House of Horrors. I let Leon out of the bathroom and give ratty a moment to collect himself. My animal communication skills don't work on hysterics.

Once the crashing and banging cease, I get the broom and return to the bathroom. Ratty has once again taken refuge behind the toilet I have yet to have my turn on. I open the window, set the broom next to the toilet and angle the handle out the window and grab the toilet brush. "Ratty", I say, "time to make your escape, dude." I poke him with the toilet brush. Ratty decides to make a last stand. He puffs up like a cat and hisses and growls. Really, I didn't know they did that. Leaps at me hissing and growling. I say, "Dude, look, I gave you an escape route, run up that broom," and push him toward it with the toilet brush. Ratty finally gets the idea and does a great impression of a trained mouse at high speed up the broom handle to the sill and makes a suicide leap out the window.

I spray the bathroom down with about half a can of Lysol and go make coffee.

(Some of you will recognize this as published the next day on FB. Told you it was an archived pile of stuff on the way.)

Re entry

This blog was abandoned quite a while ago, I stopped wanting to make what I write public and started storing it in a folder on my computer. Over the next few days I will be proofreading and posting them here in some semblance of chronological order. Not sure how many will make the cut. Creativity is never a constant flow for me, it's either desert or tsumani. Commentary, that depends on my mood, it's either a diatribe or fuck it, not worth it.

So I don't know how consistently I will post. We'll see.